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Proust and Memory

From Within a Budding Grove by Marcel Proust:

Now the memories of love are no exception to the general laws of memory, which in turn are governed by the still more general laws of Habit. And as Habit weakens everything, what best reminds us of a person is precisely what we had forgotten (because it was of no importance, and we therefore left it in full possession of its strength). That is why the better part of our memories exists outside us, in a blatter of rain, in the smell of an unaired room or of the first crackling brushwood fire in a cold grate: wherever, in short, we happen upon what our mind, having no use for it, had rejected, the last treasure that the past has in store, the richest, that which, when all our flow of tears seems to have dried at the source, can make us weep again. Outside us? Within us, rather, but hidden from our eyes in an oblivion more or less prolonged. It is thanks to this oblivion alone that we can from time to time recover the person that we were, place ourselves in relation to things as he was placed, suffer anew because we are no longer ourselves but he, and because he loved what now leaves us indifferent. In the broad daylight of our habitual memory the images of the past turn gradually pale and fade out of sight, nothing remains of them, we shall never recapture it. Or rather we should never recapture it had not a few words…been carefully locked away in oblivion, just as an author deposits in the National Library a copy of a book which might otherwise become unobtainable.

Giorgos Seferis

Giorgos Seferis may be most important non-English poet to me. Definitely of from the 20th century, he speaks to me most. Even among non-translated verse, Seferis ranks high. I first stumbled on his poems several years ago (sadly, a Nobel-Prize winning poet required my stumbling on him rather than knowing about him long before). I also have no knowledge of Greek (modern or ancient) and lack the patience and discipline to learn. That said, Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard’s translations (George Seferis: Collected Poems, Revised Edition, published by Princeton Paperbacks) is a book that does not stay closed for long on my shelf.

Seferis and his contemporary Odysseas Elytis to me are distinctively Greek. I am not sure what it is in their writing, but something there seems burnished by a bright, crisp blue Aegean sky and sun. An acknowledged if not always specifically cited history rings through their phrases. They also head often towars surrealism (and sometimes go there all the way). Their poems are often incantations of language and image. In the end, I prefer Sefereis to Elytis because Seferis seems, to me, a bit more melancholic and, thus, more in tune to what I believe my essential nature to be. A small string of sadness seems to run through his work, a knowing that all about us is impermanent. Yet, we want to make it infinite, to hold it, to preserve it, but despite our every effort, time, neglect, and indifference will erode the love we have created, the monuments we have built, the art we have labored. This is from Mythistorema, poem 3, and it touches on much of these thoughts…

“Remember the baths where you were murdered.” – Aeschylus

I woke with this marble head in my hands;
it exhausts my elbows and I don’t know where to put it down.
It was falling into the dream as I was coming out of the dream
so our life became one and it will be very difficult for it to separate again. 

I look at the eyes: neither open or closed
I speak to the mouth which keeps trying to speak
I hold the cheeks which have broken through the skin.
That’s all I’m able to do.

My hands disappear and come towards me mutilated.

Finding One’s Voice

From the February 2007 Harper’s Magazine (yes, I’m that far behind), from “The Ecstasy of Influence” by Jonathan Lethem:

“Most artists are brought to their vocation when their own nascent gifts are awakened by the work of a master. That is to say, most artists are converted to art by art itself. Finding one’s voice isn’t just an emptying and purifying oneself of the words of others but an adopting and embracing of flirtations, communities, and discourses. Inspiration could be called inhaling the memory of an act never experienced. Invention, it must be humbly admitted, does not consist in creating out of void but out of chaos. Any artist knows these truths, no matter how deeply he or she submerges that knowing.”

The entire article is quite fascinating and well argued. I highly recommend reading it full. This paragraph struck me because it sounded “true” to me. I found my pleasure in writing poetry by finding poetry: Keats, Shelley, and then Hart Crane and Gerard Manley Hopkins. Though the “finding a voice” here seems to imply a “final” version, which I don’t think Lethem would argue and certainly not one I would agree with should he do so. Our voices continually develop based on the ongoing chaos (i.e., what we read, hear, see, dream, etc.). I can still tell when I read George Seferis that my mind if picking up traits of his method and sound (at least in from the English translations).

In fact, I often go to authors that do that to me on purpose in either starting a new poem, helping me to craft another, etc. I do not want to sound like Seferis or any others, but the sound of their voices in my head often illuminates my writing by presenting alternate approaches or methods. By doing this, I essentially help my own writing while hoping to avoid mimicking poorly the very poets I admire – unlike youthful influences where attempts to mimic help to train one’s ear and skills.
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Gina, my wife, as started her own blog (yeah!). It is mostly about her passion, knitting, though she promises to cover other items. So check it out!

Pablo Neruda

Pablo Neruda:

“Poetry is a deep inner calling in man; from it came liturgy, the psalms, and also the content of religions. The poet confronted nature’s phenomena and in the early ages called himself a priest, to safeguard his vocation…. Today’s social poet is still a member of the earliest order of priests. In the old days he made his pact with the darkness, and now he must interpret the light.”

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Also, congratulations to Jared Carter for winning the Best Indiana Book of 2007 in the poetry category.

Children of Men and The Fountain

I recently had the good fortune of watching Children of Men and The Fountain. I want to spend most of my words here on The Fountain, so I will briefly touch on Children of Men.
It was directed by Alfonso Cuarón and stars Clive Owen, Julianne Moore, Claire-Hope Ashitey, Chiwetel Ejiofor and Michael Caine and is based on the novel by P.D. James. The gist of the story is that in the near future, women have become infertile, leaving the human race a few more decades before the last human dies. Theo (Clive Owen) is asked to help Julian (Julianne Moore) escort a young woman, Kee (Claire-Hope Ashitey). She is pregnant; thus, more valuable (whether to specific ideologies, to hope, or to continue the human race) than any other item in the world. That’s the quick summary. Most importantly, this future world is fully realized. Every detail seems to be accounted for, but the film is not filmed in such a way as to annoyingly point them out. Also, the world we are shown is not unbelievable (excepting, at least to me, the premise of infertility). Owen shows a subtle mastery of character in the film. The tormented man who finds hope, a reason. Long tracking shots are used that are stunning in their complexity and leave one wondering just how they were done. The film is grim, revealing the base nature of human actions. Children of Men also shows the miracle of humanity as well. I highly recommend this movie.

The Fountain was directed by Darren Aronofsky and stars Hugh Jackman and Rachel Weisz. The plot summaries on IMDB and Wikipedia seem severely inadequate and may be just plain wrong. They wish to indicate that there are three story lines: Spanish conquest, present day, far future (IMDB’s plot summary that is the most egregious in specifics in my opinion). Yes, there are three story lines, but that is simplifying this movie far beyond what is prudent. The Spanish conquest is a story within a story. The far future was never to me, the future. Rather, it is the soul’s story. The primary story that the other two hinge and interplay with is the present day. Tommy (Hugh Jackman) is a scientist. His wife, Izzi (Rachel Weisz) is stricken with a terminal cancer. Tommy conducts research to reverse the course of the cancer and he is driven to find a cure for his wife. Izzi, meanwhile, is coming to terms with her death. This, to me, is the summary plot – still wholly inadequate.

This story is raw. Everyday. Wrenching. Tragic. This is really the story of a man’s attempt to save his wife and his wife’s attempt to help her husband come to terms with her death. Aronofsky takes this “plot” and enriches it beautifully. I don’t want to say too much, for it might give away the experience that I found so engripping. Nonetheless, the three stories parallel and interlink with each other (and those parallels tie the stories together, which is why I think categorizing them as three stories is an injustice).

Tommy strives to find a cure. Races in fact. Izzi tries to bring him to the reality, telling him that she has accepted her own death. Tommy epitomizes Dylan Thomas’s “Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” Izzi determines to help Tommy by writing a story (that features the Spanish conquest of the new world and the search for the Fountain of Youth) that features a Conquistador who seeks Eden in Mayan territory to save his Queen – in other words, the parallel of the Tommy/Izzi story. She leaves the last chapter unwritten, telling Tommy that he must finish it (”Finish it”). Perhaps being a writer this affected me more, but I found this a beautiful gesture. Izzi in many ways leads Tommy to a semi-Buddhist conception (this is the supposed far future story, which I reject as far future…rather it is the soul’s story). I come to the Buddhist angle primarily because of meditative poses used and what seemed to me the doctrine of our attachments as the first point of humanity’s suffering. I use “semi” because I am quite ignorant of Buddhist thought, schools, and beliefs.

This movie takes cinema and creates worlds impossible in any other medium. Jackman and Weisz are fully in their characters (multiple ones) and know what makes them breathe. This is a must see movie, sadly overlooked.

Jared Carter: Best Books of Indiana 2007

I just received the following notice. My congratulations to Jared Carter!

Jared Carter’s latest book of poems, Cross This Bridge at a Walk, has been named a poetry finalist in the “Best Books of Indiana 2007” competition sponsored by the Indiana Center for the Book, a program of the Indiana State Library.

A number of books by Indiana authors or about Indiana, published between January 1 and December 31 of 2006, were among this year’s finalists. Categories include poetry, fiction, non-fiction, and children/young adult. More information about the awards may be found at http://www.statelib.lib.in.us/www/isl/incb/icb.html

Winners in the four categories will be announced at an awards ceremony on Thursday 19 July, beginning at 3 pm. Copies of his book will be available for purchase and signing. The awards, now in their third year, are still relatively new. A large turn-out would give a considerable boost to contemporary poetry in Indiana, and also to the awards program.

The book’s publisher, Mr. Charlie Hughes, proprietor of the distinguished regional press, Wind Publications, in Nicholasville, Kentucky, is planning to attend, with Mrs. Hughes. For more information about Wind and about the book, please go to http://windpub.com/books/bridgewalk.htm

The Indiana State Library is located in downtown Indianapolis at 140 N. Senate Avenue, Indianapolis 46204, west of the Statehouse. Its website is http://www.statelib.libin.us/index.html The phone number is 317 232 3675. Metered parking is available in the vicinity and in the Indiana Historical Society garage.

Coordinator for the event is Ms. Dawn Lipp, dlipp@statelib.lib.in.us or 317 232 3699.

The Lion of Kabul

I read this brief “snippet” in Harper’s Magazine. I found it to be intriguing and definitely worth exploring poetically.

The Lion of Kabul

By Lawrence Wright from “My Trip to Al-Qaeda,” a monologue based on his experiences researching The Looming Tower: Al-Qaeda and the Road to 9/11.

“There was once a fine zoo in Kabul. Like everything in Afghanistan, it had suffered from twenty-five years of warfare, but the animals themselves, although neglected, had not been targeted. Families still came with their children until the Taliban took over the capital.

“These are, surely, the most humble constituents – caged animals – entirely dependent on human government for their care. When the Taliban stormed into the city, a group of fighters entered the zoo. One of them leaped into the lion’s den. There was a single elderly lion named Marjan. The fighter cried, ‘Who is the lion now?’

“The real lion bit his arm off.

“Another fighter saw what was happening and threw a hand grenade into the den, blinding the lion.

“They went through the zoo, randomly killing animals. One of them cut the nose off a bear because, he said, his beard wasn’t long enough.

“Only three animals survived Taliban rule – a wolf, the noseless bear, and Marjan the sightless lion.”

I have no idea at this time where this poetic exploration will go, typical of any exploration really. And I am not sure that this entire tale would have struck me as anything but a sad tale of human weakness if it were not for the last sentence. That sentence is a fine conclusion but it is also a revelation. It is a revelation because it reveals the depth of life by touching our sympathies, revealing a wicked version of humanity, and expressing a triumph over that wickedness. That last sentence expresses so many considerations beyond its length and actual content. The last sentence is poetry.