“Seinfeld made us laugh with 177 episodes ‘about absolutely nothing’. Let today’s piece be just that. Nothing to see here.” ANTONIO DI DIO continues his Brief History of Kindness.  

I’m not sure what it is when you’re not much of a writer but you can’t write anything. It’s not really “writer’s block”, really more like “fraudulent poseur block”, but whatever you call it, I got it. 

The only fiction I can come up with is my tax return and the tales that used to fly have slowed down shockingly. 

They got me thinking about some of the people I love and respect for the things they have not written.

My friend Rodney has published literally millions of words about his passions, cricket and politics over the decades. And yet it seems clear to me some of the key moments that he has witnessed in a remarkable life will never be written down. Same with Tony. Same with Bill.

Similarly, my neighbour, patient and friend who has recently published three fine books in the past decade about Australian politics has left out any number of stories.

They all did so, losing a great story and acclaim, not for the slight danger of being sued, but because they are fine and honourable people. And they are kind.

The one thing they all share is that kindness, which is the mother of good deeds, the father of integrity and the grumpy great uncle of discretion. 

I have a mate who is not called Jim, who was a wonderful teacher, sporting coach, family friend and, for a time, a local Canberra columnist. Like his admired Graham Green, he was a bright English graduate and a headmaster’s son with a quick wit and a beautiful turn of phrase.

After leaving his adopted Australia decades ago he found himself, like Graeme Greene, in a developing part of the world surrounding himself with the culture and life.

Unlike Greene, he became so deeply immersed he could not help but form lifelong love and relationships with a family and a community. A number of them are fortunate to call him dad. Also unlike Greene, the unforgettable human canvas painted for him was, he decided, something Jim could simply not write about.

There was too much to say in the story. He reckoned that, as a writer, he was up to the challenge of spinning a fine fiction from the gossamer strands of their experiences, a tapestry of their travails. But he cared for them far too much to make of their lives an adventure, a drama, a human comedy, or even a parable.

More precious than their story was their privacy, their dignity. He could not stand the idea of hurting or embarrassing or even drawing attention to them. 

There are alternatives, of course. Write twee puff like I do without bad guys or tension. Write vigorous pastiches with characters disguised like Greene himself. Write but don’t publish, and let time’s greatest gift work its magic – “not to opened for a hundred years”.

Mel Brooks, recently passed from our lives at an even century, gave us the immortal moral mathematics that “tragedy plus time equals comedy”. Monty Python made careers of it.

And yet, and yet. I stare at Gauguin’s masterpieces in a book and think with wonder at the thousands of studies and full works he set fire to before his death – as a kid I thought it could have been an arrogant “bugger you” to history, but now I wonder if he was protecting people from being immortalised.

Imagine if La Gioconda had sat for Da Vinci “only on the condition that nobody else sees it – I’m shy”. 

“Not a worry, love,” said the languid Leo, paint-stained fingers crossed behind his genius back. You can’t unsay art. 

I had overcome the block today – it was exciting and a relief not felt since the Raiders clinched that minor premiership last year.

Not one but three stories came up and they were cool and funny and silly and full of love – my favourite ingredients.

And all I needed to do was scribble something that might embarrass a few people just a little. Cancel that now. Seinfeld made us laugh with 177 episodes “about absolutely nothing”. Let today’s piece be just that. Nothing to see here.

Sometimes the best thing to do as an artist is to smear the painful truth across the wall with your graffiti, your op-ed, your musical score, your excoriation of the cognoscenti. But I’m no artist, just a very simple human. And the kindest thing humans can do – a lot of the time – is keep a story to themselves. 

Antonio Di Dio is a local GP, medical leader and nerd. There are many more of his Kindness columns at citynews.com.au

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