Sunday Poetry LII -- The Most Beautiful Lines in Poetry

Gustave Dore

I don't remember who said it.  I read the quotation somewhere along the line.  Someone important.  You know, like all quotations.  At least the ones we remember.

Anyway, whoever the important person was, he said that the lines from Canto 33 of L'Inferno in which Count Ugolino recounts his story, between chomps at the back of Ruggieri's head, are the most beautiful lines in poetry.  Or else, that's how I remember the quotation going.  

Whatever the quotation, though, and whoever said it, you are the only judge who counts.

From the Longfellow translation –

“Thou hast to know I was Count Ugolino,

  And this one was Ruggieri the Archbishop;

  Now I will tell thee why I am such a neighbour.

That, by effect of his malicious thoughts,

  Trusting in him I was made prisoner,

  And after put to death, I need not say;

 But ne'ertheless what thou canst not have heard,

  That is to say, how cruel was my death,

  Hear shalt thou, and shalt know if he has wronged me.

A narrow perforation in the mew,

  Which bears because of me the title of Famine,

  And in which others still must be locked up,

Had shown me through its opening many moons

  Already, when I dreamed the evil dream

  Which of the future rent for me the veil.

This one appeared to me as lord and master,

  Hunting the wolf and whelps upon the mountain

  For which the Pisans cannot Lucca see.

With sleuth-hounds gaunt, and eager, and well trained,

  Gualandi with Sismondi and Lanfianchi

  He had sent out before him to the front.

After brief course seemed unto me forespent

  The father and the sons, and with sharp tushes

  It seemed to me I saw their flanks ripped open.

When I before the morrow was awake,

  Moaning amid their sleep I heard my sons

  Who with me were, and asking after bread.

Cruel indeed art thou, if yet thou grieve not,

  Thinking of what my heart foreboded me,

  And weep'st thou not, what art thou wont to weep at?

They were awake now, and the hour drew nigh

  At which our food used to be brought to us,

  And through his dream was each one apprehensive;

And I heard locking up the under door

  Of the horrible tower; whereat without a word

  I gazed into the faces of my sons.

I wept not, I within so turned to stone;

  They wept; and darling little Anselm mine

  Said: 'Thou dost gaze so, father, what doth ail thee?'

Still not a tear I shed, nor answer made

  All of that day, nor yet the night thereafter,

  Until another sun rose on the world.

As now a little glimmer made its way

  Into the dolorous prison, and I saw

  Upon four faces my own very aspect,

Both of my hands in agony I bit;

  And, thinking that I did it from desire

  Of eating, on a sudden they uprose,

And said they: 'Father, much less pain 'twill give us

  If thou do eat of us; thyself didst clothe us

  With this poor flesh, and do thou strip it off.'

I calmed me then, not to make them more sad.

  That day we all were silent, and the next.

  Ah! obdurate earth, wherefore didst thou not open?

When we had come unto the fourth day, Gaddo

  Threw himself down outstretched before my feet,

  Saying, 'My father, why dost thou not help me?'

And there he died; and, as thou seest me,

  I saw the three fall, one by one, between

  The fifth day and the sixth; whence I betook me,

Already blind, to groping over each,

  And three days called them after they were dead;

  Then hunger did what sorrow could not do."

D Is for Dante

Has it Changed My Life? Quite Possibly.

So, Calvino's Invisible Cities is our next book.  Period.  I just finished reading it, which reading, as I've said before, was slow and savory, and I'm trying to decide: am I the same person, now that I've finished it, I was before?  Just the fact that the book's brought me to this question is saying a great deal.  Of course, to place it upon the pedestal aside the very few other truly life-changing books, I must compare it to them.  This also raises an interesting question: what is it that makes a book life-changing for its reader?  It's not a particularly difficult question, just interesting.  The answer, I think is simple: it must be a combination of [1] the book's quality (though generally to a lesser degree) and [2] the circumstances of time and place of the reader's life.  As it is, Invisible Cities is of a higher quality than some of the books way up there.  For example, as wonderful as Life of Pi is, it has its [few] limitations, one of which is word craft.  Don't get me wrong.  Martel is an excellent craftsman of the sentence, but Calvino is of the master-smithing status of Borges, Chabon, and McCarthy.  Other books include the obvious tomes of The Divine Comedy and East of Eden/Grapes of Wrath, as well as the Alice books, Ender's Game, Wonder Boys, and Blindness.  Each of these books arrived in my life at key moments, did their business, such as it was, and took up permanent residence upon my bookshelves--literal and metaphysical.  Does Invisible Cities, an essentially perfect book (yeah, really--and not perfect like Joyce, but perfect like, well, Joyce if he had a freaking heart or if Steinbeck could write briefly yet as powerfully), warrant place among the others?

Nearly all of the best books I've read, save All the Pretty Horses, which just bloody tortured me, broke me, heart and spirit, and highlighted in thirty-foot capital, fluorescent letters, "YOU CAN'T WRITE!" inspire me.  You see, I want to be a writer.  Rather, I want to be a successful writer.  I want to be a writer whose stuff people want to read!  The best books nearly always inspire me to write.  They tickle the muses who come and circle me and whisper in my ears and give my fingers and cerebral frontal lobe the itch and make me want to CREATE.  Yeah.  Well, Invisible Cities has done that--and in frickin' spades, man.  The last time I felt the bug this strongly (at least via a book) was when I finished Basho's Narrow Road to the Deep North (or however you want to translate it) and subsequently began my own hyohakusha and used the genre and text as model for my creative writing students' end-of-year project.  (My hyohakusha ultimately failed (I'm an inadequate poet), though many of my students wrote and created brilliantly, beautifully.)

Basho was a three years ago.  Since reading it, I've returned to it again and again.  I've studied its poetry and form and in four or five translations.  I've traced his path on maps.  I've referred to and used him as model in poetry and a book of my own.  Has it changed my life?  I dare say it has.  Maybe it just takes time for a book to climb the long stair to the top once it's arrived at--been permitted access to--the base.  If this is the case (and you can't tell right away if it's happened), I expect Basho will soon arrive at the top right along with Steinbeck et al and Calvino will have likely just recently begun the ascent.  Time will tell, I suppose.

Regardless, this book amazed and amazes me.  I am eager to read it again.

The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana XIV -- chapter 13: OF DEVILS AND MASONS

While this is my favorite chapter of the book so far, so it contains one of my favorite comparison: that of tapeworms and gall stones to bad poetry, and all its pathetic symptoms and affectations.  Here, though, we have to examine Eco's use of, what he considers as its his own, bad poetry.  The creation and strategic use of intentionally bad poetry is like the now-commonly mentioned (Michael Chabon) generation of intentional coincidences.  A wise student once commented hopefully and pointedly on the poetry I confessed I was writing for a then-current novel.  "I hope you're not trying to write intentionally bad poetry to make it look like a teenager did it," she said.  I admitted that indeed I was not and so assured her with a sincere expression of my insecurity as a poet, (more or less:) "I'm hoping the best poetry I can do can qualify as believably excellent or even just believable teen-poetry."  So I wonder how Eco, certainly an excellent writer, but not necessarily a poet (and so he sagely acknowledges in the end of the chapter in reference to another's poem, "This is beautiful because it is not mine"), approached his poetry attempts, or, as I suspect is the case as with other issues/references in the book, these are autobiographically accurate, and indeed pieces he composed as a precocious teen--that and, well, the poems' apparent and beyond-coincidentally prophetic natures for Yambo's unique future.  For example, bad poetry or not, this is quite telling:

you cannot enter twice

the kingdom of remembrance

and hope to find unspoiled

the unexpected freshness

of the first theft.

1. The poem of "three days before Christmas" interests me, as in subject (a purity in stark contrast to what we know of the adult Yambo) and prediction (the loss of memory) it is particularly prophetic, appropriate (even mysteriously coincidentally so, as already mentioned above), and perhaps directly metaphoric.  It may even offer a potential explanation for why the memory was lost in the first place (accurate as prediction or not, I don't remember).  Thoughts?
2. As there are literal rooms of memory in the house that align with Yambo's segmented memories of his past, all of which are natural divisions--segmentations--of life, and with a particularly sturdy and tall wall set ("to put a final seal on memories I was renouncing") between adolescence and young adulthood, high school and college, so his literal loss of memory builds a wall (even a "satanically masonic" wall) between his present and past.  Sounds like a classic, though thoroughly exaggerated, mid-life crisis.
3. Lila Saba: "saba" is the food for bacteria that create balsamic vinegar.  Consider the various classic metaphors of vinegar, not to mention grapes, as well as the definition of balsam against the mellifluous connection between Lila Saba and Sibilla (additional, of course, to the fact that Lila is a nickname for Sibilla anyway).
4. An affecting little book: "La Vita Nuova."  Beatrice penetrated all sorts of walls that otherwise held everyone else back in Dante's life; so similar to this Lila who is the only one, besides Gianni, who transcends all of Yambo's barriers, consciously and subconsciously--the "relay race across the years."