To Friends Who Write

Dear Friends (You Know Who You Are),

...in search of recognition...in a world where your work is a "one in many" "face in the midst of the crowd" "still small voice"...you are lost.  In what flows from hot to cold to make engines turn, we are the dissipate leavings.

And it's not surprising, but surely dispiriting.  As I looked at your poems I grew more impressed, more interested.  That is the best I can say.  And the best, really, I think I can do, is to be an eager reader...waiting and wanting more from you. 

That is what I want in a reader...well, just that A READER.  That is the "community" we want.  Appreciation from one reader...and then one more, and then another, and then...well you see the problem.

Imagine...I am only now waking up to Williams as a man of fierce intelligence but also of fierce ambition and fierce need.

As I hold Williams-as-written in my mind, in my ears, in my hands (tangible love) I realize that publishing in 1920 is STILL small.  Still a community.  Still easily divided among small numbers of writers we label members of "schools."  There are poets, great and good, who just want to be loved (and hated) by one another and to stand in time next to other names.  To be named!  And also, bed Mina Loy...who deserves so much more than that from me here now...but there it is.

We have no more great poets because the acquisitive mind has co-opted the world and poetry is CONTENT--and content, really, turns out to be irrelevant.  And that is a warp and weft of its own devising.  Realizing that poets both love and hate Williams, that the public knows one poem and makes gleeful "get it" fun out of another; realizing that the world does not know any of Williams really as you can't know the wheelbarrow outside of its home in its book where it carries a quantity of uncertainty as payload.

As I hold Williams I hold a book Spring and All that is nearly 100 years old.  This corresponds with Williams holding onto Shelley's Triumph of Life.  Or even my holding onto Auroras of Autumn like Williams holding onto the 1850 Prelude or the barbaric Leaves of Grass.  Who is the Ashbery who springs into life at the death of Stevens?  Who is that Ashbery?  He seems volcanic of the undigested being, but who am I to judge?  What is true is that monuments are made while moments are lost.  

We have exploded and are only pieces, are one in pieces, unbounded in our bond.

Trunks like Shelley like Whitman are surely only branches though with great circumference.  You and I are nearly forced to be the ideas of leaves hoping to bud into existence on a fruitful fruiting branch not fruited.  Still to grow juicy and even sweet which is a product of dry seasons so we may fall in the autumn and be usefully dead for the great continuing Yggdrasil.

Or something like that...something more than paper recycled for bodily use.

But if so so.

As ever, your friend,
One/Many

Devaluing the Word

From a Facebook post on a Friend's wall (a degree of digital separation) that I vampirically sucked out to offer here, via this digital medium.

I am in a English/linguistics class right now about slang, and one of our textbooks, written by the professor, is about Buffy the Vampire Slayer. It's called Slayer Slang: A Buffy the Vampire Slayer Lexicon. I thought about you and your birthday party one year at Uptown, with the Buffy theme, in class today. I hope you are doing well in New York.

Seriously.

Now, ehem, I was sharing a rant with a friend the other day regarding Border's closing in Dekalb, IL (the Bloomington, IN store closed right before Xmas) and their bankruptcy and this rant was primarily about Reading and to my mind access to reading material. Bookstore closings are not awful, I would argue, if they send us back to libraries, if they send us back to reading as a very critical act in the development of the human soul, both collective and individual. If they send us back to books that are measureless deeps to sound. The commodification of "the Word"* has made the Word cheap. I believe it should be free, but not cheap.

This devaluation is endemic of our urge to consume...pulp fiction writers were paid pennies on the word (still?)...and one can see how easily this affects (infects) our educational institutions.

What do you suppose "Slayer Slang" has to teach us? One of my professors made a very important point that often goes unheeded though it is quite obvious: there is only so much time to read and study--choose your texts wisely.

I'm sure there will be folks who will argue that though Buffy is "entertainment" so was Bleak House and Middlemarch and Clarissa and Shakespeare (though not Moby Dick if sales are indicative). Is this a very serious debate? It's hard for me to see this as anything other than a symptom of the consumption society. Professors are commodities; texts are commodities; degrees are commodities...We are selling empty words, empty ideas (like our food industry, yes?).

Who reads philosophy; who reads history; who reads works of science if not our students? (Professionals in these fields included of course.) Who instructs them in the vast knowledge that is "at the back" of these texts? The texts that speak to us through time via their conversations with other thinkers and writers--texts talking to texts, arguing with texts, will need some explication.

Does the Slayer Lexicon lead us into fields where wisdom is sown?

Sometimes it simply seems as if we are in a hurry to only and always be the "blank slate" culture. Buffy is unique and contains all you need to know. Study it deeply and you will be initiated into the mysteries of the human and the universe. There is no need of further study.

Erasure...

Plus, I can get that on my Kindle.



*I worked at a bookstore in Clayton, MO and one day a man asked for assistance in locating copies of the Qur'an. Taking him to the aisle (no pointing as direction!) I showed him the myriad copies and translations. But it turns out he didn't want to buy one. He wanted to chastise me for selling them. "This is not for sale. This is the word of God. How can you sell this? Who are you to sell the word of God?" I honestly don't remember how I responded--probably via the fail-safe "would you like to speak with a manager?"

The Shallows or the Depths?

Perhaps this is why I return to certain books over and over and have given up on many others.

Now a book lives as long as it's unfathomed. Once it is fathomed it dies at once...once it is known, and its meaning fixed or established it is dead. A book only lives while it has power to move us, and move us differently; so long as we find it different every time we read it. Owing to the flood of shallow books which really are exhausted in one reading, the modern mind tends to think every book is the same, finished in one reading. The real joy of a book lies in reading it over and over again, and always finding it different, coming upon another meaning, another level of meaning...It is far, far better to read one book six times, at intervals, than to read six several books. Because if a certain book can call you to read it six times, it will be a deeper and deeper experience each time, and will enrich the whole soul, emotional and mental. Whereas six books read once only are merely an accumulation of superficial interest, the burdensome accumulation of modern days, quantity without real value.

Note here that it's required that you find it different when rereading a book. Or you might say, it finds you different. I have a few favorites that I return to occasionally but only for comfort and when I read them I am the same reader and it is the same book fulfilling an emotional need. But it is not revealing a deeper sounding...rather, allowing me to stay at one level, at my ease, as a kind of pacification (something akin to eating for comfort).

My first experience like this came with Conrad's Heart of Darkness. It was intentionally opaque and perhaps that's cheating, but while its action in the jungle and on the river remained the same, the lines, the words, the telling of it, would slip away in different directions and then sneak back in bearing a cloak of allusion.

I think that writers when deeply read, in any field, use all their experiences as readers when they write. You know the saying "you are what you eat", well this seems applicable to books as well. They are the culmination of the writer's reading history, what he/she has eaten. This doesn't mean breadth of reading...it means reading deeply, repeatedly, being in thrall to the words and meanings and finding them internalized within you and then filtered through you back out into the world through your mouth or pen.

What books keep you sounding, diving and surfacing with fresh depths in your maw?

Lawrence's Apocalypse

Literature as Assay

Stories are entertainment to us, almost invariably ONLY entertainment. Our books--published in enormous numbers as only America (and England, our mother) can--have little depth and significance...they are, after all, now written by folks who have been raised with television and video games which seems to have predicated the resurgence of the comic book in "long form" (perhaps a separate post is warranted on pictorial art--cave-art story-telling) which seems to this former reader of The Fantastic Four a little bit more about marketing than "art".

I am aware that this is a very general statement, that there are always good, deep, significant works of literature written and published annually. What I'm really getting at is that the business or industry of book publishing has now made the possibility of reading one of those important titles hard come by. We promote, market and sell "sure things" and frequently the really creative and important works are not of this type--and in fact many would say "strangeness" characterizes our deepest works of art.

Yes, there's a lot to argue about here. Classics are "institutional" and so suspect (chicken/egg arguments abound). Classics are patriarchal and promote the ideas of a small group of "power elite"--even the "strangest" titles can be shoe-horned into this category with a specific type of reading.

I'm saying that the field where the seeds of art are sown are NOT conducive to great depth. Our industries have not only literally stripped away our topsoil but have also done so figuratively...we have no fertile ground to induce roots to deep growth.

What prompted this was trying to characterize my own habits of reading. Not to say mine are better than anyone else's but rather to try to find out what attracts my attention and why these things are somewhat "classic" yet marginal at the same time.

In doing this I've also discovered this same "industrial" bias in the use of the very margins of what was once strange. All things have become "means" to aid in the production of predictable ends--and so, no strangeness. "Creativity" is only allowed if in service to the end. Creative film-makers, for example, are such within the boundaries of profit if they want to continue to make movies with a particular kind of distribution. (There's more on this, too--but later, maybe).

Okay, I've been reading (dipping in and out of) the works of Susan Howe and she is very much a poet-scholar-thinker "on the margins" and in the margins. One of her pieces is "Melville's Marginalia" and she speaks of her reason for following Melville's lead through the books he read, "I thought one way to write about a loved author would be to follow what trails he follows through the words of others..." I think that this is really the way I like to "follow trails" in reading. Howe, though, not only follows but in the process creates a new work and in that new work there is interpretation of the past in a way that casts light on the human condition...on what it means to read, write, think--to be in language.

Finally, what prompted this note, is that there was a doctoral dissertation (this is what prompted Howe, "a library cormorant"), by Wilson Walker Cowan from 1965 where this young student searched out as many of the books in Melville's library that he could and copied out (by hand, of course) the marginal and inter-textual notes that he determined were in Melville's hand as well as the text that the notes were made on/in. A labor of love in a time when this research was indeed LABOR and was indeed born of love or kinship.

And today, after spending some time yesterday searching for extant copies of this dissertation outside of libraries, I discovered an industrial academic project based on Cowan's work. Melville's Marginalia is now a product. It's editor (project manager) describes being a graduate student under noted Melville scholar (production manager) Hershel Parker:

“Hershel sent me far and wide to fulfill research tasks on Melville—the New York Public Library, the Library of Congress, Harvard University, the Boston Public Library. Along with giving me specific tasks to perform for his biographical research, he would also suggest leads that I could pursue for publication…. It was not long before I started making significant discoveries of my own and began publishing the results under his guidance. His scholarly curiosity and enthusiasm were contagious, and I was quickly sucked into the Melville vortex,” he says.

[Note: the interview with this project manager is published via the office of communications and marketing at the U of Delaware.]

And so Melville's mind, his marginalia, are mined for the production line of industrial academia...not for love or kinship...but for the means of "making discoveries" in the service of "publishing results" in the manner of reporting on chemical assays.