The Fire and the Silence

Essay about The Heart is a Lonely Hunter and my brother

Being close to him was like sitting beside a fire — it never meant to warm you, but it did.

Those are the last words I wrote when discussing The Heart is a Lonely Hunter with ChatGPT. This is how I saw the friendship of John Singer and Spiros Antonopoulos. A friendship that gave me comfort and new clarity to my own relationship with my twin brother.

I am an avid reader and the process to find a new novel can be a painful one for me. Often, I would go away emptied that I couldn’t quite connect with the right one. Over the years, I would see The Heart is a Lonely Hunter and be drawn to it by the title, but never quite pulling the trigger to purchase it. Then one day, feeling lonely and lamenting, I did. I recall laying in a bed in a hotel room late at night. I read the first twenty pages, and I was in tears by the end of it.

I was introduced to the friendship of John Singer and Spiros Antonapoulos. Both men are deaf and mute, and through this, forge a friendship. From the start there is an imbalance in the friendship as John is devoted to Spiros’ well being while Spiros is often reserved, or nonresponsive, and rarely uses sign language to communicate to John despite John’s best efforts and eagerness to talk. Spiros’ mental health declines in time and his actions become impulsive, thoughtless, and eventually land him in jail. John would often care for him during these times and bail him out.

This continued until Spiros had to go away to a mental hospital two hours away from the town they lived in. Losing the closeness to Spiros, the fire in his life, left John cold and broken.

John’s loyalty and closeness to Spiros, despite the imbalance in their friendship, really hit home with me. I had wished the rest of the novel only focused on these two and their complicated friendship. When I would read the sections in the story about them, I would put the book down and reflect on my own personal imbalances. My twin brother had died eight years prior, suddenly from cardiac arrest. Much like John, I had lost my tether. My connection to the world that otherwise didn’t make much sense and left me feeling invisible. And like John, I had to live in this new normal that I wanted to avoid.

The worst thing about grief isn’t missing the other person, or new experiences you’ll never have with them, as awful as that is. No, the worst part is time is cruel. Time moves on whether you want to or not. It is like a giant rush of water. It doesn’t care what is in its path, because it will move it. That is what time does to you. It makes you move. Time heals all wounds, right? No. Time keeps them open before they can heal and you are left trying to live with it.

But there was an imbalance in my relationship with him. I would often think of him in ways he never did. I would go to events he found important, and with every fiber, try to make sure he had a wonderful time. Often it would be sporting events, and I would wear the jersey of the team he loved, which was the rival of my favorite team. Those loyalties didn’t matter. He mattered. Much like John, being close to him warmed me and his happiness was my happiness. But when he went to mine, it was a muted response. It left me empty. When he had a heart attack ten days before he died, I called him and told him how much I loved him, how much I would miss him if he died. And he responded with an uncomfortable laugh and moved the conversation to something else.

I had to find love, meaning, and happiness in who Dan was, much like John had to do the same with Spiros. I understand John. I get the selflessness, the concern, the heartache.

I miss Dan.
I miss the fire.
I miss the pulse of the flames.
And despite it being extinguished, I still find a glowing ember or two — a dream or memory.

I blow on it, and it glows red.

And the warmth remembers me.

And I smile.