Wednesday, April 01, 2015

`The Flirtatious Mysteries of the Trade'

One of the unspoken curses of illiteracy, whether absolute or selective, must be the susceptibility of its sufferers to boredom. Even a blind man, or one blinded by his inability or refusal to read, has no excuse for being bored in the company of good books: 

“I had only a few minutes in my hosts’ library, itself but an infinitesimal part of any decent municipal library, let alone of that of Congress or the British Museum. In those few minutes I read only three or four sentences. There was obviously enough in that one room to stimulate a person for a lifetime, especially with the help of the internet. Now more than ever is what Pascal said true, that all of Mankind’s problems derive from our inability to remain alone quietly in a room.” 

Theodore Dalrymple’s essay is titled “Of Chekhov, Dickens, Henley and Pascal,” reflecting the web of associations sparked by a seasoned reader’s encounter with even a single title. You can enter the stream at any point along the shore and be carried contentedly along. Borges alludes to a first impression of “extravagant happiness” prompted by knowledge of “The Library of Babel.” On the human scale, the world’s library, the supply of printed matter available thanks to the internet and interlibrary loan, is inexhaustible. As a kid, I never dreamed how effortlessly and inexpensively I could acquire any volume I might wish to read. We dwell in a reader’s Eden, unless we choose self-expulsion. 

Last week, Mike Gilleland at Laudator Temporis Acti posted an excerpt from The Second Light (North Point Press, 1986) by the Swedish aphorist Vilhelm Ekelund (1880-1949): “Books that you finish with are not books at all. A true book is inexhaustible, like a truly lyrical poem. The real practitioners of the noble art of writing are recognizable because they offer the greatest pleasure on rereading. They are therefore of value only to those who know how to read—a species almost as rare as good authors.” The name was new to me, but I sensed I might have written the passage myself and forgotten. I borrowed Ekelund’s collection from the library and found, further down page thirty-eight, this gem: 

“The best works by the finest writers have an illiterate touch. When an author has arrived at the stage where he clearly knows and can decide for himself what in him produces the unfading words, his real power is often gone. The scent has fled, he is plainly the literary worker. Faced with the thought of death, some regain the noble spontaneity in old age. As did Thomas Carlyle. He then despised all that was labeled literature, and only wrote his Shakespearean letters—as I think they may be judged.” 

A reader in South Carolina has been lobbying me to read Carlyle again, and Ekelund has provided the decisive nudge. He goes on: “Was Carlyle ever great? Yes, he is here, in his eighties, walking in the day of fall through the old Scottish churchyard (Annandale), where his beloved ones rest: so silent and quiet now; those who in times past had such kind faces when they saw him approaching.” I’m waiting to read the late Carlyle letters. 

On Monday, from Ian Jackson, the antiquarian book dealer in Berkeley, Calif., I received a reprint of his obituary for Cesi Kellinger published in the spring issue of The Book Collector. Born in Italy in 1922, she died last October in Chambersburg, Pa. Ian doesn’t collect statistics; he tells a life story or, rather, stories. Kellinger led a remarkable, seldom dull bookish life: 

“No dealer was more aware than she of one of the great attractions of bookselling to the reflective mind, the stimulating interplay of public and private spheres—the mailing list and the back room—to rules set by the proprietor. A shop or a catalogue creates its own atmosphere. Kellinger savoured the flirtatious mysteries of the trade, exercised on books might wish to keep but sacrificed to others. Then there was the precarious balance of supply and demand, which might at times oblige the utterly desirable to dance a hesitation-waltz with a half-formed wish.”

Tuesday, March 31, 2015

`Sudden Sincerities'

The Australian-born poet Peter Porter (1929-2010), long a resident of England, published “Going to Parties” in Philip Larkin at Sixty (ed. Anthony Thwaite, 1982), and dedicated the poem to Larkin. He included it in Fast Forward, a collection published in 1984, one year before Larkin’s death. In the poem’s final line, Porter states what might stand as Larkin’s less-than-inspirational poetic credo: “To make art of a life we didn’t choose.” Among his other honorary titles, Larkin is the poet of circumscribed lives, crabbed circumstances, made so not by politics, race, gender or class but by the unavoidable drabness and mordancy of much of our life. When Faber and Faber let the novels of Barbara Pym go out of print, Larkin wrote the publisher a generous letter of protest:  

“I like to read about people who have done nothing spectacular, who aren’t beautiful and lucky, who try to behave well in the limited field of activity they command, but who can see, in the little autumnal moments of vision, that the so called ‘big’ experiences of life are going to miss them; and I like to read about such things presented not with self-pity or despair or romanticism, but with realistic firmness and even humour.” 

Another self-revealing passage. I’m unable to identify the original source, but Porter is widely quoted as calling Hull, Larkin’s home for his final thirty years, “the most poetic city in England.” It’s a Larkin-esque thing to say, of course, in at least two senses. Stevie Smith, a poet much admired by Larkin, was born there. Douglas Dunn and Andrew Motion, among others, taught at the University of Hull, where Larkin was librarian. It was also the childhood home of Andrew Marvell, born on this date, March 31, in 1621, in nearby Winestead-in-Holderness. He attended grammar school in Hull and later returned to represent the city as a Member of Parliament. In his 1979 lecture “The Changing Face of Andrew Marvell” (Required Writing: Miscellaneous Pieces 1955–1982, 1983), Larkin quotes the well-known and perhaps inadvertently comic fifth stanza of “The Garden,” including its conclusion: “Stumbling on melons as I pass, / Ensnar’d with flowers, I fall on grass.” Larkin’s mock-gloss is priceless: 

“…the paradisal lushness of the garden is made so overwhelming, with a hint of menace in the independently acting fruit, and a touch of the ludicrous in the Hulot-like figure of the speaker (conked on the head with apples, hit in the face by a bunch of grapes, and finally sprawling full length over a melon), that the reader cannot be blamed for seeking an interpretation over and above the poem’s face value: that it is the Garden of Eden, for instance, replete with Apple and Fall, or that Marvell is really saying, What a life of sin and temptation I lead!” 

Larkin goes on to accuse Marvell (and, by implication, his customary Modernist bêtes noires) of “an excess in the poem of manner over matter.” He says: “The quality of Marvell’s verse is such that the reader cannot believe that it relates only to a garden; or a pastoral conceit about a girl and her pet; there must be something else, and the reader—the academic reader—is determined to find it.” While sympathizing with the modern reading of Marvell as a “poet of enigma, of concealed meaning, of alternative explanation,” he writes, generously: 

“What still compels attention to Marvell's work is the ease with which he manages the fundamental paradox of verse--the conflict of natural word usage with metre and rhyme--and marries it either to hallucinatory images within his own unique conventions or to sudden sincerities that are as convincing in our age as in his.” 

Surely this is another entry in Larkin’s self-composed epitaph. No one so deftly balances nuances of irony and “sudden sincerity.”

Monday, March 30, 2015

`Willingness to Hear'

Susan Glickman, a Canadian writer new to me, describes opinions as “the fast food of the pseudo-intelligentsia,” but doesn’t go quite far enough. Opinion is no longer the Big Mac exclusively of the nattering classes. Everyone seems to be spouting off with little provocation, and because nothing euthanizes true conversation faster than rabidly expressed opinions, good talk, if not extinct, is on the endangered-species list. Much noise, little thought. One strives to be indulgent and polite, but when a stranger’s opening gambit is “You know what I think?”, the only honorable reply is “No, and I don't care.” Glickman writes: 

“Opinions give me the heebie-jeebies, and opinions seem to be, increasingly, what people expect writers to have. And I don’t mean opinions about books, which are, after all, one’s business if one is a writer. I mean opinions about daily life, or politics, or the environment; the kind of opinions people seem compelled to share with each other on talk shows and editorial pages . . .” 

Most opinions are driven not by wit, or a desire to elucidate or amuse, but by that dirty little boy on the inside who scrawls on the bathroom wall. Glickman, whose post was shared with me by a reader in Toronto, puts it nicely: “I found myself wondering why people always find it so hard to say, `I don’t know.’  Why are we more ashamed of not being able to express an opinion than of expressing a stupid one?” Because the ego, even more than nature, abhors a vacuum. A confession of ignorance is more shaming than a dignified silence. In his essay on conversation, The Rambler #188, Dr. Johnson puts it like this: “The modest man satisfies himself with peaceful silence, which all his companions are candid enough to consider as proceeding not from inability to speak, but willingness to hear.” 

Johnson’s observation reminds me of a variation on an old joke: What do hemorrhoids and opinions have in common?  Sooner or later, every asshole gets one.

Sunday, March 29, 2015

`Transform Me to a Piece of Cheese'

The aproned clerk removed the towel from the cutting board and revealed six wedges of cheese. They looked innocent enough, and only one was varicosed with blue. My youngest son is a budding trencherman but his tastes in cheese are conventional. No, not Velveeta, but grocery cheddar and Swiss define the boundaries of his palate. He is twelve, and old enough for his father to introduce him to some of the world’s still-legal pleasures.

My boss had recommended Houston Dairymaids, the city’s only cheese shop, located in a mostly Mexican neighborhood. Eighty percent of their business is dealing wholesale to restaurants, the clerk informed me, but their retail outlet is designed to inspire loyalty among Houston’s caseophiles. They greet customers with an orientation session, consisting of six cheeses and a brief lecture on each. I immediately had my eye on the Stilton, a product of Vermont, but David said no dice. We settled on two raw-milk cheeses: Granbury Gold, a Texas creation from cow’s milk, and a faultless San Andreas of sheep’s milk, made in California. We sampled olives and various exotic and expensive crackers (I should have brought Tupperware), passed on the wine, and added two pretzel buns to the take. 

G.K. Chesterton was wrong when he declared: “Poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese.” The Canadian furniture-maker James McIntyre (1827-1906) built a poetic career based on the celebration of coagulated milk protein. Among his effusions is “Ode on the Mammoth Cheese Weighing over 7,000 Pounds.” Less circumscribed in subject matter than McIntyre was Shakespeare. The word shows up thirteen times in the plays, often modified by “toasted.” Falstaff in The Merry Wives of Windsor gets one of the best: “Heavens defend me from that Welsh fairy, lest he / transform me to a piece of cheese.”

Saturday, March 28, 2015

`The Last Sounds He Heard'

One of modernity’s minor horrors: the car alarm. Some twenty years ago, while helping a friend move from her apartment in Albany, N.Y., I leaned against a car parked near the rental truck, and my touch set off a blast of hysterical ambulance shrieks. I jumped like one of Galvani’s frogs, expecting my first heart attack. The car in question was no prize – a Toyota of the same model and year I was driving, but with a drabber paint job. Who would bother stealing such a crate? That was my introduction to a new expression of vanity. Ned Rorem shares my aversion. In Lies: A Diary 1986-1999 (Counterpoint, 2000), the first volume I have read of his many-volumed diary, is an entry dated March 23, 1997. Rorem imagines a peculiarly modern urban indignity: 

“The last sounds he heard as he lay dying were the throb-throb of the garbage truck down in the street, and the mindless unstoppable screech of a car alarm set off by the truck’s vibration.” 

A composer’s vision of hell. One year and twenty-six pages later, on March 27, 1998, he writes: 

“A dream as complex as all of Tolstoy transpires in a millisecond, into which the harm of car alarms intrudes and wakens you. I’ve not had a good night’s sleep in thirty years. The astronaut dreams he is walking on the moon.” 

And another dream-like torment, on April 10, 1995: 

“In the dead of night the phone rings, but no one’s there. Then rings again, while car alarms clang incessantly throughout our puritan city.”

Friday, March 27, 2015

`You're Not Those, Are You?"

I knew Yiddish was rich in words to describe the infinitely fine gradations of human foolishness, from the long-domesticated schlemiel and shlimazel through shmendrik, yutz, shnook and draykop. Those are merely the synonyms for fool known to one non-Jewish American. But foolishness is pan-human and generously distributed. No group or language has a lock on it. Consider the Historical Thesaurus of the Oxford English Dictionary (2009), the first thesaurus to arrange words by meaning in the order of their first recorded usage. Last year, the linguist David Crystal published Words in Time and Place, a sampler drawn from the Thesaurus and arranged according to fifteen themes, including “From dizzy to numpty: Words for a Fool.” Crystal gives ninety-three examples, and notes they do not include the OED’s forty words in the “weak intellect” category and more than two-hundred under “blockhead.” He writes in his introduction to the category: 

“The most creative period for `fool’-words was the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, which introduced almost half the words in this chapter’s list. The least . . . was the `polite’ eighteenth century, which provides only two examples — a dip which can’t be entirely explained by limited lexicographical coverage of that period. Things pick up again in the nineteenth century, with novelists reflecting everyday usage and journalists reporting it, and this continues in the twentieth century. . .” 

The first word in Crystal’s list is dizzy, a direct borrow from Old English. It’s a noun, not an adjective, and simply means “fool.” What follows is a selection from Crystal's list arranged chronologically and chosen because they amuse me: God’s ape, saddle-goose, hoddypeak, goff, ninnyhammer, plume of feathers, gowk, fooliaminy, dosser-head, hulver-head, Jack Adams, mud, suck-egg, wump, B.F. (for Bloody Fool), gobdaw and schmoll (“thought to be from Yiddish shmol, `narrow’”). Mysteriously, Crystal omits three of my favorite entries in the English taxonomy of fools. In The Bank Dick (1940), that other great linguist, W.C. Fields, in the role of Egbert Sousé ("accent grave over the e"), says to his future son-in-law, Og Oggilby (played by Grady Sutton): “Don’t be a luddy-duddy. Don’t be a mooncalf. Don’t be a jabbernowl. You’re not those, are you?” 

[Be sure to consult Crystal’s book if only for the chapter devoted to synonyms for drunk, including reeling ripe, owl-eyed, suckey, muckibus, blootered, elephant trunk (Cockney rhyming slang), spiflicated, swacked, stocious, tired and emotional, and rat-arsed. Disappointingly, no shit-faced.]

Thursday, March 26, 2015

`Teach Us Prose Writers How to Write'

“If it were up to me, no one would be allowed to write prose without having read—and preferably also tried writing—a certain amount of poetry. Beyond the pleasure it gives, it teaches you how to husband your words, how to make them say things more lapidarily and graphically, and, above all, how to make them sing.” 

Like many benignly misguided young men, John Simon aspired to be a poet. According to his introduction to Dreamers of Dreams: Essays on Poets and Poetry (Ivan R. Dee, 2001), he penned his first verse at age six, in German, and continued in other languages as he acquired them – Hungarian, Serbian, French and English. He published only those in English, in the Paris Review and other journals in the nineteen-fifties, but never as a book. In English, Simon became a critic, one of the smartest, funniest and most entertaining around. Simon was usually good in his own right, especially when writing about movies, but also in contrast to the other name-brand film critic of the time, Pauline Kael, whose taste was deplorable, whose prose was a mess and who has been beatified by admirers since her death. Simon continues in his introduction to Dreamers of Dreams: 

“It may sound presumptuous, or even preposterous, to assert that there can be music in the review of some humdrum movie or run-of-the-mill play. But if you choose your words lovingly, pay attention to rhythm and cadence, know how to use simile and metaphor—not to mention other tropes—you can enrich and enliven your prose. What you write may still be hogwash, but at least it will be attractive hogwash.” 

As befits a polyglot, Simon, who will turn ninety in May, writes in Dreamers of Dreams about Rilke, Verlaine, Mallarmé, Rimbaud, Verlaine and Celan, but he also covers Oscar Wilde and E.R. Dodds as poets, the art of translation, James Merrill and the banalities of the so-called New York School (Ashbery, Koch, O’Hara, Schuyler). He includes a review of Philip Larkin’s Selected Letters (1993) that is a model of effective quotation, and concludes of that poet: “He is witty about everything, including himself, whom he never tires of lampooning. A curmudgeon, then, but an oddly likable one. . .Griping about the world, deriding others, depreciating himself, or just telling about daily doings and dawdlings, he is never deserted by humor.” 

In his introduction, Simon devotes five and a half of its nine pages to a brief, informal anthology of work by little-known poets he has admired. Most of the names were new to me: Humbert Wolfe, Harold Monro, John Pudney, A.S.J.Tessimond and Edward N. Horn. The last was American, the others English. Horn is the most obscure and in some ways the most intriguing of these poets, and Simon says he was “as unknown as it is possible to be.” His only publication was “a slender, privately printed volume drolly entitled Poems for Small Apartments” (1941). Horn was “a businessman whom I once met at the house of a high school friend whose relative he was.” Two of his poems appeared in the July 1940 issue of Poetry, and Simon includes two of Horn’s “untitled miniatures.” Here is the first: 

“In the tub we soak our skin
And drowse and meditate within. 

“The mirror clouds, the vapors rise,
We view our toes with sad surprise; 

“The toes that mother kissed and counted,
The since neglected and unwanted.” 

Here is the other: 

“Pussycat sits on a chair
Implacably with acid stare. 

“Those who early loved in vain
Use the cat to try again 

“And test their bruised omnipotence
Against the cat’s austere defense.” 

The second is especially good, suspended somewhere between light verse and J.V. Cunningham. One of Simon’s virtues as a critic is the generous elasticity of his tastes. Though he admits that “there are not many modern poets worth writing about at length,” he makes room for Horn in an unlikely guest list including Paul Valéry, Richard Wilbur, Eugenio Montale, Zbigniew Herbert and the “charming bard” Don Marquis. He says: “I do think poets are needed by a society to keep language adventurous, to write pithy and pregnant things that people can carry about with them without benefit of briefcases or even pockets. And perhaps also to teach us prose writers how to write.”