'The Worldly Wisdom of the Foolish Man'

 My ignorance often burns holes in my pride, turning self-congratulation into embarrassment. A reader asks for my opinion of the English poet Francis Quarles. Friday was the 434th anniversary of his baptism, meaning this younger contemporary of Shakespeare was likely born two or three days earlier. I remembered almost nothing about Quarles. Even a minor poet deserves better. 

I consulted a book Helen Pinkerton recommended to me long ago, Louis L. Martz’s The Meditative Poem: An Anthology of Seventeenth-Century Verse (1963). The volume complements Martz’s The Poetry of Meditation: A Study in English Religious Literature of the Seventeenth Century (1954). Helen encountered the latter book in the 1950s as a grad student. Quarles is best remembered for his Emblems (1634). Martz includes Emblem VII from Book 2:

 

“The world’s a Floore, whose swelling heapes retaine

The mingled wages of the Ploughmans toyle;

The world’s a Heape, whose yet unwinnowed graine

Is lodg’d with chaffe and buried in her soyle;

All things are mixt; theu usefull with the vaine;  

The good with bad; the noble with the vile;

The world’s an Ark, wherein things pure and grosse

Present their lossefull gaine, and gainfull losse,

Where ev’ry dram of Gold containes a pound of drosse.”

 

Martz notes that “Floore” is a threshing floor, “soyle” is dirty or waste matter and “Ark” refers to a chest or coffer. Emblem entered English from Latin in the fifteenth century and meant “a drawing or picture expressing a moral fable or allegory; a fable or allegory such as might be expressed pictorially.” The OED cites the first sentence of Quarles’ “To the Reader” in Emblems:

 

“An Emblem is but a silent parable: Let not the tender eye check, to see the allusion to our blessed SAVIOUR figured in these types. In holy Scripture he is sometimes called a Sower; sometimes a Fisher; sometimes a Physician; And why not presented so as well to the eye as to the ear? Before the knowledge of letters, God was known by hieroglyphics. And indeed what are the Heavens, the earth, nay, every creature, but Hieroglyphics and Emblems of his glory? I have no more to say; I wish thee as much pleasure in the reading, as I had in writing. Farewell, Reader.”

 

The dedication and many of Quarles poems suggest a gracious, down-to-earth quality. His first readers would understand the harvesting of grain both as Biblical allegory and from a way of life rooted in agriculture. Each Emblem is a paraphrase from scripture. There’s little reaching after dazzling conceits. As Quarles says, “I wish thee as much pleasure in the reading, as I had in writing,” and for once the sentiment is convincing. Martz includes six other selections from Emblems, including this:

 

“The worldly wisdom of the foolish man

Is like a Sive, that does alone retaine

The grosser substance of the worthlesse Bran;

But thou, my soule, let thy brave thoughts disdaine

So coarse a purchace: O, be thou a Fan

To purge the Chaffe, and keep the winnow’d Graine;

Make cleane thy thoughts, and dress thy mixt desires;

Thou art heav’ns Tasker, and thy GOD requires

The purest of thy Floore, as well as of thy fires.”

 

Thanks to the reader who asked about Quarles. In Martz’s anthology, he comes between George Herbert and John Milton, greater poets, but Quarles has his rewards. “I wish thee as much pleasure in the reading, as I had in writing."

'All I Do Is Laugh at Ourselves'

I can’t listen to music while writing. For a break I might play the video of a song that had been nagging my memory. More often I’ll select a comedy clip – Laurel and Hardy, W.C. Fields, Jack Benny, Blazing Saddles, Jackie Mason, Jonathan Winters or, most often, Don Rickles. All, especially the latter two, pass the tear test. They have a gift for making me, while seated alone in my office, laugh until tears fall from my eyes. It says something about human nature that grief and comedy can make us cry.

Rickles was born one-hundred years ago today. His humor never gets old. He's called an insult comedian but that’s the least of it. He’s a truth-teller in the sense that he subverts politeness and other social niceties. He reminds us that clichés are lazy and empty. I tried to think of a literary analogue to Rickles. What writer most resembles him? I would suggest Stanley Elkin, whose novels are often crazed monologues. His verbal energy and relentless rudeness recall Rickles. Try reading a page of The Dick Gibson Show or The Franchiser aloud and imagine them coming out of Rickles’ mouth.    

 

Go here to watch a video of Rickles on The Dick Cavett Show in 1972. The other guest, typical for Cavett, is the operatic soprano Beverly Sills, whom Rickles treats deferentially. Rickles reminds us that politeness and self-conscious displays of sensitivity -- we might call it “virtue signaling” --are not funny. They quickly become displays of vanity and snobbery. “All I do is laugh at ourselves,” Rickles tells Cavett. “I make fun of life.” Rickles was all show-biz and all the while mocking show-biz. There was nothing countercultural about him. I suspect hippies would not have approved. He was not George Carlin.

 

Rickles was born May 8, 1926, in Queens and died April 6, 2017, in Los Angeles at age ninety.

'The Finest Collection of Shabby Books'

Once I dropped a copy of Ian Frazier’s The Fish’s Eye into a bathtub full of water. While reading a paperback of Nadezhda Mandelstam’s Hope Abandoned, the spine snapped as I was marking a passage, turning it into two volumes. The same thing happened with my copy of Mezz Mezzrow’s Really the Blues. The cover of my Webster’s Third, a gift from friends in 1973, detached, turning the fat dictionary into a paperback. My old copies of Ulysses and Finnegans Wake are held together with rubber bands. Once I left Edward Dahlberg’s Can These Bones Live on the ground after a picnic. By the time I realized it was missing and turned the car around to retrieve it, rain had swollen the book into a pulpy blob.

I try to soothe my conscience by recalling that Dr. Johnson was a serial book abuser. He routinely tore the covers off books to make them easier to read. Books were tools to be used, not trophies. He never reformed. I have, mostly. I strive to no longer be a clumsy vandal. I don’t even write in books. I keep notes in a notebook. I’m a reader, not a collector, but I’m mildly neurotic when it comes to treating books with finicky delicacy. Not Charles Lamb. Consider Henry Crabb Robinson’s diary entry for Jan. 10, 1824:

“I looked over Lamb’s library in part. He has the finest collection of shabby books I ever saw; such a number of first-rate works of genius, but filthy copies, which a delicate man would really hesitate touching, is I think nowhere to be found. I borrowed several books.”

 

That final sentence, amusingly understated, articulates a true reader’s credo. In a pinch, a dirty, torn or otherwise unsightly book will be sufficient. In one of his Essays of Elia, “Detached Thoughts on Books and Reading,” Lamb confirms Robinson’s observations:

 

“Thomson’s Seasons, again, looks best (I maintain it) a little torn, and dog’s-eared. How beautiful to a genuine lover of reading are the sullied leaves, and worn out appearance, nay, the very odour (beyond Russia), if we would not forget kind feelings in fastidiousness, of an old ‘Circulating Library’ Tom Jones, or Vicar of Wakefield! How they speak of the thousand thumbs, that have turned over their pages with delight!—of the lone sempstress, whom they may have cheered (milliner, or harder-working mantua-maker) after her long day’s needle-toil, running far into midnight, when she has snatched an hour, ill spared from sleep, to steep her cares, as in some Lethean cup, in spelling out their enchanting contents! Who would have them a whit less soiled? What better condition could we desire to see them in?”

 

Like Lamb, I enjoy reading copies of previously owned books – the inscription, underlinings, marginalia. A book is incomplete without readers. Their fleeting presence confirms one’s sense of gratitude and solidarity. In another essay, “Two Races of Men,” Lamb writes of the perils of lending books to Samuel Taylor Coleridge, his friend since childhood. He condemns “borrowers of books--those mutilators of collections, spoilers of the symmetry of shelves, and creators of odd volumes,” but reverses himself and writes of his friend, a compulsive writer of marginalia:

 

 “Reader, if haply thou art blessed with a moderate collection, be shy of showing it; or if thy heart overfloweth to lend them, lend thy books; but let it be to such a one as S. T. C. -- he will return them (generally anticipating the time appointed) with usury: enriched with annotations, tripling their value. I have had experience. Many are these precious MSS. of his -- (in matter oftentimes, and almost in quantity not unfrequently, vying with the originals) -- in no very clerkly hand -- legible in my Daniel: in old Burton; in Sir Thomas Browne; and those abstruser cogitations of the Greville, now, alas! wandering in Pagan lands. ---- I counsel thee, shut not thy heart, nor thy library, against S. T. C.”

'The Cosiness of a Human Nest'

I’ve never consciously ranked coziness – the OED prefers cosiness -- high among the literary qualities I most admire in books and writers. Many of my favorite writers – Swift, for instance, and Larkin – are anything but cosy. Early uses of cosy date from the eighteenth century and all are positive, true to the earliest definition: “of a place: sheltered and thus warm.” The first negative – and, thus, comic -- use was reported in 1927, in a letter by Max Beerbohm, and defined, rather ambiguously, like this: “warmly intimate or friendly; sentimental; freq. in pejorative sense: complacent, smug, unadventurous, parochial.” 

In a remembrance of W.H. Auden published in 1975 and included in W.H. Auden: A Tribute, edited by Stephen Spender, Dr. Oliver Sacks writes: “. . . I asked Wystan how he experienced the world, whether he thought of it as being a very small or a very large place. ‘Neither,’ he replied. ‘Neither large nor small. Cosy, cosy . . . (and in an undertone) . . . like home.”

 

That’s close to my positive sense of the word. For a native Northerner it conjures winter – wind and snow outside, warmth and contentment inside, likely under a blanket, book in hand. Then the negative creeps in: complacent, disdainful of others who are less cozy. The latter connotation can even carry a political taint. I thought of coziness while reading an essay by Leigh Hunt, “My Books” (1823). The English essayists suggest coziness, Lamb more often than Hazlitt, and even Lamb’s sense of humor sometimes detracts from the mood. Hunt, a lesser writer, sustains the mood:

 

“Sitting, last winter, among my books, and walled round with all the comfort and protection which they and my fireside could afford me,—to wit, a table of high-piled books at my back, my writing-desk on one side of me, some shelves on the other, and the feeling of the warm fire at my feet,—I began to consider how I loved the authors of those books; how I loved them, too, not only for the imaginative pleasures they afforded me, but for their making me love the very books themselves, and delight to be in contact with them.”

 

There’s nothing hip or postmodern about Hunt. He wants to please his readers by sharing his sense of intimacy with books. Sacks would understand:

 

“Cosy, cosy – it was one of his favourite words, one of the words he most used when chatting. (He was dissatisfied by its coverage in the great OED, and thought of re-doing this, making an anthology of the cosy, giving the word its full and proper world-embracing power.) Whenever he said ‘cosy’ in his peculiar voice, it seemed to acquire a special richness of evocation and meaning. Once we saw a bird fly to its nest atop a sooty lamp-post in St Mark’s Place: ‘Look!,’ exclaimed Wystan. ‘It’s gone home to its nest. Think how cosy it must be in its nest!” For a moment I felt (I fancied I felt) exactly what the bird felt – cosy, protected, at home, in its nest. And Wystan’s apartment in the East Village, though squalid and cluttered and dilapidated and dirty, this too was cosy, wonderfully so: it had the cosiness of a human nest.”

'Loving the Past But Settled in the Living'

In 1994, the late Helen Pinkerton published Bright Fictions: Poems on Works of Art, a chapbook of twenty-seven poems about paintings, sculptures, pottery and photographs. Her publisher was the poet R.L. Barth. Helen’s ekphrastic poems are not art criticism or mere descriptions of subject matter. They are more fanciful than that and sometimes read like contemplative fables. Helen projects her imagination sympathetically into the works and their creators. One of my favorites in the series is about an artist unknown to me before first reading her poem some years ago: “On Gari Melchers’s ‘Writing’ (1905) in the Los Angeles County Museum of Art.” Helen uses the first line (and the third line and the title) of Wallace Stevens’ “The House Was Quiet and the World Was Calm” as the poem’s epigraph: 

“How often did she make such quiet, one wonders,

This woman writing at a covered table—

Full summer light warming the roseate hues,

Mauve, red, and pink of dress and cloth and room.

A Wedgwood pier glass shows three Roman figures

In ritual dance—cool neoclassic Graces—

Beside a clay pot of geraniums.

Her taste eclectic—like our modern lives—

Loving the past but settled in the living,

 

“She seems meticulous—even, perhaps,

Like Edith Wharton, passionate for order,

Feeling, as she did, that in house and novel,

‘Order, the beauty even of Beauty is.’

Stevens, though you sought order in the sea

And grander heavens, the threat of nothingness

Unmanned you. Most women have no time for such,

For fate constrains them to immediate means,

The quiet art of keeping calm the house.”

 

When viewed for the first time, Melchers’ palette is stunning – “roseate hues, / Mauve, red, and pink of dress and cloth and room.” Often, portraits of writers at work indoors are heavily shadowed, very serious and almost grim. Melchers’ painting is a sumptuous celebration of the writer and writing – and of painting. Outside, it’s summer. Indoors, facing the faceless woman are the Graces – the goddesses of beauty, grace and charm – the virtues of all good art. The quoted line is taken from Thomas Traherne’s “The Vision.”

 

Imagining the writing woman as Edith Wharton (whom Helen’s teacher, Yvor Winters, thought superior to Wharton’s friend Henry James) is inspired. I especially admire Helen’s knock at Wallace Stevens, who could be awfully fey when entering his philosophical mode. Call it noble feminism – or simply dismissing a clichéd notion about sexual roles. The poem’s first line – “How often did she make such quiet, one wonders” – suggests we may be witnessing not a routine event but a privileged moment. What she’s writing we’ll never know.

 

[You can find the poem in Taken in Faith: Poems (Swallow Press/Ohio University Press, 2002) and in A Journey of the Mind: Collected Poems of Helen Pinkerton 1945-2016, (Wiseblood Books, 2016). Helen died on December 28, 2017, at age ninety.]

'Wisdom Is Heavy Stuff'

From a biochemist I learned a phrase new to me – “epigenetic switching.” It means changes in gene expression without corresponding changes in the DNA sequence. What struck me was the profusion of English words with the prefix epi-: epitaph, epilogue, epitome, epicenter, epithet, episode, epinephrine, epilepsy, epidermis, epithalamium, epiglottis, epicarp, epidemic, Silas Marner’s adopted daughter and my favorite, epigram. English is epically promiscuous. 

The root is the Greek epi meaning “upon, at, close upon (in space or time), on the occasion of, in addition.” “Epigram” is from ἐπίγραμμα (epigramma), “inscription,” from a related verb meaning “to write on, inscribe.” For the Greeks, epigrams started as brief verses written on votive offerings or monuments to the dead. Their appeal, for this reader, is terseness and wit. They mean something and are about something, rare qualities in poetry today. Every syllable has its place. None is superfluous. Take “You Don’t Have to Be So Smart” from Edward Case’s posthumously published The Business Of The Dancer (2026):

 

“If you want a pound of wit

An epigram will fit.

Even an ounce of sense

Is weighty though not dense.

With minimal reflection

You may glass perfection.

A drop of thought’s enough.

Wisdom is heavy stuff.”

 

The late X.J. Kennedy was likewise a master of the form. “In writing epigrams, most poets gain control over their natural tendency to blab. Besides, an epigram permits them to get a gripe off their chests.” Kennedy is writing in “Gists, Piths, and Poison-Pills: The Art of the Epigram” (An Exaltation of Forms: Contemporary Poets Celebrate the Diversity of Their Art, 2002). As bloat proliferates, short forms look attractive as a corrective to congenital logorrhea. Kennedy published eleven epigrams in the April 1996 issue of Chronicles, including “For a Friend to Whom He’d Sent His Book”:

 

“I wish you’d say, ‘What hopeless trash, you twit,’

And not ‘look forward soon to reading it.’”

 

Another master of the epigram in English is J.V. Cunningham. Kennedy elsewhere says of him, “you had to respect a man of his sour integrity,” a quality almost unique among poets, at least since the death of Walter Savage Landor. Here is his “Epigram 23” from the sequence "Epigrams: A Journal" (The Judge is Fury, 1947): 

 

“Dark thoughts are my companions. I have wined

With lewdness and with crudeness, and I find

Love is my enemy, dispassionate hate

Is my redemption though it come too late,

Though I come to it with a broken head

In the cat-house of the dishevelled dead.”

A contemporary practitioner of the epigram is Marine Corps veteran of the Vietnam War R.L. Barth. Here is “De Bello,” collected in Learning War: Selected Vietnam War Poems (Broadstone Books, 2021):

 

“The troops deploy. Above, the stars

Wheel over mankind’s little wars.

If there’s a deity, it’s Mars.”

 

Barth’s Pleasing the Diners: Translations from the Latin of Martial (Contubernales Books, 2026) will be published later this month. Bob has been translating the epigrams of Marcus Valerius Martialis – the first-century Roman poet Martial, as we know him – for more than forty years.

'I Myself Perhaps May Proceed Also'

I acknowledge that William Cowper never rises to the first rank of poets but his Poems (1931) in the Everyman’s Library edition – complete and yet modestly sized in 428 pages – rests on the shelf closest to my desk, between volumes by Edwin Arlington Robinson and Walter de la Mare. I read him often. His complicated personality – intermittently mad and suicidal, yet devout and always amusing with friends, a lover of hares and other animals – makes him a character worthy of a novel by Jane Austen, who was among his devoted admirers. Here is Cowper on May 3, 1780, writing to his friend the Rev. John Newton and making piety playful: 

“I delight in baubles, and know them to be so; for rested in, and viewed without a reference to their author, what is the Earth, what are the planets, what is the sun itself, but a bauble? Better for a man never to have seen them, or to see them with the eyes of a brute, stupid and unconscious of what he beholds, than not to be able to say, ‘The Maker of all these wonders is my friend!’ Their eyes have never been opened, to see that they are trifles; mine have been, and will be till they are closed for ever.”

 

Cowper’s metaphors often mingle playfulness and precision. A bauble is a plaything, a toy or trinket. Cowper finds in them an endorsement of his faith. Clearly, he is writing in the manic phase of his madness. On other occasions, guilt overwhelms him and God becomes a scourge. In the same letter he exults:

 

“I draw mountains, valleys, woods, and streams, and ducks, and dab-chicks [“grebes” in the U.S.]. I admire them myself, and Mrs. Unwin admires them, and her praise and my praise put together are fame enough for me. Oh! I could spend whole days and moonlight nights in feeding upon a lovely prospect! My eyes drink the rivers as they flow. If every human being upon earth could think for one quarter of an hour as I have done for many years, there might, perhaps, be many miserable men among them, but not an unawakened one would be found from the arctic to the antarctic circle.”

 

And yet, the same man in his poem “Lines Written During a Period of Insanity” can write: “I, fed with judgment, in a fleshy tomb am / Buried above ground.” Here is Cowper writing to another friend, the Rev. Robert Unwin, on Jan. 17, 1782:

“To make verse speak the language of prose, without being prosaic, to marshal the words of it in such an order as they might naturally take in falling from the lips of an extemporary speaker, yet without meanness, harmoniously, and without seeming to displace a single syllable for the sake of rhyme, is one of the most arduous tasks a poet can undertake.”

 

In a letter to Unwin, always his stalwart friend, written on April Fool’s Day in 1782, shortly after publishing his first volume of verse, Cowper thanks him for publicizing the collection: “I could not have found a better trumpeter.” When not insane, Cowper was the wittiest and most gracious of men. He never says “thank you” when a more baroque expression of gratitude is handy. Two sentences later, and extending the musical metaphor, Cowper writes:

 

“Methinks I see you with the long tube at your mouth, proclaiming to your numerous connections my poetical merits and at proper intervals levelling it at Olney, and pouring into my ear the welcome sound of their approbation. I need not encourage you to proceed, your breath will never fail in such a cause; and thus encouraged, I myself perhaps may proceed also, and when the versifying fit returns produce another volume.”