Wednesday, June 21, 2017

To Double Business Bound




The Opposing Shore by Julien Gracq

While the narrator in every work of fiction is charged with the task of seeing, of serving—at least to some degree—as the reader’s own eyes, there are those narrators who seem to see more, to see differently, more complexly, their eyes not simply their own. Agents, emissaries, they are bound in what they experience by a sort of tortured double vision, their own often gravely human reckonings compounded at every turn by what they’ve been sent there to look for, to see.

Western literature is crowded with such figures, men mostly, often middling, reluctant witnesses, who’ve been shunted off to the margins of empire, men like Marlow from Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, Don Diego from Di Benedetto’s Zama, Geoffrey Firmin from Lowry’s Under the Volcano, Giovanni Drogo from Buzzati’s The Tartar Steppe (see my earlier post on The Tartar Steppe), Major Scobie from Greene’s The Heart of the Matter, and, more recently, the hapless Magistrate from Coetzee’s Waiting for the Barbarians.

Then there is Aldo from, Julien Gracq’s lush, unsettling 1951 novel, The Opposing Shore, a protagonist and anti-hero very much in this line. Dispatched from the capitol to the rugged, once-hostile coast of Syrtes, Aldo soon finds himself lost in a menacing labyrinth of secrets, innuendo, and subterfuge, that he struggles alone and in vain to map. Centered upon the themes of boundaries and borders (both real an imaginary), and upon the stubbornly dichotomous, endlessly destructive mentalities of Us vs. Them/Good vs. Evil, Gracq’s The Opposing Shore remains a smart, telling study of our times.  


 
Yet what strikes me most about the novel (at least in translation) is his language itself—both its syntactical strangeness and its saturated, densely lyrical, nearly Conradian diction and phrasing. Much as when I first read Moncrieff’s translation of À la recherche du temps perdu, I suffered the odd if liberating impression, in reading this novel, that I was not reading it in English after all, but in some other, more florid tongue. As with Moncrieff’s translation, I also felt that I was not just experiencing the original novel (at least an approximation of it), but seeing the English language itself, its scope and potential, refashioned before my eyes—just one more reason I am grateful to the many fine translators I’ve read.

Gracq himself is no less intriguing than his novel. Born Louis Poirier in 1910, he spent twenty-three all but invisible years teaching history and geography at the Lyce Claude Bernard in Paris. He, this modest, Walser-like man, this friend and admirer of Andre Breton, is known by many as writer whose fiction was often brilliantly tinged by Surrealism.  Deeply averse to celebrity, he refused to accept the Prix Goncourt, which he was awarded for this novel in 1951. He never married nor had children, and, in the later years of his life, lived quietly with his sister until she died in 1996. Alone (to quote from The Guardian’s fine obituary of him), “…he would spend the evenings watching television, particularly football. He continued to read.” He died in 2007.

* Special thanks to my friend, Eric Diler, for sending me this novel from France. Remarkably, for all my love of French literature, I had not read anything by Gracq. I am happy have.

Peter Adam Nash



Sunday, June 11, 2017

Outcasts

Amos Oz, Judas



Nietzsche wrote in The Antichrist that the last Christian had died on the cross. He may have been right. Another thought, even more radical, is that the most devoted disciple of Jesus wasn't Peter or John but Judas, reviled as the agent of betrayal, but at the same time the man without whom the drama of atonement would have been unthinkable. As a boy in catechism class, and as a young man in Catholic school, I was taught to despise Iscariot (we were told to note the "scar" in his name).  Dante put Judas in the lowest pit of hell, literally in the jaws of Satan, a punishment the otherwise meek nuns who trotted me through the Baltimore Catechism would have approved had they been familiar with the great Florentine poet. But even as a child I couldn't help but wonder about the punishments of hell fire and eternal damnation that were visited upon Judas, Pontius Pilate, Herod, and the Roman soldiers for their part in a drama that was, after all, ordained from the beginning of time. How, I remember wondering in grade school, could you send a man to hell for doing what he was condemned to do?  Masaccio pictures Judas in dark shadow, makes him an outsider, but without him would the sin of Adam have been expiated? As with the horrible "hardening of Pharaoh's heart" in Exodus, so too with the Betrayal: is God playing fair with his victims by punishing them for a role that, in the scheme of things, they have no control over? Do we blame the butcher for shedding the blood of the paschal lamb?

I admit that these are sophomoric theological questions, roughly akin to wondering if God can contradict herself, but they are questions that have rich bearing on Amos Oz's new novel, a book that examines the paradoxes of fate and asks non-trivial questions about what might have been the case had certain historical actors possessed free will, or, to put the question another way, if human frailty were not so closely allied to to historical contingency. For those of us schooled in the "great man" view of the past, Oz is the perfect antidote, for his is the "average-man-as-victim" view of history. Things might have been different, but only if we were different. And that, of course, is the meaning of tragedy. 

Every great drama requires a great villain.  Without Lucifer, Milton's epic of salvation history would be the dullest poem ever written (after The Faerie Queen); no Shylock, no Portia; be honest, who do you prefer, literary wimps like Alyosha Karamazov or dastardly scoundrels like Ivan? Which is not to say that we should revel in the crimes of non-fictional criminals, psychopaths, and murderers--on the contrary, what we learn from novels is how to spot the sociopath in the crowd; empathy, after all, is not sympathy, but understanding. But Judas doesn't even rate as a run-of-the-mill sociopath: he loved Jesus; he wanted the Son of Man to be the Messiah and not just another false prophet; he wanted a miracle, the End Times, a world reborn.* Or, as Luke puts it, Satan "entered into Judas," and all questions of free will flew out the window. (See Matthew 26:23 for the ambiguity of Judas's betrayal; also the contradictory accounts found in the Gospel of John).




 Few Israeli writers have been as sensitive to the paradox of the Jewish state as Amos Oz. His novels depict not only the plight of the European Jews after the war, but treat with compassion the plight of the Palestinian and other Arabic-speaking peoples of Palestine--Muslims, Christians, and secular men and women caught in a maelstrom of historical forces--Zionism, socialism, Arab nationalism, and, above all else, the aftermath of the Holocaust. Oz has negotiated the desert ground of his beloved Israel for forty years, drawing richly textured stories out of a painful reality that most Westerners cannot imagine, or that they choose to imagine in a purely politcal way. Oz has never been above politics, but he has seldom allowed politics to undermine his humane vision of an inclusive Israel.**





"Rabbi Elbaz Lane led down the slope of Sha'arei Hesed toward the Valley of the Cross." Oz's richly imagined novel occurs, appropriately enough--given that it is a novel about Palestine--in the cramped rooms of a tiny house in Jerusalem. Three lost souls occupy the house in the winter of 1959-1960. A young man, Shmuel Ash, a young university drop-out whose heart was broken when his girlfriend left him to marry an engineer and technocrat. Gershom Wald, an old and broken man who is housebound but whose intellect and penchant for polemics is very much alive. And Atalia Abravanel, the beautiful and aloof daughter of one of Israel's founders, the widow of Misha Wald, son of Gershom, who was a brilliant mathematician killed in the fighting of 1948-1949. Three grieving souls whose lives briefly rub against one another and against a shared but by no means identical sense of the immediate past. (Whether or not the multiple views of Israel's history are commensurable is a question Oz asks in most of his novels). Wald, a Zionist and admirer of David Ben-Gurion, describes for Ash, a lukewarm socialist and cosmopolitan, a hard-headed view of Israel's founding--a small country surrounded by hostile Arab neighbors, an enclave settlement forced to fight for its survival. Ash agrees, but is intrigued by the views of Atalia's dead father Shealtiel Abravanel--Ben-Gurion's bitter enemy--who forswore the idea of a Jewish state in favor of an inclusive, bi-national, Jewish-Arab nation. Most interesting of all are the views of Atalia--a shadowy figure, sensuous and distant--whose melancholy has hardened into misanthropy, a hatred of the cant of men with their wars and politics.

Atalia's father was a noble idealist and in the Israel of 1948 his defense of Arab interests branded him a traitor; his daughter, who Oz cleverly makes a private investigator, a connoisseur of others' secrets--having lost her husband, has renounced the world and hides on Rabbi Elbaz Lane with her father-in-law.

Here are words of Gershom Wald, describing Shealtiel's political views: "'The real tragedy of human kind, Shealtiel used to say, 'is not that the persecuted and enslaved crave to be liberated and to hold thier heads high. No. The worst thing is that the enslaved secretly dream of enslaving their enslavers. The persecuted year to be persecutors. The slaves dream of being masters...' Shealtiel lived in a Manichean world. He had set up a sort of utopian paradise and portrayed the opposite as hell. Meanwhile, they had started calling him a traitor. They said he had sold himself to the Arabs for a lot of money. They said he was the bastard son of an Arab..." (226-7)



And Judas? The shadow of betrayal lingers over every page of Oz's novel. Ash has been betrayed in love; Wald's body has betrayed him; Atalia's father was thought to have betrayed his country. And, the question is implicit, Israel--has it betrayed the ideals of its founding by becoming just another belligerent nation state? Deftly, and with great compassion, Oz allows each of his three characters to appear reasonable in their assumptions about their country and themselves. There are no epiphanies in this quiet and affecting book, no resolutions, but only the glacial evolution of the self that is in accordance with real life. The wisdom of the desert feels connected to the sense of imperceptible nature of change, to the sense of the eternity that overwhelms the passage of time.

Betrayed with a kiss. 




*Such, in any case, is the view of Judas propounded by Ash in Oz's novel. I can't help but wonder if Oz had Borges's story "Three Versions of Judas" (in Ficciones, 1944) in mind as he wrote Judas.

**I am well aware of the complexity of Oz's political views, but I am content, on balance, to view him as a voice of reason in a place where reason is often in short supply. See this profile for more nuance than I can supply here: http://www.newyorker.com/news/news-desk/honest-voice-israel

George Ovitt (6/11/2017) 

Wednesday, June 7, 2017

That the Soul May Wax Plump


Nature: Poems Old and New by May Swenson

It was in reading Megan Marshall’s recent biography of Elizabeth Bishop, Elizabeth Bishop: A Miracle for Breakfast, that I was reminded of the poet May Swenson, of her friendship with Bishop, of their lengthy correspondence, and of her poems themselves, which I’d remembered liking very much. Considering them again, I was pleasantly surprised.

Water Picture

In the pond in the park
all things are doubled:
Long buildings hang and
wriggle gently. Chimneys
are bent legs bouncing
on clouds below. A flag
wags like a fishhook
down there in the sky.

The arched stone bridge
is an eye, with underlid
in the water. In its lens
dip crinkled heads with hats
that don’t fall off. Dogs go by,
barking on their backs.
A baby, taken to feed the
ducks, dangles upside-down,
a pink balloon for a buoy.

Treetops deploy a haze of
cherry bloom for roots,
where birds coast belly-up
in the glass bowl of a hill;
from its bottom a bunch
of peanut-munching children
is suspended by their
sneakers, waveringly.

A swan, with twin necks
forming the figure 3,
steers between two dimpled
towers doubled. Fondly
hissing, she kisses herself,
and all the scene is troubled:
water-windows splinter,
tree-limbs tangle, the bridge
folds like a fan.


Digging in the Garden of Age I Uncover a Live Root
                                          ( For E.W.)

The smell of wet geraniums. On furry
    leaves, transparent drops rounded
         as cat’s eyes seen sideways.
    Smell of the dark earth, and damp
brick of the pots you held, tamped empty.
    Flash of the new trowel. Your eyes
    green in greenhouse light. Smell of
       your cotton smock, of your neck
      in the freckled shade of your hair.
A gleam of sweat in your lip’s scoop.
   Pungent germanium leaves, their wet
smell when our widening pupils met.
  

Anna Thilda May Swenson was born to Swedish immigrants in Logan, Utah in 1913. After college she settled all but permanently in New York City where she worked—while writing and publishing her poetry—as a stenographer, a ghost writer, and a manuscript reader at the groundbreaking New Direction Press. Her honors included fellowships from the Guggenheim, Ford, Rockefeller, and MacArthur foundations, as well as a National Endowment for the Arts grant. Of the poet and her work writer Cynthia Ozick remarked, “Swenson sees more minutely than anyone, and with a nearly holy exactitude.”  Note for yourself the ‘nearly holy exactitude’ in this, perhaps my favorite of all her poems:

That the Soul May Wax Plump

My dumpy little mother on the undertaker’s slab
had a mannequin’s grace. From chin to foot
the sheet outlined her, thin and tall. Her face
uptilted, bloodless, smooth, had a long smile.
Her head rested on a block under her nape,
her neck was long, her hair waved, upswept. But later,
at ‘the viewing,’ sunk in the casket in pink tulle,
an expensive present that might spoil, dressed
in Eden’s green apron, organdy bonnet on,
she shrank, grew short again, and yellow. Who
put the gold-rimmed glasses on her shut face, who
laid her left hand with the wedding ring on
her stomach that really didn’t seem to be there
under the fake lace?

Mother’s work before she died was self-purification,
A regimen of near starvation, to be worthy to go
To Our Father, Whom she confused (or, more aptly, fused)
With our father, in Heaven long since. She believed
In evacuation, an often and fierce purgation,
Meant to teach the body to be hollow, that the soul
May wax plump. At the moment of her death, the wind
Rushed out from all her pipes at once. Throat and rectum
Sang together, a galvanic spasm, hiss of ecstasy.
Then, a flat collapse. Legs and arms flung wide,
Like that female Spanish saint slung by the ankles
To a cross, her mouth stayed open in a dark O. So,
Her vigorous soul whizzed free. On the undertaker’s slab, she
Lay youthful, cool, triumphant, with a long smile.


Here, bristling with intelligence, with life, is one of her many long letters to Elizabeth Bishop:
 



 



Finally, this is Swenson reading some of her own work at the Poetry Center in New York: Click Here

Peter Adam Nash


Tuesday, May 30, 2017

Engineers of the Human Soul

The Noise of Time by Julian Barnes

"What sort of people do they wish to please? And what kind of actions are the means of their success? How quickly time will cover everything--and how much is covered already." Marcus Aurelius, VI, 59. 



The terror was unimaginable. Dmitri Shostakovitch, among the greatest composers of the twentieth century, stood night after night, valise in hand, (a change of underwear, clean socks, two packages of cigarettes) waiting for the arrival of the KGB goons who, he was certain, would drag him to Lubyanka Prison for interrogation, torture, and a bullet to the back of the head. Why? The Great Helmsman had hated Shostakovitch's opera "Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk," calling it a "muddle." One bad review in Pravada, one failed interrogation with Power, one "musicologist" intimating an association--however slight--with one of Stalin's rivals (with the doomed Marshall Tukhachevsky, Hero of the Soviet Union, "The Red Napoleon," Shostakovitch's patron, for example), one bitter rival...it didn't matter what the cause...and the victim was  pulled from bed in the middle of the night, "disappeared," wiped clean from the slate of history. Hence Shostakovitch's nightly vigils: better to be dressed and ready than torn from sleep.

And what of the "engineers of the soul"? Or, I suppose in the Soviet context, the "soul"?  With Barnes, I've been rereading my favorite book of wisdom, the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius. I was puzzling over the notorious notion of engineering a soul, the idea of it, the plausibility of doing it, thinking about the phrase itself, presumably first uttered, ironically I think, by Yuri Olesha, when I came upon this passage in Marcus Aurelius:

"If you set yourself to your present task along the path of true reason, with all determination, vigor, and good will: if you admit no distraction, but keep you own divinity pure and standing strong, as if you had to surrender it right now; if you grapple this to you, expecting nothing, shirking nothing, but self-content with each present action taken in accordance with nature and a heroic truthfulness in all that you say and mean--then you shall lead a good life. And nobody is able to stop you." [trans. Martin Hammond]

The key phrase, italicized above, is this: "...sed genium tuum purum integrumque servaveris, quasi illum statim esses redditturus...."  I have no wish to be pedantic, but what did Marcus mean by the "soul," and what did Olesha think was being "engineered" by Stalin and Beria and the rest of the Soviet machine of terror?  "Genium" is the accusative singular of "genius," and what Marcus wrote, literally, was that one must keep one's genius, or rather one's character pure in the face of life's vicissitudes. Is it a mistake to equate the soul with one's character, in the sense that character is a synonym for one's unique self? Elsewhere in Meditation III Marcus Aurelius mentions "the god within you," and here he is speaking unambiguously of the divine spirit that resides in each person, rather as a Quaker might talk of that of God within us. And of course, the divine spark cannot be engineered any more than it can be weighed or measured. What Stalin engineered was not the soul, but the external actions of those around him; fear motivated conformity, lies, and betrayals. It still does. Olesha was being ironic, and irony, as Shostakovitch understood, is the lingua franca of truth telling under tyranny.


The Noise of Time: incoherence, lies, arrogance, self-delusion--Shostakovitch lived in a world dominated by noise, a noise he tried to escape by creating music. His life, told by Barnes in brilliant, condensed vignettes, feels as if it were modeled on Marcus Aurelius; it has the same quality of self-examination, self-exhortation, as the does the great collection of thoughts written down by the Emperor in his campaign on the Danube in A.D. 168. Both men were disillusioned, both were melancholy by nature, solitaries even among wives and colleagues. Barnes hones the story of the great Soviet composer to a single point--how do we preserve our genius, our character, from the noise of time? How do we live with, and create, in the face of fear?  Shostakovitch used wit and irony to (sometimes) deflect the demands of Power, but he also capitulated--as, for example, when he denounced Igor Stravinsky, who was, in Shostakovitch's view, the greatest composer of the modern era.  While never an informer, Shostakovitch felt himself compromised at every turn: he wrote music that he hated to satisfy the fondness for the kitsch that appeals to tyrants; he compromised in his love life to please his domineering mother; he spoke in riddles when, more than anything, he wished to tell the truth.

Eventually, under duress, he joined the Party--in his own mind his worst betrayal. Barnes writes with great insight of what it feels like to betray oneself--that Shostakovitch speaks of himself in the third person heightens the sense of self-scrutiny:

"Those who knew him, knew him. Those who had ears could hear his music. But how did he seem to those who didn't know him, to the young who sought to understand how the world worked? How could they not judge him? And how would he now appear to his younger self, standing by the roadside as a haunted face in an official car swept past. Perhaps this was one of the tragedies life plots for us: it is our destiny to become in old age what in youth we would have most despised." (p. 176)


Julian Barnes has been writing brilliant novels since Flaubert's Parrot appeared in 1984--I don't know his earlier work. It felt to me as if The Noise of Time were a valedictory book, as if in speaking for Shostakovitch Barnes was also speaking for himself. Barnes hasn't lived under tyranny, but anyone born in 1946 knows well the folly of the world and the inevitable failures we must come to live with as we compromise our way through life. I loved this passage from the end of the novel:

"Just as he could not control his mind's rememberings, he could not prevent its constant, vain interrogations. The last questions of a man's life do not come with any answers, that is their nature. They merely wail in the head, factory sirens in F sharp. So: our talent lies beneath you like a swathe of peat. How much have you cut? How much remains uncut? Few artists cut only the best sections; or even, sometimes, recognise them as such. And in his own case, thirty years and more ago, they had erected a barbed-wire fence with a warning sign: DO NOT CROSS THIS POINT. Who knew what lay--what might have lain--beyond the wire?"

 

George Ovitt, Memorial Day, 2017

This link will take you to the Frankfort Symphony Orchestra's performance of Shostakovitch's Seventh ("Leningrad") Symphony., written 1939-1940. 




Saturday, May 20, 2017

Variations On What We Know



The Voice Imitator: 104 Stories by Thomas Bernhard


[one love affair]
[thirteen instances of lunacy]
[twenty surprises]
[four disappearances]
[twenty-six murders]
[two instances of libel]
[six painful deaths]
[three character attacks]
[five early deaths]
[one memory lapse]
[four cover-ups]
[eight suicides]

If you have never read the fiction of Thomas Bernhard, The Voice Imitator may be the perfect place for you to start. Comprised of 104 roughly paragraph-length stories that resonate with the dark profundity of parables, the collection captures—writ small—the very eye and obsessions of this grave and exacting writer (see George Ovitt’s earlier post: Climbing Mount Mordant). Best known for his novels, Correction and Extinction, each an ardent defense of the life of the mind, each a dazzling screed against the perennial scourges of bigotry, dogmatism, hypocrisy, and greed, as Bernard found them flourishing in his native Austria, a country out of which, in his fiction and plays, he fashioned a veritable gospel of loathing. In these novels (in which he is all but indistinguishable from his narrators) he is no Tartuffe, but raves like a prophet of old. 

 

And what he says will shake you. Of photography—that sacred cow of our age—the narrator of his ultimate novel, Extinction, declares brilliantly, outrageously:

Photography is a vulgar addiction that is gradually taking hold of the whole of humanity, which is not only enamored of such distortion and perversion but completely sold on them, and will in due course, given the proliferation of photography, take the distorted and perverted world of the photograph to be the only real one. Practitioners of photography are guilty of one of the worst crimes it is possible to commit—of turning nature into a grotesque. The people in their photographs are nothing but pathetic dolls, disfigured beyond recognition, staring in alarm into the pitiless lens, brainless and repellent. Photography is a base passion that has taken hold of every continent and every section of the population, a sickness that afflicts the whole of humanity and is no longer curable. The inventor of the photographic art was the inventor of the most inhumane of all arts. To him we owe the ultimate distortion of nature and the human beings who form part of it, the reduction of human beings to perverse caricatures—his and theirs. I have yet to see a photograph that shows a normal person, a true and genuine person, just as I have yet to see one that gives a true and genuine representation of nature. Photography is the greatest disaster of the twentieth century.*

His novels are like a purgative, like a ritual cleansing of the intellect and soul. Dark, relentless, seemingly unforgiving as reflections on the human race, his vision is ultimately anything but cynical, anything but unctuous or pedantic, shot through as it is with a mordant, bitter-black wit that not only saves the reader from drowning but sets him firmly on his feet again, then hands him a flower to sniff! It is almost a reflex for me now that, whenever I’m feeling depressed, whenever I feel I’ve lost my way in the world again, I read a few pages of Bernhard and grin. 

Reading The Voice Imitator is not nearly as demanding as reading his novels, yet still bears the unmistakable stamp of his intelligence and eye. Wry, quirky, provocatively understated, the simple stories set one’s eyes askew. Here—a favorite of mine—is the first from the collection:

Near Oslo we met a man of about sixty who told us more about the old people’s home than we already knew from reading Hamsun’s accounts of the last year of his life, because he had been working in the home at precisely the time  during which the greatest of Norwegian writers was living there. The man’s taciturnity had attracted our attention in the inn near Oslo—usually so noisy on a Friday evening—where we were staying for several nights. After we had sat down at his table and introduced ourselves, we learned that the man had originally been a philosophy student and had, among other things, spent four years studying at Göttingen.  We had taken him for  Norwegian ship’s captain and had come to his table to hear some more about seafaring, not about philosophy, from which, indeed, we had fled north from Central Europe. But the man didn’t bother us with philosophy and said he had actually given up philosophy overnight and put himself at the disposal of geriatrics at the age of twenty-seven. He said he did not regret his decision. He told us his first task had been to help an old man get out of bed, make the bed for him, and then put him back into it. The old man was Hamsun. He had looked after Hamsun every day for several months, had taken him out into the garden that lay behind the old people’s home, and had gone to the village for him to buy the pencils that Hamsun used to write his last book. He was, he said, the first person to see Hamsun dead. In the nature of things, he said, he was not yet certain who Hamsun was when he pulled the sheet up over his face.  

Here, in much the same tone, is another, this one called ‘Charity’:

An old lady who lived near us had gone too far in her charity, She had, as she thought, taken in a poor Turk, who at the outset was grateful that he no longer had to live in a hovel scheduled to be torn down but was now—through the charity of the old lady—allowed to live in her town house surrounded by a large garden. He had made himself useful to the old lady as a gardener and, as time went by, was not only completely re-outfitted with clothes by her but was actually pampered by her. One day the Turk appeared at the police station and reported that he had murdered the old lady who had, out of charity, taken him into her house. Strangled, as the officers of the court determined on the visit they immediately made to the scene of the crime. When the Turk was asked by the officers of the court why he had murdered the old lady by strangling her, he replied, out of charity.

Now ‘The Milkmaid’:

Last week we witnessed the spectacle of five cows running, one after the other, into the express train in which we had to return to Vienna and of seeing them all cut to pieces. After the track had been cleared by the train crew and even by the driver, who came along with a pick-ax, the train proceeded after a delay of about forty minutes. Looking out of the window I caught sight of the milkmaid as she ran screaming towards a farmyard in the dusk.


Finally, to conclude this post, a simple, haunting story called ‘Giant’:

In the cemetery in Elixhausen, some workmen who had been hired to build a crypt for the late owner of a cheese factory excavated, at a depth of about two feet, the skeleton of a man who must have been nine feet tall and who had apparently been buried 150 years ago. As far back as anyone can recall, only very short people are thought to have lived in Elixhausen.




* My apology for having quoted a part of this passage in an earlier post. I simply couldn’t resist.

Peter Adam Nash

Saturday, May 13, 2017

The Bottom of the World

Robert Lowell: Setting the River on Fire, Kay Redfield Jamison



Robert Lowell was a photogenic man--patrician, handsome, introspective and yet gregarious--there are hundreds of photos; this is among my favorites. The cigarette, the no-nonsense, black-framed glasses, thinning hair only serving to show off the high and brainy forehead. Lowell, it is reported, had read everything--they all had in those days--aside from drinking and teaching there were few things to keep the bookish from their books. Poets in the halcyon post-war (I and II) days were immersed in all of literature--they might have felt guilty about their obsession, but literature was worth living for, worth more than interest, worthy of devotion.

Do you feel it yourself sometimes, feel that great poems and plays and novels are enough, that all else seems measly, unworthy of your attention? And why not? Did Glenn Gould prattle on about politics, great chefs, ice hockey, or--heaven help us--pop culture? The great ones have been obsessives--Bobby Fisher with chess, Gould and recorded music, Heifetz and his fiddle, Einstein and his blackboard.  Nowadays we are enjoined to become "well-rounded," to "take an interest in many things," with an implied warning that not to do so will lead to "neurosis," the modern equivalent of Burton's melancholy, the malady of those who sit for too long, think too deeply, focus too much, care more than is seemly. Our mantra: "relax, enjoy yourself."

Not Lowell. He was a great obsessive, deeply conflicted for reasons that Kay Redfield Jamison teases out of his past--a Mayflower ancestry, a difficult childhood, Brahimhood, Harvard.  Lowell hated Harvard--he left for Kenyon and John Crowe Ransom, much to his parents' chagrin:

"'We are having trouble with our boy,'  Lowell's parents told [Boston psychiatrist Dr. Merrill] Moore. 'We don't know what to do. We want to see if psychiatry can help us.' His chief difficulties, they said, were his attitudes toward his parents, life in general, and Harvard.....'We tried to explain to him what we thought he should be like in order to live up to the expectations of what would be demanded of a member of our family, but he paid no attention." [my emphasis]

"What would be demanded." Such a strange and off-putting formulation--not "hoped" or even "expected," but demanded. Lowell's life-long rebellion against "what was demanded" explains a great deal about not only his bouts of depression and mania, but perhaps also a great deal about his art, his stripping bare of the self, his painful-to-regard private life made public, his self-flagellation.  Lowell wrote often about Jonathan Edwards, America's finest theologian during the age of the Great Awakening, and there is something Puritanical about Lowell, but only in the sense of his being deeply introspective--he wasn't a moral prig, nor did he find in himself the hopeless depravity that drove Edwards to think of himself as unredeemable.

"We drank and eyed / the chicken-hearted shadows of the world." No, Lowell wasn't a life-denier but a life-embracer--his lovely poems to Harriet, his late-in-life daughter, display a touching and deeply moving attachment, a gentleness and love. His tributes to the wide range of poets and public figures with whom he was intimate--from William Carlos Williams and Randall Jarrell to Eugene McCarthy and Robert Kennedy--demonstrate Lowell's compassion and capacity for friendship--"I love you so...." begins the sonnet he wrote to the anti-war, poet/Senator McCarthy. Jamison is brilliant in her depiction of Lowell's multiple sides, his kindness, his capacity--limitless--for friendship, his thoughtfulness. I loved reading the volume of his letters of Elizabeth Bishop earlier this year; they display sides of both poets we'd never come to know were it not for the richness of letter writing (now, alas lost to us forever).

"We were surprised to find that, though tall and powerfully built, he seemed the gentlest of mortals, clumsily anxious to please," wrote W.D. Snodgrass. "I always found him gentle, sweet, and considerate--if somewhat wild," was William Phillips' [of the Partisan Review] comment.

And yet he was ill. As Lowell put the case himself, his depression was a "formless time of irresolution, foregetfulness, inertia," "the bottom of the world." But, as Helen Vendler noted in her book on Lowell--and this seems both an obvious and profound point--Lowell used his art to impose order on his inner life, to lift himself out of the doldrums when he could, to shape a way to carry on living when living seemed pointless.


Lowell with Eugene McCarthy, 1967

On a deeper level, what can we say of madness and poetry? Was Lowell a great poet who was mad, or mad because America drives poets mad, or does poetry, more than paining or composing tend to unhinge its practitioners? That Lowell was periodically subject to debilitating bouts of mania, that he was hospitalized at regular intervals, that he was subject to blackouts and hallucinations, that he required regular administrations of ECT in order to function--all of this is well documented by Jamison, whose access to Lowell's medical records makes her book invaluable for the student of Lowell.

But I have no deeper insight into the relationship between mental illness and poetry after reading Robert Lowell: Setting the River on Fire than I had before I read it. This failure to understand isn't Jamison's fault--no, her accounting of Lowell's cycle of intense poetic creativity followed by headlong rushes into incapacity and institutionalization is meticulous and well-documented. It's simply that I can find no convincing causal relation between Lowell's creative life and his therapeutic history.  Delmore Schwartz, Randall Jarrell, John Berryman, James Wright--distinguished contemporaries of Lowell, poets and critics and teachers--all suffered from clinical depression, morbid alcoholism, and suicidal tendencies (or committed suicide). But then there's Wallace Stevens, arguably America's greatest poet, trudging off across a snowy park each morning in overcoat and galoshes to administer the Hartford Accident and Indemnity Company.

No, poetry and madness are not "near-allied*," except in the Romantic sense that the poet becomes a conduit for the gods, the "lamp" described by M.H. Abrams, rather than the "maker" of beauty, pure and simple. The daily struggle with language is like any other--concentration opens the world in both its beauty and terror, the strong-willed make art and survive; those who dive especially deeply, who are unable to feign detachment, might fail to come back from the bottom of the world.

"We are poor passing facts,
Warned by that to give
each figure in the photograph
his living name."


*Of course Dryden's word was 'wit', but he would have no objection to 'poet.'

George Ovitt (5/13/2017)

Sunday, May 7, 2017

The First Czech in Space

Jaroslave Kalfar, Spaceman of Bohemia



Back in the aughts--they're looking pretty good these days--I thought it might be a good idea if I were to find a literary agent to represent my "work"--collections of short stories, several novels and novellas, a memoir, writings on history. All of it drivel, but still, it appeared from the acknowledgments pages of the books I read, no matter how bad, that every scribbler had an agent, "who first believed in my work," and, more to the point, sold it to a New York publisher for lots of money. One heard stories of fine writers who went it alone, but such writers were exceptional. An agent, I thought, would do what I could never do, namely get some editor to read what I wrote, a view as naive as, say, the view that hard work leads to success. I labored over proposals and then began the process of looking up agents, first in New York, then in increasingly smaller cities, hoping to make the kind of magical connection that David Foster Wallace made with Bonnie Nadell. Every day for six months I mailed or emailed submissions, query letters, synopses. Mostly I head nothing; once in a great while I received a form rejection via email, usually along the lines of..."we receive far too more proposals..." "not of interest at the present time (suggesting, falsely, there would be such a time)"..."not marketable." What a waste of time!

This unhappy memory occurred to me as I finished Spaceman of Bohemia.  I was imagining the proposal that Kalfar might have written to countless Big Apple literary hustlers to describe his extraordinary and oddball novel:

Dear Agent:

My novel tells the story of a skinny Czech astrophysicist, son of a Communist-era torturer, who is launched into space in order to determine the chemical composition of a glowing cloud of space dust floating in proximity to the orbit of Venus...his spacecraft is infiltrated (not sure how) by a giant alien spider with red lips and thirty-five mouths who speaks Czech and every other human language, reads minds, and belongs to a tribe as old as the universe. The spider converses with the Skinny Human about love, death, and the origins of the world. They die, sort of, and come back to life. They float, untethered, through the cosmos, chatting (telepathically) while eating Nutella. One of them is rescued by a Russian space ship that happens to be in the vicinity. The Russian ship crash lands in a lake.....This isn't, by the way, a science fiction novel. Are you interested? 

A long shot, right? But mostly Kalfar pulls it off, and you have to hand it to his agent and to Little, Brown for taking a chance on such an odd duck of a novel. The first half of the book in particular is full of engaging details--life in space, life under communism, life with a spider-alien. Kalfar subtly invokes various space-travel parables and I kept thinking of Jules Verne and Tom Swift as I read about the routines and hazards of long-term weightlessness. There's also a little of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance in Spaceman--philosophical rambles on the subjects of fear, love, death, the mystery of being, and, of course, under the circumstances, God. Kalfar aims high, and mostly hits the mark. I couldn't get interested in the love story since Lenka, the earthbound wife, remains an idealized shadow--mysterious to the point of invisibility. But I loved the spider, and the whole notion of being utterly alone--so far beyond human concerns that one develops at secondhand the kind of thoughtful detachment and feeling of insignificance that I still get whenever I look through a telescope. My enjoyment of the vicarious sensation of solitude worried me a little: reading through long soliloquies on space and time--the bloody incredible distances!--I grew dreamy and imagined myself floating, likewise untethered, above it all. A sign of the times.


The earthbound sections in the last third of the novel felt a little contrived to me, as if Kalfar himself lost interest once he had to return his imagination to the mundane facts of life. But in the end I felt as if he had achieved something stunning: Kalfar's Spaceman of Bohemia reminds us of the extent to which we make up our own world and then do our best to live in it without becoming too lonely or too crazy. It's the Robinson Crusoe problem done up in post-modern guise--what passes as a habitable world, and how does any individual communicate the slippery reality of that world to another (alien) mind? Language isn't enough any longer; we've lost our faith in words. Admitting this is difficult for a novelist, but Kalfar finds a solution--his alien spider, a Being in direct contact with deeper truths, a sci-fi Friday, clears up all the mysteries, or at least translates the spaceman's incoherent yearnings into something resembling meaning.


                                                      Kalfar with astronaut interviewer


George Ovitt, written on May Day, 2017