'Nothing Is Promised'

“Nothing is promised. That is the bargain.” 

In a high-school creative writing class, our teacher required us to write every day in a journal. I kept mine in my regular loose-leaf school binder. Periodically we turned them in and Miss Murphy, mostly so she knew we were dutifully completing the assignment, would collect them, read our daily passages and occasionally comment. She must have been a paragon of tact, reading all that teenage maundering.

 

I burned the journal long ago but I remember intentionally not treating it with the banality of a diary. Once I included a short story I had written based on something in The Fixer by Bernard Malmud. I commented on current affairs (1968 offered plenty of grist). I wrote a poem about Jan Palach and one about Martin Luther King Jr. after his assassination. I remember commenting on passages from Eric Hoffer’s newspaper column and I wrote the lyrics to a song based on Dylan’s “Desolation Row.”

 

The lasting impact of this assignment, which stretched across my junior and senior years, was to get me in the habit of writing every day. I resisted the gravitational pull of solipsism and wouldn't let the desire to produce a daily masterpiece leave me paralyzed. This apprenticeship came in handy a few years later when I got my first job as a newspaper reporter. Editors don’t want to hear about your lack of inspiration. I already had a built-in sense of deadline.

 

I thought of these things while reading Robin Saikia’s poem “Larkin’s Typewriter.” Mike Juster introduced me to a poet previously unknown to me. Saikia describes the fallow period Larkin experienced in the final years of his life:

 

“Dawn breaks on the workhorse Olivetti.

What secrets can its sworn-at ribbon tell

Of muse-deserted years? The kettle clicks,

The curtains lift on Hull, unchanged, unlit.

A bicycle ticks cooling in the hall.

 

“He trusts the desk, the hour, the body’s drag

Toward duty. Poems come, or do not come.

One learns to keep one’s temper with the void,

To praise the silence for its accuracy.

 

“Outside, the trains rehearse departures.

Inside, the page resists, as it should.

Nothing is promised. That is the bargain.

Still, something like truth gets hammered out.

By lunchtime, even doubt has earned its keep.”

 

In his 2014 biography of Larkin, James Booth writes:

“His life was a success. . . . On the personal level he knew that he had the love and respect of those around him. His day-to-day life was packed with affections and epiphanies. And he gained the profoundest satisfaction from writing his poetry. He was, nevertheless, haunted by failure. . . . Towards the end, after his poetic inspiration had died, his despairing moods became more frequent. He told Andrew Motion: ‘I used to believe that I should perfect the work and life could fuck itself. Now I’m not doing anything, all I’ve got is a fucked up life.’”

'I Shall Load Up the Shelves Again

Half a century ago, in the Winter 1976 issue of The American Scholar, the journal’s editor Joseph Epstein published an essay (under his usual pseudonym, Aristedes) titled “The Opinionated Librarian.” It’s a feast for serious readers, an account of trying “to trim down my personal library.” Book lovers will share his resolve to cull volumes and the near-impossibility of doing so. “Although I did not know it when I first set out to do this,” Epstein writes, “I was engaged in a task of the most intimate literary criticism.” The operative word here is “intimate.” The dedicated, book-besotted reader understands that our relations with books often rival in tenderness and loyalty our relations with human beings. 

My middle son noticed when he visited at Thanksgiving that hundreds of books are stacked horizontally on shelves already densely filled with vertical volumes. That’s a sure symptom of overstocking and the imminent need for culling. Long ago, because of limited shelf space, I could no longer arrange all my volumes according to author or subject. I’m mildly neurotic about that, so the fact that one heap includes books by Thom Gunn, Otis Ferguson, Christina Campo, Whitney Balliett, Paul Klee and Heimito von Doderer is like an itch I can’t quite reach. Here is Epstein describing a highly specialized species of literary criticism:

 

“Trimming down a library in this way makes me wish I owned certain books I do not in fact own--if only for the delight of getting rid of them. The novels of Harrison Salisbury, if I owned them in the first place, would, I should imagine, be easily jettisoned. Books about show business, about politics in Latin America, about auto racing; books with titles that begin The Death of ... or The Politics of ...; books on new forms of psychotherapy, on urban renewal, on arms control--shelves and shelves of these, if only I owned them, could go without a quiver of hesitation on my part.”

 

I share Epstein’s sense of imaginary pleasure. How I would enjoy ridding my shelves of John Steinbeck, Stephen King, Mary Oliver, Lee Child and any title that has appeared on the New York Times bestseller lists in the last, say, forty years.

 

The books I retain represent a form of autobiography. Attached to most volumes are memories of times and places when read and reread. I think of my books as a covert C.V., one that would hold no interest for a prospective employer.

 

Fiction is easy. Most ages poorly. “Fiction is my next big cut,” Epstein writes, “especially contemporary fiction of very recent years. Borges, Beckett, and Nabokov, though I do not adore their work, may stay. The work of their imitators, or workers in the same vineyards--Barthelme, Barth, Gardner, and the rest--I have come to consider English department teaching aids, and no longer read them. They go.”

 

What fiction do I retain? The usual suspects: Sterne, George Eliot, Conrad, Henry James, Chekhov and Tolstoy, Proust, Nabokov, Italo Svevo, Henry Green, Janet Lewis, Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa  Evelyn Waugh, Ralph Ellison, Ivy Compton-Burnett, Anthony Powell, Isaac Bashevis Singer, a scattering of others. Most of what I hold on to are books I might reasonably expect to reread or at least consult. Philosophers? Plato, Aristotle, St. Augustine, Aquinas, Spinoza, William James, Wittgenstein, a few others. What odds and ends? Shakespeare and Dr. Johnson, Guy Davenport, Edward Gibbon, Whittaker Chambers, Nadezhda Mandelstam and her husband, Beerbohm, Rebecca West, J.V. Cunningham, Zbigniew Herbert, Ronald Knox, A.J. Liebling, Theodore Dalrymple, Montaigne, Geoffrey Hill, Auden, MacNeice . . .

 

“Having cleaned out these shelves,” Epstein writes, “and disposed of several of the superfluous books in my library, I feel a bit like Henry James, who, having shaved off his beard and prepared to enter upon his major phase, remarked that he felt ‘forty and clean and light.’ An illusory feeling for me, of course, not only because I am most distinctly not Henry James, but because the likelihood is great that in no time at all I shall load up the shelves again.”

 

[The Epstein essay is collected in Familiar Territory: Observations on American Life (1979).]

'Being But a Dream'

In “Cockaigne: A Dream,” published in The New Yorker on January 21, 1974, L.E. Sissman describes the mental city he composed of pieces borrowed from the real cities he had known: 

“Coming around the corner of the dream

City I’ve lived in nights since I was ten –

Amalgamated of a lost New York,

A dead Detroit, a trussed and mummified

Skylineless Boston with a hint thrown in

Of Philadelphia and London in

An early age, all folded into a

Receipt (or a lost pawn slip) for a place

That tasted of a human sweetness, laced

With grandeur and improbability –”

 

As a suburban kid, my imaginary city was composed largely of the New York City I knew from television and movies, compounded of Abstract Expressionism, gangsters and tenements, very hip and foreign, where men wore hats and went to Yankees’ games. It was an ethnic place, a stew of languages and races. Later, I would find echoes of it in A.J. Liebling’s journalism and Henry Roth’s novel Call It Sleep.

 

Starting at age twelve I could ride the bus by myself to downtown Cleveland, getting off at Public Square and hitting all the bookstores. With a friend I once went to a magic shop high up in one of the office buildings. I would eat lunch in a diner on Prospect Avenue across from Kay’s Books where I got a job a few years later. One December I stood at the corner of East Ninth Street and Euclid Avenue and watched the Christmas parade. Across the street was a Bond’s men’s clothing store and on the roof was a billboard for a brand of coffee – Chock Full o’ Nuts? – with a giant, steaming coffee mug. I haven’t lived in Cleveland since 1977, so these memories remain precious but, I’m sure, heavily edited by time, as are the places themselves. They feel like those artificial New York City impressions I manufactured more than sixty years ago.

 

Max Beerbohm had lived in Rapallo, Italy, since 1910, until he and his wife returned to England before the start of World War II. The first radio broadcast he made for the BBC, on December 29, 1935, is titled “London Revisited”:

 

“London has been cosmopolitanised, democratised, commercialised, mechanised, standardised, vulgarised, so extensively that one’s pride in showing it to a foreigner is changed to a wholesome humility. One feels rather as Virgil may have felt in showing Hell to Dante.”

 

When Beerbohm collected for publication his BBC broadcasts he asked, “What civilized person in these days [1946] (unless he has a passion for such things as science or sociology), isn’t nostalgic?” Nostalgia for what no longer exists, uncomplicated by disappointment or bitterness, is always a temptation. I can reduce my nostalgia-tinged distaste for what has happened to Cleveland to a single fact: Higbee’s department store, downtown on Public Square, where I was taken each December to visit Santa Claus and his local sidekick, Mr. Jing-a-Ling, is now home to the Jack Cleveland Casino. “It is a bright, cheerful, salubrious Hell, certainly,” Beerbohm writes of latter-day London. “But still—to my mind—Hell. In some ways a better place, I readily concede, than it was in my day, and in days before mine.” Sissman closes his dream-poem with these lines:

 

“And I awaken at twelve-fifty-five

A.M., according to the bedside clock,

On February 14^th of this year,

Elated, desolate it could not spell

Me any longer, being but a dream,

Its only evidence being my tears

Of joy or of the other, I can’t tell.”

 

[The Sissman poem is included in Hello, Darkness: The Collected Poems of L.E. Sissman (1978). A transcript of Beerbohm’s London broadcast is collected in Mainly on the Air (1946; rev. 1957).]

'Like the Clothes He Wears'

“There must be in prose many passages capable of producing a particular kind of aesthetic reaction more commonly identified with poetry.” 

For some of us, this is self-evident. Dull, clumsy, tin-eared prose is at least as painful and offensive as its counterpart in poetry. Some prose writers are simply incompetent. They’re like backward children fumbling with Play-Doh. Others dismiss attention paid to crafting prose as being merely effete. I found this particularly true among journalists. Just throw words against the wall and see what sticks.

 

The passage above by the poet Donald Justice is from his essay “The Prose Sublime.” He adds a witty subtitle: “Or, the Deep Sense of Things Belonging Together, Inexplicably.” Justice published it in the Michigan Quarterly Review in 1988 and collected it in A Donald Justice Reader: Selected Poetry and Prose (1991). He continues:

“[T]he reaction to prose as to poetry proves in experience to be much the same, a sort of transport, a frisson, a thrilled recognition, which, ‘flashing forth at the right moment,’ as Longinus has it, ‘scatters everything before it like a thunderbolt.’”

 

Justice explicitly dismisses “purple prose” and the “self-consciously experimental”; namely, Gertrude Stein and Finnegans Wake. Histrionic prose is self-indulgent and attention-seeking. It forgoes clarity – the writer’s obligation to the reader – and substitutes showing off. When I think of an example of what Justice is advocating, I think of the poet J.V. Cunningham, who is also a masterful writer of prose. Take “The Journal of John Cardan” (1961), collected in The Complete Essays of J.V. Cunningham (2024). His prose is unsentimental and written with laser-like focus:

 

“So we save ourselves from the sentimental death of the hearts, and at the same time protect ourselves from engrossment in our wayward wishes. For a man must live divided against himself: only the selfishly insane can integrate experience to the heart’s desire, and only the emotionally sterile would not wish to.”

 

And this: “No dignity, except in silence; no virtue, except in sinuous exacting speech.”

I remembered Justice’s essay when rereading Henry Green’s “Apologia,” his 1941 reading of Charles Doughty’s Travels in Arabia Deserta (1888), collected in Surviving: The Uncollected Writings of Henry Green. Justice explicitly dismisses Doughty, along with Water Pater, as producing “prose that aims to be poetical.” Here, I disagree with Justice on the virtues of Doughty’s prose. It is unusual and eccentric but utterly convincing in context. Green writes:

 

“A man’s style is like the clothes he wears, an expression of his personality. But what a man is, also makes the way he writes as the choice of a shirt goes to make up his appearance which is, essentially, a side of his character. There are fashions in underwear, for the most part unconscious in that we are not particularly aware of how we dress. . . . [W]ith Doughty the man’s integrity is such that he writes on his own, if the dates were not available it would be hard to say when.”

'The Few Feet of Books in My Library Case'

For more than thirty years, George Hamlin Fitch (1852-1925) wrote a weekly column for the Sunday book page of the San Francisco Chronicle. I know little else about him except that in 1911 he published the charmingly titled Comfort Found in Good Old Books, which comes with this dedication: 

“TO THE MEMORY

OF MY SON HAROLD,

MY BEST CRITIC, MY OTHER

SELF, WHOSE DEATH HAS

TAKEN THE LIGHT

OUT OF MY

LIFE.”

I make no great claims for Fitch’s gifts as a writer and critic but the baldness of his grief and the absence of self-pity stunned me. “These short essays on the best old books in the world,” he writes in his introduction, “were inspired by the sudden death of an only son, without whom I had not thought life worth living. To tide me over the first weeks of bitter grief I plunged into this work of reviewing the great books from the Bible to the works of the eighteenth-century writers.” I understand the notion of books-as-solace and admire Fitch for his love of books and his son.

 

Nothing on Fitch’s list of books and writers will surprise the reader. His chapter on Dr. Johnson is largely devoted to Boswell’s biography ("one of the great books of the world”) and Fitch is rather dismissive of Johnson’s accomplishments as a writer. Of his versions of Juvenal he writes: “These are not great poetry. The verse is of the style which Pope produced, but which the modern taste rejects because of its artificial form.” He claims modern readers of Johnson only need to read the Lives of the Poets, the prayers and the letter to Lord Chesterfield. He makes little mention of the periodical essays.

 

Fitch is very much the reader’s advocate and makes allowances for individual tastes. In his chapter on St. Augustine’s Confessions he writes: “If a book is recommended to you and you cannot enjoy it after conscientious effort, then it is plain that the book does not appeal to you or that you are not ready for it. The classic that you may not be able to read this year may become the greatest book in the world to you in another year, when you have passed through some hard experience that has matured your mind or awakened some dormant faculties that call out for employment.” No argument here. I like Fitch’s emphasis on “hard experience” maturing a reader's sensibilities.

 

Fitch is forever striving to accommodate readers of varying tastes, education levels and gifts. In his chapter titled “How to Get the Best Out of Books,” he tells us anyone who “understands English and who has an ordinary vocabulary” can read and enjoy the books on his list. He writes:

 

“[I]n this age of the limited railroad train, the telephone, the automobile and the aeroplane, it is well occasionally to be reminded that Shakespeare and the writers of the Bible knew as much about human nature as we know today, and that their philosophy was far saner and simpler than ours, and far better to use as a basis in making life worth living.”

 

In particular, read Fitch’s prefatory remarks about his son’s death and the power of the greatest books: “When the first shock had passed came the review of what was left of life to me. Most of the things which I had valued highly for the sake of my son now had little or no worth for me; but to take up again the old round of work, without the vivid, joyous presence of a companion dearer than life itself, one must have some great compensations; and the chief of these compensations lay in the few feet of books in my library case—in those old favorites of all ages that can still beguile me, though my head is bowed in the dust with grief and my heart is as sore as an open wound touched by a careless hand.”

'Never Without the Company of Books'

Edmund Blunden’s personal library of some 10,000 volumes is now in the collection at Ohio University in Athens, Ohio. The university purchased the books in the nineteen-eighties from the poet’s third wife, Claire Blunden.

Blunden (1896-1974) served for almost two years on the Western Front, took part in the engagements at Ypres and the Somme, and was awarded the Military Cross. He is best known for his Great War poetry and prose but was also a prolific critic who devoted books to Leigh Hunt, Charles Lamb, Edward Gibbon, Keats, Thomas Hardy and Shelley, among others. Blunden was instrumental in restoring the critical reputations of William Collins, Lamb and John Clare. Heavily represented in the Ohio University collection are signed volumes by his friends, including Robert Bridges, Walter de la Mare and Siegfried Sassoon. In his essay “Bringing Them Home” (The Mind’s Eye, 1934), Blunden writes:

 

“I cannot profess to be a genuine collector of books, I know nothing of positive bibliography; small books, I call octavos, and large ones quartos. Folios I seldom carry home, out of a growing sympathy with my weary body. But so far as my preferences in size and weight are satisfied, I am a willing rescuer of books.”

 

Blunden distinguishes a reader (like himself, like me) from a collector. The latter may be perfectly respectable but is just as likely to be a book-snob, showing off trophies on a shelf or a cynic, acquiring books as “investments.” Blunden’s biographer, Barry Webb, devotes a chapter to “Book Collecting” and says the poet was “never without the company of books.” Webb writes:

 

“He collected for two reasons: to build up a ‘working’ library and to rescue volumes he felt others would ignore. He believed that an adequate library of English literature could be established without paying more than sixpence a volume in 1920 – a price he allowed to increase to two shillings and sixpence in 1930 and ten shillings in 1950 – and by this means he created a library of 10,000 volumes by 1965.”

 

I’ve known collectors who never part with books, regardless of their literary value. Theirs is a warehouse aesthetic. The volume of their volumes is a source of pride, and any dreck will do if it fills out the shelves. Hoarders are not collectors and usually are not even readers. The largest personal library I’ve ever seen was also the most comprehensive, tastefully selected and well-used. It was, in Blunden’s sense, a “working library,” not a vanity project to impress visitors. With the owner’s death, the collection has been dispersed. To his credit, Blunden was not a packrat or dilettante but read and reread what he accumulated. In “Bringing Them Home” he writes:

 

“The resourcefulness of those who have made books through the centuries often makes me forget the serious business of reading, and a book comes home simply because it took my eye in some way. Later on, I endeavour to square accounts by examining the author’s share, and in this way I have made the acquaintance of far too many hands.”

 

Here is Blunden’s poem “In a Library” from Choice or Chance (1934):

 

“A curious remedy for present cares,

And yet as near a good one as I know;

It is to scan the cares of long ago,

Which these brown bindings lodge.

In black print glares

The Elizabethan preacher, heaping shame

On that ubiquitous gay hell, the stage;

And here’s another full of scriptural rage

Against high Rome. Fie, parson, be more tame.

This critic gnashes his laborious teeth

At that, whose subtlety seems no such matter;

This merchant bodes our economic death,

The envoy hastens with his hard-won chatter;

Age hacks at youth, youth paints the old town red—

And in the margin Doomsday rears his head.”

'Picture the World Without Her in It'

Out of the blue a poet sent me a pdf of his latest collection and, out of politeness, not gratitude, I thanked him. The guy can’t write. Or rather, he can produce unlineated, remarkably banal prose. Someone, somewhere, told him he was a poet, likely a teacher or another “poet,” and he believed it. To that degree, it’s not his fault. He was born into a literary culture without respect for the discipline of craft and commonsensical intelligence. 

It’s sinking in that poet Jane Greer is dead. I thought of her while trying to read the pdf described above. I’m not on Twitter but I almost daily read her tweets because she was so funny and seemed to delight in things without being an attention-seeking idiot about it. From 1981 to 1992 she served as founding editor of Plains Poetry Journal, which I regret not having known at the time. For a taste of Jane’s spunk, see this opening to her review of collections by two of our best, X.J. Kennedy and R.S. Gwynn, published in the October 1987 issue of Chronicles:

 

“American poetry has for the past few decades been going through what can only be called an adolescence, discarding rules and conventions simply because they existed. Poetry and all the arts go through a healthy siege of anarchy every so often, but this was more like terrorism than a revolution; these revolutionaries, unlike the Romantics, had no idea of what to substitute for what they’d destroyed. Instead, they simply wrote, spilling their guts down the pages of fashionable and underground journals in two-word-wide, uncapitalized entrails of self-obsession.”

 

An evergreen doing double-duty after almost forty years. Good poetry does many things but chief among them ought to be reliably producing pleasure, ever striving after what Nabokov called “aesthetic bliss.” I didn’t know Jane well. I’ll repeat myself: she was funny, a quality I crave like oxygen, and like many funny people she was serious about the important things. See the tribute to Jane put together by her peers, fellow poets, in New Verse Review, including one of her poems published in an earlier issue of that journal:

 

“In none of her other ages had she noted

her age or its burden and bounty of expectations.

The future was as flexible as the past,

and, in between, moments like unstrung pearls

strewn across velvet grieved and gladdened her

and always astonished her with their perfection.

There was no nothingness: there was only being.

 

“Slowly she wakes from what had seemed a dream

to realize that this is her final age—

of indeterminate length and quality.

Things are ending, or have ended, or will end.

The pearls are strung with care, it is quite clear.

There is no nothingness—but she can almost,

some days, picture the world without her in it.”