Re-Reading Jorie Graham: _Erosion_ (2) and _The End of Beauty_ (1)

 SIXTEEN OF EROSION's thirty-three poems use a stanza of six short lines, the first, third, and fifth usually of three accented syllables, the second, fourth, and sixth usually of two (and slightly indented). The combination of the short lines with Graham's typically complex sentence structure creates a headlong tumbling or falling movement, straight down as it were, as though into a well, or as though we were trying to catch up with the White Rabbit.

Graham was obviously a bit in love with this form at the time she was writing the poems in Erosion, so it surprises that in her next book, The End of Beauty, foof, it's gone. In Helen Vendler's chapter in Graham in The Breaking of Style, she explains how Graham, in her third book, goes for a whole different kind of form, with lines stretching across the page like midwestern horizons. (The End of Beauty was Graham's first book with Ecco, who accommodated her with wider and wider pages, eventually getting to the almost square pages of Swarm, Never, and Overlord.)

Vendler makes an interesting argument about the shift from the vertical to the horizontal, from going down to going across, and how Graham seems to now be in a different mode, lighting out over the territory rather than excavating.

Vendler also notes a couple of other distinctively Graham-ian moves that make their debut here:

(1) the fill-in-the-blank spaces where the syntax suggests a word is called for, but the word has been omitted or never supplied, e.g., "looking into that which sets the _______ in motion," from "Orpheus and Eurydice."  For someone my age, this device infallibly recalls tests in junior high or high school along such lines as "The chief exports of Chile are _____, ______, and _______." Insofar as  the device recalls the stress of being tested to choose the one-and-only right word, it is a bit unnerving; since this is a Graham poem, however, and one senses she herself might have filled the blank in any number of surprising and counter-intuitive ways, one gets a heady sense of possibility as well, an invitation to participate in the creation of the poem. Can one feel intimidated and liberated at the same time? That's a close as I can come to describing the effect. It may be the cosmos beings set in motion, or it may be the mojo.

(2) the numbering of lines--or, it may be, the numbering of sections that consist of only one line--in several of the poems, e.g., "Self-Portrait as the Gesture between Them" or Part II of "Pollock and Canvas." Vendler calls this device the "freeze-frame," as in a film projected frame-by-frame so that each image gets its own moment rather than blurring into the illusion of movement--as in Douglas Gordon's art installation "24 Hour Psycho," say. This strikes me as an ingenious way of conveying Graham's desire to notice everything she can about a moment before it hastens on its way, making it...slow...down...like...this so she (and we) can get a good look at it. 

Re-reading Jorie Graham: _Erosion_ (1)

 AS NOTED EARLIER, Hybrid of Plants and of Ghosts already sounds like Jorie Graham, but Erosion (1983) sounds even more like Jorie Graham.

There is more of that hyper-attention, that intense focus on the moment, as if trying to notice every single thing about the moment before it goes, before it gives way to the next moment. I wonder if the tendency of the details of one's surroundings to fade and disappear is what the title is naming. The collection does include a poem titled "Erosion," which begins by claiming to love sequence, one thing giving way to another, slow disappearances: 

Today, on this beach

I am history to these fine

pebbles. I run them

through my fingers. Each time

some molecules rub off

evolving into 

the invisible.

But since this poem involves a "we," I started to wonder if the erosion was going on in the relationship as well, that it was wearing away, that its end it was in sight. The poem ends ominously:

Outside the window it's starting to snow.

It's going to get colder.

The less full the glass, the truer

the sound. 

This is my song

for the North

coming towards us.

Is the relationship also about to evolve into the invisible? 

Elsewhere, the poems seem to want things to stop, or hold still long enough to be completely experienced, even inventoried. This may be why the poems often look at paintings, where motion is arrested--one poem is about two portraits by Klimt, but more typically the paintings under our eye are by masters of the Italian Renaissance. 

But then the paintings start moving, as in what may be her first great poem, "San Sepolcro," in which we behold "this girl / by Piero / della Francesca, unbuttoning / her blue dress, / her mantle of weather, / to go into // labor." 

     Inside, at the heart,
is tragedy, the present moment
     forever stillborn,
but going in, each breath
      is a button 

coming undone, something terribly

     nimble-fingered

finding all the stops. 

Childbirth is, famously, an event that is not stopping or holding still for anyone, and to have that turn into music--the breath and the stops suggest a recorder or flute to me--the art perhaps most enmeshed in time--well, that works for me. Poetry has affinities with painting on the one hand, making things stand still, but affinities with music on the other hand, dits effects occurring through the modality of time.

    

Daniel Kehlmann, _The Director_, trans. Ross Benjamin

 FIRST NOVEL I have ever read by Daniel Kehlmann, but it won't be the last. Brilliant writer. 

The Director depicts the bad luck and worse choices of G. W. Pabst, legendary German film director of the silent era (Pandora's Box, et al.). When the Nazis take power, Pabst takes his wife and young son to Hollywood, figuring he can make the transition á la Fritz Lang and F. W. Murnau. Unfortunately, he gets assigned only mediocre projects over which he has only limited control. Disappointed, he takes wife and son back to Europe, figuring he can do something closer to what he wants to do in Switzerland or France. However, they are in Germany visiting his aging and ailing mother when the war starts, and they can't get out. As soon as the Nazis discover the great Pabst is back in Germany, they swiftly recruit him to make films--the films he wants to make, of course, within reason, but naturally he wants his films to be suitable for the New Germany, doesn't he? Doesn't he? Hmm?

What kind of compromise, how many compromises, are you willing to make to pursue your vocation? In Pabst's case, as imagined by Kehlmann, the answers are "any kind" and "as many as it takes."

Being a film director, Pabst is in a situation more like an architect's than a writer's. A writer could just keep writing whatever he felt called to write, but keep it all in a drawer, waiting for things to change. Making a film, though, like raising a building, requires capital, materials, expensive equipment, and people with highly specialized skills. Anyone with a phone and editing software could make a crude movie now, perhaps, but Pabst had no such options. In the 1940s, you need real resources to make films. And so the Faustian bargain was made, with the usual results.

So, a morally serious novel, and a historical novel that economically and vividly evokes another era, but what really struck me is how versatile Kehlmann is in handling point of view. The chapters often give us Pabst's point of view--most memorably, I'd say, in his interview with a shape-shifting Goebbels who seems able to be in two places at once as well as to say two very different things at the same time. But we also have a chapter in which Pabst's wife has to navigate a Nazi book club, another in which his son has to stay on the right side of his school's Hitler Youth, and a couple (which open and close the book), set in the 1960s or 70s, in which Pabst's cinematographer, succumbing to Alzheimer's, accepts an invitation to appear on a TV talk show and answer questions about his old boss. Kehlmann's ability to click from one character's perspective to another's dazzles.

The chapter that took the cake for me was from the point of view of P. G. Wodehouse (unnamed but easily recognizable), who, in the middle of making his own compromises with the devil, meets Pabst at a film premiere.

Re-reading Jorie Graham: _Hybrids of Plants and of Ghosts_

A NEW COLLECTION by Graham, her fifteenth (!), is forthcoming in May, a circumstance that struck me as a good moment to read the whole corpus again. 

Hybrids of Plants and Ghosts is her first collection; it appeared in 1980, the year she turned thirty, as part of Princeton UP's Contemporary Poets series (alongside volumes by, among others, Robert Pinsky, Grace Shulman, and Carl Dennis).

The title is from Nietzsche's Thus Spoke Zarathustra. It occurs in a passage in which Zarathustra is declaring, "I teach Superman." Even the wisest man, Zarathustra insists, is but a temporary conjoining of bare life, like a plant (bios, maybe), and a spirit (zoë, maybe), thus a hybrid of plant and ghost, but the Superman will be something else again.

I don't think Graham was interested in the übermensch, really, but she was plainly interested in embodiment and consciousness right out of the gate, as she has been ever since. 

The thing that immediately struck me on reading this book again (I first read it over thirty years ago) is how assured it is. Most first collections include a certain amount of fumbling, baldly derivative poems, overplayed hands, and such, but Jorie Graham seems to be 100% Graham right away. (Not publishing her first collection until she was thirty may have something to do with this).

A poet with whom I conversed about this book told me she had heard that Graham recommends poets begin a collection with an ars poetica, and Graham seems to do exactly that here with "The Way Things Work." Graham always pays attention to things with a certain ferocity of concentration, and this poem takes that approach: "The way things work / is that we finally believe / they are there, / common and able / to illustrate  themselves. / [...] / The way things work / is that eventually / something catches." Throughout the book, Graham pays attention intently, waiting, maybe probing for the moment when something catches.

The waiting is not always patient, which is why I threw "probing" in there. Another poet with whom I was conversing felt that Graham tended to fall into a subject/object dichotomy, monitoring her own sensorium and consciousness so minutely that she sacrificed any chance of getting out of herself, shall we say. Maybe so...a bit like Hamlet in that respect, monitoring her own consciousness then monitoring her monitoring ("That would  be scanned"). She isn't one for spontaneity, relinquishing control, delirium. 

There is a lot of control in her sentence structure, for instance--reminiscent of Walter Pater, late Henry James, and Virginia Woolf. That is fine by me--I love Pater, James, and Woolf--but few contemporary poets go in for that degree of syntactical elaboration. Merwin and Ashbery were a couple of the key contemporary poets when Graham started writing, but you don't see much of the parataxis of Merwin or the juggling with the colloquial that you see in Ashbery. She seems to be going for something else--maybe something more high modern, if I am right in thinking "I Was Taught Three" has one eye on Yeats's "Among School Children."

Another striking thing: not many other people in the poems, which are mainly about features of the landscape and animals, most often birds. The volume feels eerily depopulated until about two-thirds through, when a "you" surfaces. (See, for instance, "The Slow Sounding and Eventual Reemergence of.") The "you" may just be Graham's way of talking to her own consciousness as she monitors her monitoring, and the "we" may just be human beings, but I wonder if the "you" was first husband William Graham (of the Washington Post Grahams), to whom she was married from 1973 to 1977, and the "we" the two of them. Hard to say. Plath and Sexton may have been important precursors, but Graham is not confessional...at least not in that way.

Jacques Derrida, _Of Spirit: Heidegger and the Question_, trans. Geoffrey Bennington and Rachel Bowlby

FINISHING A BOOK by Derrida always feels like an accomplishment to me, even when, as in the present case, (a) the book is a short one, just over a hundred pages, (b) it is one of the relatively easier ones, in this case one of his lectures, and (c) I wouldn't say I understood all of it. 

Picking up this book is one more attempt of mine to sort out what Heidegger saw in Hölderlin. Hölderlin only comes up in Derrida's ninth chapter, but the whole lecture addresses the issues that puzzle me, as it concerns Heidegger's development between Being and Time (1927) and texts from the 1930s like his rector's address of 1933 and Introduction to Metaphysics (written in 1935, although not published until many years later).

Derrida notes that in Being and Time Heidegger declares that he wants to avoid the word "spirit"--geist--and largely succeeds. The word geist comes back hard in the 1930s texts, though, looming larger and larger, with Heidegger eventually concluding that no word in any other language can translate what geist means. The untranslatability of geist implies that Germany has some indispensable role in the unfolding of history and truth, seemingly--which is quite close to where Heidegger is in his texts on certain of Hölderlin's poems.

Derrida thus seems interested in the question of how Heidegger fell into orbit around the Nazis. That interest only becomes explicit in the last five pages of the book, but seems implicit throughout, and may be telling us what "the question" in the title is--i.e., how did a smart guy like Heidegger fall for the Nazis? That's not the only way to interpret the title, though, since Derrida also notes that Heidegger believed only humans had geist, and only humans could ask questions, so geist is connected, among other things, to the ability to formulate and pose questions.

The lecture was delivered in 1987, which got me wondering. In the early 1980s, Derrida and deconstruction seemed politically and/or ethically suspect, even nihilistic, to many American naysayers  since (according to these naysayers), by emphasizing how slippery language was, how tenuously pinned to the actual it was, it pulled the rug out from under efforts towards progressive social change. 

The naysayers chalked up a big win when, in August of 1987, a researcher discovered that Derrida's friend and fellow deconstructionist Paul De Man had done literary journalism for a collaborationist newspaper in Belgium during World War II. (Not to mention other problems, like committing bigamy.) De Man's newly discovered past seemed to confirm that there was something profoundly wrong with deconstruction.

Hence my wondering: was this 1987 book published before or after the revelations about De Man? The lecture does cite De Man's Allegories of Reading, but says nothing about his collaborationist past. Derrida was soon, however, to treat this painful question with (I think) extraordinary clarity and intellectual honesty in "Like the Sound of the Sea Deep Within a Shell: Paul de Man’s War,” published in Spring 1988 issue of Critical Inquiry.

What was the actual sequence of events here? I need  to know.

Amy Clampitt, _What the Light Was Like_

I HAVE LONG thought I should get around to reading a book by Amy Clampitt. For one thing, her getting her first full-length collection published at age 63 makes her an inspiring example, and for another, we share an alma mater. I bought What the Light Was Like many years ago, but it was reading Anthony Domestico's review of Willard Spiegelman's new biography of Clampitt that tipped me.

Clampitt's diction is rich, one could say, with a higher cholesterol level than I am used to reading of late. For instance: 

              That veiny Chinese

lantern, its stolid jelly

of a fruit, not only has

no aroma but is twice as tedious

as the wild strawberry's sunburst

stem-end appendage: each one must

be between-nail-snipped at both extremities.

That's a lot of syllables for a gooseberry, but you can't deny they are well chosen and artfully arranged. I am guessing Clampitt's poetic lineage goes back through Dylan Thomas, Hart Crane, Gerard Manley Hopkins, on back to John "load every rift with ore" Keats. (Keats gets a memorable eight-poem sequence here, focusing on his miraculous year, 1819).

Even when Clampitt gets mildly satirical, as in "A New Life," a portrait of a young wide and mom climbing the corporate ladder, the lure of Romantic spiritualized landscape beckons:

                 These days
She's in Quality Circles, a kind of hovering
equipoise between Management and non-Management,

precarious as the lake-twinned tremor of aspens,

as the lingering ash-blond arcade of foliage

completing itself as it leans in to join its own inversion.

I'm not sure what the richly elaborated image of trees reflected in water is up to in this portrait of a 1980s go-getter, but what the heck, it's lovely, so why not?

Clampitt reminds me also of a lower-cholesterol poet, Elizabeth Bishop, in her attention to landscape and her tendency to use first-person pronouns sparingly. Apart from the sequence on Keats, the collection's sections center on place: Maine in the first part, the Midwest of Clampitt's childhood and youth in  the second, New York City in the fourth. As with Bishop (e.g., "At the Fishhouses"), Clampitt's landscapes feel charged with memory and a kind of interiority even though no "I" is explicitly identified. Clampitt's language brightly calls attention to itself, the top student waving a hand and begging to be called on, but she herself is only subtly present.

Hermione Hoby, “Long Story”

I AM NOT familiar with Hoby, but this essay in the February 2 New Yorker caught my attention because I have long admired David Foster Wallace’s writing and also have an ongoing interest in the question of whether women readers find him worthwhile. 

I do know some who do, but a lot of women readers don’t. There are a few reasons for this. His depiction of women characters does not get high marks, or even passing marks, from everyone. But his biography may be the bigger problem. He admitted to watching a lot of porn (see “Big Red Son” in Consider the Lobster). After Infinite Jest, he took full advantage of the sexual opportunities that come with literary celebrity, according to biographer D. T. Max. According to Mary Karr, who would know, he made a scary boyfriend. I think too that a lot of writing-oriented young women got very, very tired of hearing from writing-oriented boyfriends that they really, really had to read Infinite Jest. There was no joke about guys enamored of Wallace in the 2023 Barbie movie, but there could well have been.

A high point of Wallace-resistance was Amy Hungerford’s essay/chapter “On Not Reading DFW,” from 2017 or so. Hungerford intensely disliked Infinite Jest without even having read it. Patricia Lockwood’s 2023 take in the LRB was more tempered but well short of an endorsement.

Hoby’s essay starts by discussing how Wallace-resistance has almost become the default position for writing-oriented women. Wallace’s reputation, she writes, is as “a byword for literary arrogance, a totem of masculine pretentiousness, a red flag if spotted on the shelves of a prospective partner, and reading matter routinely subjected to the word ‘performative’ in its most damning sense.” 

She dissents, carefully. Her piece is mainly about Infinite Jest, published thirty years ago this month, and she particularly notes the humanity and humility of the novel’s attention to 12-step culture, especially through the character of Don Gately. She even suggests the novel may be due for a “cultural feminization,” thanks to a new edition with a foreword by Michelle Zauner. (The tenth anniversary edition had a foreword from Dave Eggers, so the landscape has obviously changed a lot in the meantime.)

I hope she’s right. I guess we’ll see.