Sunday Poetry XLII -- Never the Same Twice :: Lisel Mueller

“  When I am asked

    how I began writing poems,

    I talk about the indifference of nature.  ”

Alone, these words are fantastic.  Right?  Brilliant.  Sure.  Genius?  …

(See?  I’ve got this thing with “genius,” going back, as far as I can tell, to the day I learned my dad prayed that none of his kids would be one.  (Dad:  prayer answered.)  I guess I bring it up again because there seems to be this indelible connection between the definition—at least in practice—of genius and that of art—art being, or any work thereof, as difficult to define as genius is to identify or, maybe more so, explain.)

…  But it’s the rest of the poem that brings this thing really around to make a glorious connection I didn’t anticipate.  Perhaps it’s this convergence—or the millions just like it that happen all over the world all the time—that drew me in and bubbled up that word—“genius”—again from its little locker back there.

Here’s the poem:

When I am Asked

by Lisel Mueller – Pulitzer Prize winner, 1996

When I am asked

how I began writing poems,

I talk about the indifference of nature.

It was soon after my mother died,

a brilliant June day,

everything blooming.

I sat on a gray stone bench

in a lovingly planted garden,

but the day lilies were as deaf

as the ears of drunken sleepers

and the roses curved inward.

Nothing was black or unbroken

and not a leaf fell

and the sun blared endless commercials

for summer holidays.

I sat on a gray stone bench

ringed with the ingenue faces

of pink and white impatiens

and placed my grief

in the mouth of language,

the only thing that would grieve with me.

It’s those last three lines, right? —that metaphysical power of words—particularly for those who know how, even a little, to really use them?

So I picked out the book, Mueller’s Alive Together, just an hour or so ago from a box of my books I picked out from a mountain of them out in my garage.  (I think this is the benefit of having sold all my bookshelves: I can’t just pick out all the same old books because I have no idea where they are.)  This is another of the books I inherited back at the Saginaw Arts and Sciences Academy from my predecessor.  Unlike the others, this one is full of that teacher's annotations.  Normally, this would bother me, particularly as I’m generally so averse to writing in books that it took me three-quarters of a semester before I started highlighting my law books.

Anyway, by way of the poem above, the experience of reading by way of another reader’s reading, and an interesting thing I heard at church this morning—remarkably apropos—I think I’m a step closer to understanding the confluence of genius in art (if nowhere else).

Hugh Nibley, a once religious studies and linguistics professor at Brigham Young University, was the source of the quotation that caught my attention.  I don’t have the quotation in front of me, nor have I found it online, but here’s the gist of it:  That scripture isn’t the words before us, penned by the prophets, but the experience of reading those words.

That’s pretty big, particularly religiously—well, if you’re one who happens to read scripture, anyway—but nearly as much so for the reader of literature, the viewer of art, and, most approachably, the listener of music.  When I’m trying to pin down why it is I think a certain work, or a certain artist, is genius, it usually begins with not the substance of the art itself, but the ineffable experience that blooms or emerges or ka-pows right there in that intangible space somewhere between my senses and the work.  Even afterward, trying to rationalize it, trying to objectify it, remove that emotional response, I can never separate myself from that initial experience, which brings me to the next of the poems from Mueller:

A Farewell, A Welcome

               After the lunar landings

Good-bye pale cold inconstant

tease, you never existed

therefore we had to invent you

               Good-bye crooked little man

               huntress who sleeps alone

               dear pastor, shepherd of the stars

               who tucked us in               Good-bye

Good riddance phony prop

con man moon

who tap-danced with June

to the tender surrender

of love from above

Good-bye decanter of magic liquids

fortuneteller par excellence

seduce  incubus medicine man

exiles’ sanity       love’s sealed lips

womb that nourished the monstrous child

and the sweet ripe grain Good-bye

               We trade you in as we traded

               the evil eye for the virus

               the rose seat of affections

               for the indispensbile pump

we say good-bye as we said good-bye

to angels in nightgowns                 to Grandfather God

Good-bye forever Edam and Gorgonzola

cantaloupe in the sky

night watchman, one-eyed loner

wolves nevertheless

Aae programmed to howl             Good-bye

               forbidden lover good-bye

               sleepwalkers will wander

               with outstretched arms for no reason

               while you continue routinely

               to husband the seal, prevail

               in the fix of infant strabismus

good-bye ripe ovum        women will spill their blood

in spite of you now          lunatics wave good-bye

accepting despair by another name

Welcome new world to the brave old words

peace    Hope     Justice

truth Everylasting             welcome

ash-colored playground of children

happy in air bags

never to touch is never to miss it

Scarface hellow we’ve got you covered

welcome untouchable     outlaw

with an alias in every country

salvos and roses               you are home

our footprints stamp you mortal

***

I was going to put up one more of her poems (this one inspired by Martin Gardner, no less!), but I think I’ll leave it here.  

MARTIN GARDNER: Thank You!

I would be remiss if I didn't thank the late Martin Gardner (1914 - 2010).  It was his first edition of The Annotated Alice that attracted me to Alice in the first place.  It's a pretty thing.  I thought I knew Alice well enough, as I'd seen the movie.  But the book called, on, appropriately, a mid-November afternoon, lazy and snowy.  I stretched out on the couch to read.  It was the first book I read in one sitting.  I didn't read the notes that first time through, but eventually I got around to them, and then burgeoned my love and a substantial appreciation for Lewis Carroll's writing.

Interestingly, Carroll and Gardner were very similar.  While I'm no genius, as they both were, I can't help but feel some affinity toward both.

Thank you, Mr. Gardner.  Thank you, Mr. Carroll.  Your books and thoughts crackle with life.

Through the Looking Glass VIII -- chapter 6: THE NIHILIST PHILOLOGIST

Discussion of the Alice books here have tended periodically to indicate nihilism.  Humpty Dumpty is a perfect example of one who, regardless of what he professes, is a nihilist in practice (so far as I understand the given -ism), though his disregard for any established order seems most consistently targeted at the rules of semantics:  Humpty Dumpty, the Nihilist Philologist.

For the most part, I haven't looked too closely at the nihilism of Carroll (if you haven't followed the discussions from previous posts, you may want to take a look at the nihilism of The Cosby Show, here, at McSweeney's, for a ridiculous point of comparison), because it hasn't fit, or so it seemed to me at the time, with my whole selfish reason for this read-through.  Well, I'm not so sure I've been right to neglect it (though I'm not yet wholly convinced otherwise yet, either).

So here's the question (and I'm leaving it simple in order to invite the broadest possible range of responses):

Based on the Alice books, what, if articulated,

would be Carroll's stance on nihilism?

Aside from that, the substance of this chapter has rather little to do with my goal.  There are, however, some interesting points yet to be made (to which I'm happy to invite more):

1. Is Humpty, as an egg, a continuation of the egg from the end of the previous chapter, or a new entity entirely (notice that except for his condescension, Alice still isn't able to reach him)?
2. Humpty's frequent use of the word "pride" only emphasizes what is already evident in his nature.  Take a look at Proverbs 16:18 (thanks, Mr. Gardner).
3. "One ca'n't [help growing older], but two can.  With proper assistance, you might have left off at seven."  Truly the darkest allusion to death of the books.
4. Humpty's claim that words mean whatever the speaker/writer wants isn't that far from the truth.  Or is it?  Words are only representations or signs for things, not the things themselves.  There's a huge discussion here, but I'm going to keep it simple and quote Roger Holmes' article "The Philosopher's Alice in Wonderland" (thanks again, M. Gardner): "May we pay our words extra, or is this the stuff that propaganda is made of?  Do we have an obligation to past usage?  In one sense words are our masters, or communication would be impossible.  In another we are the masters; otherwise there could be no poetry."
5. Joyce's Finnegans Wake takes a lot from, or refers often to, the Alice books, not least of which is the potential import of nonsense.  Finnegans Wake as a whole is perhaps most apt for comparison, however, to this chapter, as Joyce takes complete liberty with language of this book in his writing.  One word in particular, as it recalls our big egghead here: Bothallchoractorschumminaroundgansumuminarumdrumstrumtruminahumptadumpwaultopoofoolooderamaunsturnup
6. A possible place of inspiration for Humpty Dumpty's recitation of, perhaps, Carroll's worst poem:

Summer Days

Wathen Marks Wilks Call
In summer, when the days were long, 
We walk’d, two friends, in field and wood; 
Our heart was light, our step was strong, 
And life lay round us, fair as good, 
In summer, when the days were long. 

We stray’d from morn till evening came, 
We gather’d flowers, and wove us crowns; 
We walk’d mid poppies red as flame, 
Or sat upon the yellow downs, 
And always wish’d our life the same. 

In summer, when the days were long, 
We leap’d the hedgerow, cross’d the brook; 
And still her voice flow’d forth in song, 
Or else she read some graceful book, 
In summer, when the days were long. 

And then we sat beneath the trees, 
With shadows lessening in the noon; 
And in the sunlight and the breeze 
We revell’d, many a glorious June, 
While larks were singing o’er the leas. 

In summer, when the days were long, 
We pluck’d wild strawberries, ripe and red, 
Or feasted, with no grace but song, 
On golden nectar, snow-white bread, 
In summer, when the days were long. 

We lov’d, and yet we knew it not, 
For loving seem’d like breathing then; 
We found a heaven in every spot; 
Saw angels, too, in all good men, 
And dream’d of gods in grove and grot. 

In summer, when the days are long, 
Alone I wander, muse alone; 
I see her not, but that old song 
Under the fragrant wind is blown, 
In summer, when the days are long. 

Alone I wander in the wood, 
But one fair spirit hears my sighs; 
And half I see the crimson hood, 
The radiant hair, the calm glad eyes, 
That charm’d me in life’s summer mood. 

In summer, when the days are long, 
I love her as I lov’d of old; 
My heart is light, my step is strong, 
For love brings back those hours of gold, 
In summer, when the days are long.

Through the Looking Glass I -- AN INTRODUCTION TO THIS READING

"Lewis Carroll," by Hubert von Herkomer

If you followed along with the reading of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland at all, you will have noticed a string of points and observations somewhat less typical than usual Alice inspections.  Of course, I can't resist the best of Carroll's jokes and observations, but my primary motive was (and so it will be for Looking-Glass) to look at Carroll's relationship with Alice as it appears in/through the text, which is often transparent in this regard, but periodically verging on opaque.  The frequency of such revelatory moments in Wonderland, however, is much less than it is in Looking-Glass, which, aside from being simply better written, is much deeper in it metaphors, pathos, and poetry.  And this makes sense.  While Wonderland was a write-up, at Alice Liddell's request (she was 10 at the time, despite her 7-year-old appearance in the book), of the stories Carroll frequently told the Liddell sisters on their outings, Looking-Glass was not motivated by request and rather gained its inspiration from a general downturn of Carroll's life.

Six years pass between the publication of the two books.  By this time, Carroll is no longer spending time at all with the Liddells (after a falling-out that began just the October after the summer outing which inspired Carroll's introductory poem, "All in the Golden Afternoon," as well as Alice's request to Carroll) and, more significantly in the moment, his father has recently died.  While I am not a Carrollian (not well-enough read), and my general scholarship abilities and opportunities often lacking (I'm stretched for time and often can't focus my literary energies for more than 10 or 15 minutes at a time), I can say with some confidence that this latter turn for the worse (which subsequent emotions Carroll did not negotiate  at all well) is quite likely to have triggered a nostalgia for better times, which most certainly included a relapse of infatuation (asexual and of childish innocence) for Alice Liddell.  My primary evidence is, at best, weak, and would never be sufficient to merit the terms "conclusive proof," but stems from the beautiful and already-mentioned poetry of this second Alice book, as it holds up behind the actual events of the man's life.

As before, I'm not planning on spending inordinate amounts of time and space (though such is certainly possible, and has been done by tens of thousands of others) on all the typical footnotes available (see Martin Gardner's annotations, which are excellent, by the way, and upon which I frequently rely for assembling many of my questions and observations).  However, while my object is found (hopefully) on a deeper, more subjective/speculative level, there are a lot of footnotes that are simply indispensable, either because they're just so much fun, necessary for understanding the Victorian context, or otherwise fundamental in "getting" the questions I post.

TWO NOTES ON THE "READING QUESTIONS":  1 -- the questions I post are not always questions, but often quotations or descriptions from the text which I find interesting or leading and merit discussion; 2 -- I don't always know the answers or if even such answers are possible or exist, and hope the discussion will lead toward satisfactory conclusions.

Alice in Wonderland XIII -- AGAINST ANALYSIS

Gilbert K. Chesterton, on the day of Carroll's 100th birthday:

"Poor, poor, little Alice!  She has not only been caught and made to do lessons; she has been forced to inflict lessons on others.  Alice is now not only a schoolgirl but a schoolmistress.  The holiday is over and Dodgson is again a don.  There will be lots and lots of examination papers, with questions like: (1) What do you know of the following; mimsy, gimble, haddocks' eyes, treacle-wells, beautiful soup?  (2) Record all the moves in the chess game in Through the Looking-Glass, and give diagram.  (3) Outline the practical policy of the White Knight for dealing with the social problem of green whiskers.  (4) Distinguish between Tweedledum and Tweedledee."

On the other hand one Phyllis Greenacre (whom I reference periodically) has done a thorough, and generally considered the best, psychoanalysis of Carroll and his books via the collection of his works and going as far as to express, for example, a conviction of an otherwise common "reversal of the unresolved Oedipal attachment" in the author, rendering Alice the mother figure, rather than the kings or queens or Duchess as parents.  Martin Gardner expresses gratitude for her work, yet also the wish that "she were less sure of herself."

My point here is that these two extremes bring about a couple of questions (yes, there is some not insignificant self-consciousness here on my part, and yes, I have answers to the following questions that satisfy any potential personal guilt; do you, or is this an adequately impersonal endeavor such that it holds no weight?):

1. Is it wrong (and therefor, am I wrong) to analyze and explicate a basically-absurd fantasy?
2. If not, then how far is too far?
3. Why might it not be advisable to be so sure of oneself?

A final question I find I have to ask myself (and myself alone): Why is it so deeply important that I so thoroughly understand my personal motives for attempting--digging--to as thoroughly understand Alice and her Maker?  This whole thing bears a near-spiritual resonance within me, and I don't know why.

Alice in Wonderland V -- Absurdities in Interpreting Alice

Lewis Carroll, self portrait

From Martin Gardner's prefatory notes in his The Annotated Alice, the Definitive Edition:

There are two types of notes I have done my best to avoid, not because they are difficult to do or should not be done, but because they are so exceedingly easy to do that any clever reader can write them out for himself.  I refer to allegorical and psychoanalytic exegesis.  Like Homer, the Bible, and other great works of fantasy, the Alice books lend themselves readily to any type of symbolic interpretation--political, metaphysical, or Freudian.  Some learned commentaries of this sort are hilarious.  Shane Leslie, for instance, writing on "Lewis Carroll and the Oxford Movement" (in the London Mercury, July 1933), finds in Alice a secret history of the religious controversies of Victorian England.  The jar of orange marmalade, for example, is a symbol of Protestantism (William of Orange; get it?).  The battle of the White and Red Knights is the famous clash of Thomas Huxley and Bishop Samuel Wilberforce.  The blue caterpillar is Benjamin Jowett, the White Queen is Cardinal John Henry Newman, the Red Queen is Cardinal Henry Manning, the Cheshire Cat is Cardinal Nicholas Wiseman, and the Jabberwock "can only be a fearsome representation of the British view of the Papacy..."

Martin Gardner

In recent years the trend has naturally been toward psychoanalytic interpretations.  Alexander Woollcott once expressed relief that the Freudians had left Alice's dreams unexplored; but that was twenty years ago and now, alas, we are all amateur head-shrinkers.  We do not have to be told what it means to tumble down a rabbit hole or curl up inside a tiny house with one foot up the chimney.  The rub is that any work of nonsense abounds with so many inviting symbols that you can start with any assumption you please about the author and easily build up an impressive case for it.  Consider, for example, the scene in which Alice seizes the end of the White King's pencil and begins scribbling for him.  In five minutes one can invent six different interpretations.  Whether Carroll's unconscious had any of them in mind, however, is an altogether dubious matter.


Obviously the beggars the question, Is my current interpretive reading then even worth the time to write up and post or the bits and bites to store it?

Here's how I look at it: the "hilarious" commentaries mentioned above seem take no consideration (and I don't know how they could and yet be conscionably made at all) for the life and other writings/interests of Lewis Carroll.  I've already written at length (likely too much so) about my own and personal justifications for taking the particular bent that I am on the books, but I think I think I also need to be clear that I am only doing so with the utmost effort to ensure that anything I put out there at least fits within the possibilities proffered by the man's character.