Full Width 
Shortcuts 
Sign Up 
Log In 
Articles 
Reading List More from Anecdotal Evidence
Fortune cookies no longer contain fortunes. Tucked inside the sugary shells are slips of paper printed with platitudes. I carry one such slip in my wallet, salvaged from a forgotten meal at least a decade ago: “Four basic premises of writing: clarity, brevity, simplicity, and humanity.” Neither fortune nor platitude, the advice packs more writerly wisdom than The Elements of Style. The shift from fortune to platitude, however, is disappointing and hints at a certain weak-minded, authoritarian streak among fortune-cookie writers and perhaps in the larger culture as well. Some of us, encountering a cliché, ignore it and flee the room. Another reaction to platitudes is possible: amusement. It’s always funny when someone emits a cliché in the solemn tones used by Lincoln at Gettysburg. As in, “It is what it is,” a contemporary bit of nonsense. Tom Disch agrees in his poem “Dueling Platitudes”: “Because it is an imperative voiced in the accents of ancestors otherwise unremembered, “Gather ye rosebuds while ye may carries a proverbial force that makes us pay attention. “Only the dead may address us as ‘ye.’ But where are these rosebuds? Are they cheap as the hay “We’re to make while the sun shines? What penalties and fines can we expect to pay “If we’re caught in the act of gathering someone else’s rosebuds? Ancestral voices disagree “On these issues, and we must choose our authorities carefully; one false step and there is “A piper to pay, and who knows how much a piper requires when the fat’s in the fire? “Eat, drink, and be merry: okay, but will you still love me when I'm old and gray? “Which brings us to the Middle Way, another idea old as those hills “Where rosebuds are rare as a day in June and pipers play another tune “Love’s old sweet song, maybe, or other golden oldies from the age of the Golden Mean. “Songs are seldom what they seem; the sirens who charm us may suddenly scream “Rape!, and words can harm us as brutally as sticks and stones. It depends on our tone. “A queen who tells us to eat cake may be making a big mistake, But the same advice from our corner baker is par for the course, not grounds for divorce. “All adages are relative; each will have its season. So dare to eat your peach, My friend, but keep it within reason.” I count at least at least fifteen clichés/platitudes in Disch’s sixteen stanzas, including those coined by Robert Herrick, James Russell Lowell and T.S. Eliot, which, of course, are low-hanging fruit. [Disch’s poem was published in the Autumn 1986 issue of Grand Street and collected in About the Size of It (Anvil Press, 2007).]
We shouldn’t be surprised that bookish tastes change across time. They mature, just as some of us do. The books we choose to read and reread follow a path parallel to our experience and maturity. This isn’t to imply “progress.” It’s not as though all of us shed bad taste and move irrevocably toward good taste. Our needs change as we get older. What once amused and nourished us no longer does. Conversely, a few books remain prized across a lifetime. A reader tells me he’s offended that I no longer read Hart Crane. He suggests I might be doing this because Crane was gay. That’s a cheap and ridiculous accusation. Why do I continue reading Cavafy, Proust and Auden? Crane is not a “bad” poet. He is no longer a poet for me. Plenty of others read him for admirable and silly reasons. He is their writer and no longer mine. No one can dictate what gives us pleasure and sustenance. I think of the writers who didn’t much interest me when I was thirty, though I thought of myself as a pretty sophisticated reader – among them, Louis MacNeice, Walter de la Mare, Edwin Arlington Robinson, Elizabeth Bowen, Max Beerbohm, Henry Green. All are now in regular rotation. Who did I read passionately when young but can no longer abide? Kafka, James T. Farrell, Hemingway, Pound, Dreiser. Just listing these writers feels like an oblique form of autobiography, a mingling of nostalgia and regret. William Hazlitt writes in “On Reading Old Books”: “A sage philosopher, who was not a very wise man, said, that he should like very well to be young again, if he could take his experience along with him. This ingenious person did not seem to be aware, by the gravity of his remark, that the great advantage of being young is to be without this weight of experience, which he would fain place upon the shoulders of youth, and which never comes too late with years.”
Unlike his friends Coleridge, Hazlitt, Wordsworth and Hunt, who often made fools of themselves as a result, Charles Lamb had little interest in the momentous events of his day. About “Boney” – Napoleon Bonaparte – he wished only to know the dictator’s height, unlike Hazlitt, who published a four-volume biography of the diminutive Corsican. In a letter to his friend Thomas Manning on March 1, 1800, Lamb writes: “Public affairs – except as they touch upon me, and so turn into private – I cannot whip up my mind to feel any interest in.” This admirable sentiment would profit many of our contemporaries. It’s easily mistaken for self-centeredness, but nature’s busybodies, those preoccupied with politics and power, are the truly selfish. For Lamb, to be civic-minded was to care for one’s family, friends and strangers – to be a generous host. Though he was a lifelong bachelor, his instinct for family was fierce and he dedicated his life to caring for his matricidal sister, “Mad” Mary Lamb. He practiced charity and compassion as non-proselytizing virtues. In one of the Elia essays, “A Complaint of the Decay of Beggars in the Metropolis,” he writes: “Shut not thy purse-strings always against painted distress. Act a charity sometimes. When a poor creature (outwardly and visibly such) comes before thee, do not stay to inquire whether the ‘seven small children,’ in whose name he implores thy assistance, have a veritable existence. Rake not into the bowels of unwelcome truth, to save a halfpenny. It is good to believe him. If he be not all that he pretendeth, give, and under a personate father of a family, think (if thou pleasest) that thou hast relieved an indigent bachelor. When they come with their counterfeit looks, and mumping tones, think them players. You pay your money to see a comedian feign these things, which, concerning these poor people, thou canst not certainly tell whether they are feigned or not.” His compassion is instinctive, not ideological. Nor was it rooted in a sense of religious obligation, which in Lamb’s case was rudimentary. In a March 9, 1822, letter to his childhood friend Coleridge, Lamb displays a sophisticated appreciation of moral complexity when he writes: “One of the bitterest pangs of remorse I ever felt was when a child – when my kind old aunt had strained her pocket-strings to bestow a sixpenny whole plum-cake upon me. In my way home through the Borough, I met a venerable old man, not mendicant, but thereabouts – a look-beggar, not a verbal petitionist; and in the coxcombry of taught-charity I gave away the cake to him. I walked on a little in all the pride of an Evangelical peacock, when of a sudden my old aunt’s kindness crossed me – the sum it was to her – the pleasure she had a right to expect that I – not the old impostor – should take in eating her cake – the cursed ingratitude by which, under the colour of Christian virtue, I had frustrated her cherished purpose. I sobbed, I wept, and took it to heart so grievously, that I think I never suffered the like – and I was right. It was a piece of unfeeling hypocrisy, and proved a lesson to me ever after. The cake has long been masticated, consigned to the dunghill with the ashes of that unseasonable pauper.” Lamb recognizes that his younger self was “virtue-signaling,” performing a kindly act because it would make him look good. He was being what Joseph Epstein has called a “virtucrat.” He was among the wisest of foolish men.
Howard Nemerov was born on Leap Year Day in 1920 – February 29 -- meaning his birthday can be accurately observed only every fourth year – a nice metaphysical conundrum. This reminds me of a cousin who was bitter because she was born on Christmas Day and felt she was getting less attention and loot than she deserved. Let’s celebrate Nemerov today. We no longer expect poets to be intelligent and learned, to respect form and craft, or to have a sense of humor and little interest in politics. Nemerov inherited no Modernist fashion for obscurity. His poems are accessible in the sense that they don’t revel in self-indulgent opacity. He’s seldom pretentious and never condescends to the reader. Often his concerns are ours. He writes to us and for us, not other poets or fellow academics. Take “Runes” from New Poems (1960), with an epigraph from St. Augustine’s Confessions: “insanibam salubriter et moriebar vitaliter.” Roughly, “I was healthily insane and vitally dying.” Here is the first of Nemerov’s fifteen fifteen-line stanzas: “This is about the stillness in moving things, In running water, also in the sleep Of winter seeds, where time to come has tensed Itself, enciphering a script so fine Only the hourglass can magnify it, only The years unfold its sentence from the root. I have considered such things often, but I cannot say I have thought deeply of them: That is my theme, of thought and the defeat Of thought before its object, where it turns As from a mirror, and returns to be The thought of something and the thought of thought, A trader doubly burdened, commercing Out of one stillness and into another.” Nemerov cherishes paradox, seeing it as somehow the nature of reality. Thisness is forever in flux. What exists today contains tomorrow. He gently hints at Aquinas’ understanding of potentia. Here is the poem’s final, meditative stanza: “To watch water, to watch running water, Is to know a secret, seeing the twisted rope Of runnels on the hillside, the small freshets Leaping and limping down the tilted field In April's light, the green, grave and opaque Swirl in the millpond where the current slides To be combed and carded silver at the fall; It is a secret. Or it is not to know The secret, but to have it in your keeping, A locked box, Bluebeard’s room, the deathless thing Which it is death to open. Knowing the secret, Keeping the secret--herringbones of light Ebbing on beaches, the huge artillery Of tides--it is not knowing, it is not keeping, But being the secret hidden from yourself.” I would also like to plug Nemerov’s three novels, which seem to get little attention: The Melodramatists (1949), Federigo: Or the Power of Love (1954) and The Homecoming Game (1957). The last is especially good. In a February 18, 1957 letter to Nemerov, Vladimir Nabokov wrote of the novel: “It is full of true wit, and its structure—the intricate and satisfying interlacing of themes—is admirable.” Montaigne was born on this date, February 28, in 1533. A Nemerov poem in Gnomes & Occasions (1973) shares a title with Montaigne’s final essay, “Of Experience”: “Nature from life by piece and piece Gently disparts us; power fails Before desire does. It needs not sex To illustrate what Montaigne saith. But only what’s befallen X— Now he no longer has his teeth He can no longer bite his nails.” Montaigne writes in his final essay, as translated by Donald Frame: “We must learn to endure what we cannot avoid. Our life is composed, like the harmony of the world, of contrary things, also of different tones, sweet and harsh, sharp and flat, soft and loud. If a musician liked only one kind, what would he have to say? He must know how to use them together and blend them. And so must we do with good and evil, which are consubstantial with our life. Our existence is impossible without this mixture, and one element is no less necessary for it than the other. To try to kick against natural necessity is to imitate the folly of Ctesiphon, who undertook a kicking match with his mule.” [Washington University, where Nemerov taught for thirty-two years until his death in 1991, has announced the donation of 513 letters from the family of Nemerov’s lover, Joan Coale of Philadelphia, written between 1972 and 1990.]
More in literature
Poems read aloud, beautifully The post “Writing in the Dark” by Denise Levertov appeared first on The American Scholar.
Where we go when we go to sleep and why we go there is one of the great mysteries of the mind. Why the mind at times refuses to go there, despite the pleading and bargaining of its conscious owner, is a greater mystery still. We know that ever since REM evolved in the bird brain, the third of our lives we spend sleeping and dreaming has been a crucible of our capacity for learning, emotional regulation, and creativity. But the price we have paid for these crowning curios of consciousness has been savage self-consciousness, thought turned in on itself,… read article
For me, fiction is a space of plainness and excess. Amina Cain When TS Eliot read Dante for the first time, he noted a discrepancy between his enjoyment and his understanding, leading to the famous claim that "genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood". He warns potential readers against two extremes: believing one has to master the theology, structure and historical context of the Commedia to appreciate its poetry or that knowledge is irrelevant to further enjoyment, which is why he thinks many readers' enjoyment is limited to the local thrills of Inferno. The warning holds today as we remain uncertain about the role literature plays in our lives: is it a repository of instrumental knowledge, cod liver oil for the soul, or pure escapism? "All three" is the public answer, except the distinctions are never clear and never overtly discussed despite fueling an entire literary culture, manifesting in, for example, the Guardian's Where to start with series in which pellets of one are slipped inside morsels of another. (Dante started with a dark wood lacking a branch of Waterstone's.) In the months before I read the sentence in Amina Cain's A Horse at Night, I had stopped enjoying novels. I picked up several hailed as modern-day masterpieces and, despite their mutually incompatible variety, there was no spark. I bought and borrowed more seeking to break the cycle. Nothing worked. It would be easy to deceive myself into a rhetorical enjoyment, such as one reads every day in reviews, and I have often done that myself only later to reflect and regret, but I couldn't deny something was missing. Be assured this isn't a prelude to announcing the death of the novel and a call toward the tethered blimp of non-fiction, as I maintain faith in the indefinable potential of formal adventure. So if my loss of enjoyment was not the dulling of age, I wondered if there was a common absence. A answer came in that sentence. Eliot defined his enjoyment. He called it "poetic emotion". The quotation marks are his own as the phrase refers to his earlier essay on Hamlet and its definition of the Objective Correlative in which "a set of objects, a situation, a chain of events" elicit a particular emotion. This suggests literature must stick to generic templates through which a skilled writer can provoke a response immanent to the work, and Eliot more or less confirms it by reckoning Hamlet an "artistic failure" because Shakespeare did not find an objective correlative for Hamlet's behaviour that he superimposed onto the "cruder material" of earlier plays: "Hamlet (the man) is dominated by an emotion which is inexpressible, because it is in excess of the facts as they appear." He dismisses the emotion as adolescent. However, if we go back to the essay on Dante, Eliot mitigates the mixture of autobiography, lyric poetry and allegory comprising the Vita Nuova because it is a recipe "not available to the modern mind", the one that assumes biographical detail is an exposé of a personality. Instead, in Dante's case it is a report of personal experiences that were important not because they happened to Dante but because they had "philosophical and impersonal value". We might ask in response: when did a change occur that makes such a recipe unavailable to us? Perhaps it was changing in Shakespeare's time and that is precisely what makes Hamlet an excessive play. For Dante, the inexpressible and excess of facts took the form of Beatrice, a childhood love who becomes a personification of the divine and leads to a religious commitment. For Hamlet (the man), the opposite is the case. What presents itself to him is not an undoubted human presence and its gift of beatitude but a ghost he may have hallucinated and yet whose demands press upon him. Can he trust the experience? If it is false, how can he trust himself? If it is genuine, how can he trust the world? If Eliot thinks Hamlet's angst is adolescent, it may be because such introversion is now firmly embedded in the modern mind (as embodied by a certain J. Alfred Prufrock) and so easily dismissed, whereas in Shakespeare's time it was only just emerging and out of joint with what was firmly embedded then and responsible for the plays Eliot judged as "assured" artistic successes. Vita Nuova and Hamlet are anomalies in literary history (anomalies define literary history), and what they both exhibit and what they both emerge from is excess and deprivation. The combination plays out differently in each: for Dante, the excess of emotion caused by Beatrice's presence and the deprivation experienced when she withheld her greeting and then when she died is transfigured into a mystical apocalypse and a key to salvation. His new life will be one of praise. For Hamlet the excess of ambiguity and subsequent deprivation of trust leads to behaviour that nowadays might be considered signs of a breakdown. What they also have in common is a meeting of the personal and the other-worldly. William Franke says the Vita Nuova is modelled on the New Testament gospels in which the experience of the apparent son of God remains central to the life of the writer. Beatrice was Dante's path to God and lyric poetry was his witness, the only proper means of communicating the revelation, with the prose commentary grounding the divine in everyday experience. The phenomenon of transcendence that Beatrice was for Dante became possible "only by the instrumentality of the lyric, specifically by virtue of its powers to express registers of personal experience in which subjective response and feeling are constitutive parts or aspects of objective events, not secondary and less real". Franke compares this to Christ's beatitudes that "lend themselves...to liturgical recitation and serve as kernels inviting supplemental elaboration in the form of illustrative narratives or parables and edifying doctrinal discourses". Hamlet does not have this resource and the very different form the play takes from Dante's little book indicates stages in a long process in which lyric poetry and literary prose finally become divorced, as described by Robert Alter, cited by Franke. The progressive narrativization of verse specifically in the refashioning and transmutation of biblical poetry into epic narration...describes a natural evolution starting from poetry, as the original form of literary expression, and moving to prose as its extension and elaboration. The process follows the incremental secularisation of Western society and the decline of the effects of revelation. It may explain why certain phrases in Hamlet have become embedded in everyday life in the same way as lines of poetry have (and so the apocryphal story of someone complaining that the play is full of quotations), while passages of novels, the exemplary form of disenchantment, have not (and indeed why poetry and plays have become minor forms in literary culture). Of course, novels are often common reference points, but nobody has lines running through their heads or recites passages off the cuff. They neither lend themselves to recitation nor to the rituals of performance. By becoming wholly extension and elaboration, prose has freed itself from its roots in lyric poetry and in the process that which exceeds the everyday, divine or otherwise. The lyrical state is a state beyond forms and systems. EM Cioran So it was when I read Amina Cain's sentence that I recognised the problem. Plainness and excess has become prosaic. Plainness has become unimpeachable by making the everyday consequential in itself, though this has constantly to be renewed with critical hype – Dirty Realism was all the rage when I got into reading – and yet the residue of lyric and its promise of something other than the everyday remains: revelation has become a ghost in popular features such the 'twist in the tale' and the resolution of a plot, while in more refined circles, the possibility of revelation is present in the value afforded to 'experimental' writing which seems to promise that "under the myopic scrutiny of a good close reading" as Catherine Liu puts it "an obdurate, clam-like text [would] give up its iridescent pearl of gorgeous meaning". Meanwhile, excess is converted into maximalist world-building breezeblocks telling stories spanning continents and centuries, packed with history, adventure, romance, horror and fantasy. Each, however, remains undisturbed by the excess of its own presence, the incomprehensible revelation that with one sentence, however plain, however excessive, something has been added to the world, in the world as a product of a culture, yet not completely of the world. The surprise of distance. This has an effect comparable to that which Beatrice had on Dante and the ghost had on Hamlet; comparable but distinct, as it goes unnoticed. You can see the return of the repressed in "lyrical humanism", the form Lee Rourke diagnosed as the default mode of 'literary fiction', poised uneasily between popular and elite culture. With 'poetic' prose, it seeks to enchant a world without transcendence, standing in for that transcendence, and while it is ultimately empty, drawing the contempt of popular authors, it comforts the reader as much as the cushions on their conservatory armchair. (Dirty Realism is lyrical humanism in black and white.) We overlook its origins because the reception of contemporary novels follows Eliot by using contemporary mutations of the objective correlative to contain the terms of evaluation. The sparkless cycle was broken when in a desultory search I picked out Thomas Bernhard's 1967 novel Verstörung, unfortunately translated as Gargoyles (it means Disturbance or Derangement) and began to read it for the first time in 25 years. I had regarded it as an also-ran among his novels, perhaps because the first of its two chapters is a plain story. A doctor's son home from college is listening to his father describing his rounds in a handful of small Austrian towns. There was a schoolteacher in Salla who he found dying and then a child in Hüllberg who fell into a tub of boiling water. The visits wear him down and the death of his wife and his daughter's suicide attempt hang over him. Despite this, the son's presence gives him cheer and he speaks of the restorative effects of nature. They prepare for a walk along the local river but are immediately interrupted by an urgent call to attend an innkeeper's wife in Gradenberg who has been bludgeoned by a drunken miner. The son accompanies the father to the inn and then the hospital, where she dies. Crime, sickness, psychological distress and death pervade the region with son and father like Dante and Virgil on a travelogue through Hell, only without Dante's contrapasso placing the suffering in God's design. Purgatory of sorts is suggested when they reach the father's friend Bloch, an estate agent. The father finds some equilibrium by discussing political and philosophical issues with him and borrowing the big books of European thought from his library: Pascal, Kant, Marx, Nietzsche. He says Bloch resists despair by "seeing his life as an easily understood mechanism" he can adjust as necessary to practical ends. The son, a student of mining, agrees: "It was worth making the maximum effort to shake off a tendency to despair". Next they visit a wealthy industrialist who also seeks to make the maximum effort, in his case by shutting himself up in a hunting lodge to write on a literary work on a "purely philosophical subject". Father and son enter the lodge and walk on wooden floorboards through dark and barely furnished rooms. The son wishes to scream and throw open the shutters, but makes the effort to check himself. Throughout the first half then the tension between mind and body, between self and world, is held in place by the firebreak between the observer and observed. The son is part of the world, partly outside. The plain act of description maintains literary sanity, with its correlative in the story being the father's commentary on the cases in the sanctuary of the car as they drive towards the summit of the purgatorial mountain. It is here that they meet Prince Saurau on the outer wall of Hochgobernitz Castle perched high above the surrounding countryside, a paradise of sorts. It is also where the second chapter begins and is what led Italo Calvino to call Gargoyles one of the great novels of the 20th century. The Prince greets the visitors and immediately begins talking about the three applicants for the job he had advertised that morning, commenting on their dress, their demeanour, their background, their family, the towns they come from and, leaping from one subject to another, doesn't stop talking for the next 140 pages. He is enraged by the "idiotic bureaucratic rabble" that runs the Austrian state who have "expropriated" everything. He repeats variations of "expropriated" several times, and then "empty" several times. "Everything is empty!". In his analysis he comes across as intensely sensitive, lucid perhaps, and in the repetitions on the edge of madness. As is familiar in Bernhard's novels, the conditions cannot be separated. If the Prince hasn't descended entirely it is because the repetitions of words and phrases coalesce to maintain him in an oscillation above his abyss, even if it is an oscillation in which anger, loneliness, alienation, distress and despair comprise its dynamo. The Prince's compulsive repetitions form a lyricism in the absence of meaning, a revelation of sorts. Gershom Scholem called it the nothingness of revelation: "a state in which revelation appears to be without meaning, in which it still asserts itself, in which it has validity but no significance. A state in which the wealth of meaning is lost and what is in the process of appearing...still does not disappear." It is a state we recognise in the process of reading Gargoyles. A more straightforward reader may interpret the condition as purely medical and the novel merely a case study, while admiring Bernhard's skill in capturing the symptoms. Lyricism has its place in these conditions, as Cioran observed: It is significant that the beginnings of all mental psychoses are marked by a lyrical phase during which all the usual barriers and limits disappear, giving way to an inner drunkenness of the most fertile, creative kind. This explains the poetic productivity characteristic of the first phases of psychoses. Consequently, madness could be seen as a sort of paroxysm of lyricism. [Translated by Ilinca Zarifopol-Johnston] Except the condition enabling such a diagnosis is not an uncontaminated onlooker: rationalism could be seen as a paroxysm of psychic catalepsy, the checked scream in recognition of the eternal silence of infinite space beyond the shutters of science, unwilling to confront the utter mystery of conscious existence. Pascal's famous line is the appropriate epigram to Gargoyles. With this in mind, we may turn to German Idealism and the intellectual history of the deus absconditus to recognise that the Prince is in a "delirium of loss" whose theological ground is set out by Alina Feld in Melancholy and the Otherness of God. The unhappy consciousness is "torn between finitude and the infinite, between the fallen and the ideal, between the human self and transcendent God". And while this condition appears to be conclusive, the form it takes remains part of the possible paroxysm, with catalepsy its cure. The lack of satisfaction in rational codefication is why we turn to novels, to its excess of the world, to writing that has an openness to an apparent outside, made apparent by writing, however deceptive. What is revealed in reading Gargoyles, and by extension in all novels, is a relation to what does and at the same time does not exist. The Prince's disturbance of this novel in particular is a disturbance of the novel in its generic safety and its readers seeking knowledge, cod liver oil for the soul and escapism. It is the revelation of the novel as an other-worldly presence in our lives, a measure of forever, an enjoyment beyond our understanding.
