'Only a Facsimile That Is Called Literature'

I’ve learned with time that my mind has periods of attentiveness followed by drifts into passive, relaxed states of consciousness. I’m awake but almost empty. I might be taking a shower or staring out the window at nothing. That’s when I occasionally find myself in an old song or childhood memory or, more mysteriously, inhabiting a character from fiction, taking on his values. When I become conscious of this channeling, it disappears leaving a faint, lingering impression, like the afterimages left by bright lights. 

Recently I found myself in Austin King, the Illinois lawyer, father and put-upon husband at the center of William Maxwell’s 1948 novel, Time Will Darken It. It’s the opening scene. King is in his bedroom getting dressed for a party for relatives visiting from Mississippi. His wife, pregnant with their second child, is not speaking to him. She resents the party and the presence of outsiders.

 

I wasn’t recalling the words but the setting, emotional and physical, which I had abstracted from the text. I’ve read Maxwell’s novel three or four times, starting in the late seventies. I know it well. Unintentionally, I had projected myself into King because his emotional state was familiar – conflicted, guilty, wanting to satisfy contradictory wishes and please everyone. I didn’t have to go looking for it. I carry it as a latent memory.

 

There’s a semi-popular theory floating around out there that we read fiction to boost our empathy quotient. In short, we read to learn to be better human beings, to feel the pain of others. That’s silly but also kind of obnoxious. How self-centered. Willa Cather would have snorted. My flashing onto the bedroom of Austin and Martha King lasted seconds. I enjoyed the sensation but made no effort to hang on to it. It was a fairly primitive mental event, not freighted with philosophical baggage. A handful of other fiction writers have done this for me, all in my private pantheon – Chekhov, James, Proust, among others. Part of the reason I value them is that they leave these phantom scenes in my subconscious mind, through no effort of my own.

 

Time Will Darken It, along with So Long, See You Tomorrow (1980), is Maxwell’s finest novel.  In 1955, Maxwell delivered a speech at Smith College, “The Writer as Illusionist” (collected in the 2024 volume of the same title, published by Godine). He likens a novelist to a dog who dreams of chasing a rabbit. He writes:

 

“The novelist’s rabbit is the truth—about life, about human character, about himself and therefore by extension, it is to be hoped, about other people. He is convinced that this is all knowable, can be described, can be recorded, by a person sufficiently dedicated to describing and recording, can be caught in a net of narration. . . . . But what, seriously, was accomplished by these writers [Maxwell has just mentioned Turgenev, Lawrence, Woolf and Forster] or can the abstract dummy novelist I have been describing hope to accomplish? Not life, of course; not the real thing; not children and roses; but only a facsimile that is called literature.”  

 

The finest writers of fiction, those we treasure most highly, work simultaneously in two mediums – words and human beings. William Maxwell died twenty-five years ago today, on July 31, 2ooo, at age ninety-one.

'Put Out Their Eyes When It Was Dark'

“The man who is both happy and an optimist is an imbecile.” 

Happiness has always felt like the byproduct of life properly lived, not a goal unto itself. If I “behave” – live up to my own standards, not exaggerate my importance, pay minute attention to my conscience, respect others when they deserve it and occasionally when they don’t – I can settle for “happiness.” I define it not as bliss but as ease, a sort of momentary relaxation of vigilance. It doesn’t have a lot to do with getting my way and I can’t usually blame others when “unhappiness” creeps in.

 

The late Terry Teachout rather charmingly characterized himself (and H.L. Mencken, about whom he wrote a biography) as an “ebullient pessimist,” and I promptly adopted the description as my own, though I’m certainly less ebullient than Terry. In defiance of the customary understanding of “pessimist,” there was nothing gloomy or grim about him. He was a regular guy, fabulously learned, hard-working, seemingly undefeated by life’s inevitable troubles. His company was always energizing, even via the internet. My wife and I had lunch with him here in Houston in 2018, when he signed my copy of Pops, his biography of Louis Armstrong, “in honor of a special day.”

 

I’m skeptical of people who casually declare themselves “optimists.” I’m reminded of the character of Imlac in Dr. Johnson’s Rasselas:

 

“The state of a mind oppressed with a sudden calamity . . . is like that of the fabulous inhabitants of the new-created earth, who, when the first night came upon them, supposed that day would never return. When the clouds of sorrow gather over us, we see nothing beyond them, nor can imagine how they will be dispelled: yet a new day succeeded the night, and sorrow is never long without a dawn of ease. But they who restrain themselves from receiving comfort do as the savages would have done, had they put out their eyes when it was dark."

 

There is, in other words, something profoundly self-centered about optimism, a sense that if I don’t get my way I’ve been cheated. How unfair the world is. The sentence at the top was written by Jules Renard in his Journal on July 30, 1903. I think of Renard not as a doomsayer but a pragmatic, rough-and-tumble realist, with the sensibility of a farmer.  

 

[The Renard passage is taken from Journal 1887-1910 (trans. Theo Cuffe, selected and introduced by Julian Barnes, riverrun, 2020).]

'He Seemed to Think Lucidity All-sufficing'

“[T]here is a very widespread and comfortable belief that we are all of us born writers. Not long ago I heard that agile and mellifluous quodlibetarian, Dr. Joad, saying in answer to a questioner who wanted to write good letters, that anybody could write good letters: one had but to think out clearly what one wanted to say, and then set it down in the simplest terms.” 

Even that is a challenge for some. Clarity in writing, of course, reflects clarity of thought. Muddled prose suggests muddled thinking. It also helps to have some sense of style. “Dr. Joad” is C.E.M. Joad, not a member of the Okie family in The Grapes of Wrath but a one-time English radio philosopher and celebrity. The author is Max Beerbohm in a lecture he delivered in 1943 on the odious writer and human being Lytton Strachey, whom he knew and about whom he has reservations. Here, Beerbohm continues on the subject of Joad and facile writing:

 

“And a few weeks later, when the writing of books was under discussion, he said that the writers who thought most about how they should write were the hardest to read; and again he seemed to think lucidity all-sufficing.”

 

What grabbed my attention was that exotic word quodlibetarian. As usual, Dr. Johnson in his Dictionary is plain and concise: “One who talks or disputes on any subject.” We know the type. The OED’s definition requires further explanation: “A person who discusses or engages in quodlibets; a writer of quodlibets.” That word is obsolete and dates from the fifteenth century in English: “An academic exercise within a university in which a master or bachelor would discuss questions on any subject; the written record of such an exercise.” In short, a know-it-all, in fact or by self-proclamation, and a species never endangered.

 

Beerbohm’s own prose in the Strachey lecture is splendid. Take this passage, which out-Joads Joad and out-Stracheys Strachey:

 

“It takes all kinds to make a world, or even to make a national literature. Even for spirits less fastidious than Strachey’s, there is, even at the best of times, a great charm in the past. Time, that sedulous artist, has been at work on it, electing and rejecting with great tact. The past is a work of art, free from irrelevancies and loose ends. There are, for our vision, comparatively few people in it, and all of them are interesting people. The dullards have all disappeared—all but those whose dullness was so pronounced as to be in itself for us an amusing virtue. And in the past there is so blessedly nothing for us to worry about. Everything is settled. There’s nothing to be done about it—nothing but to contemplate it and blandly form theories about this or that aspect of it.”

'This Greedy Appetite for New and Unknown Things'

Montaigne’s Travel Journal recounts his wanderings through Germany, Switzerland and Italy between June 1580 and November 1581. He sought relief from the pain of kidney stones and visited numerous spas with mineral baths. As always, Montaigne is curious about everything – not just the art and architecture of the ancient world but such seemingly mundane things as food, lodgings, local customs and manners, the cost of everything. Culture in the broadest sense interested him. He was a man of the world, not a "sensitive plant" in the later Romantic sense, and served as mayor of Bordeaux. Here is his account of the execution he witnessed in Rome on January 14, 1581: 

“On this same day I saw two brothers executed, former servants of the Castellano’s secretary, who had killed him a few days before in the city by night, in the very palace of the said Signor Giacomo Buoncompagno, the Pope’s son. They tore them with red-hot pincers, then cut off their fist in front of the said palace, and having cut it off they put on the wound capons that they had killed and immediately opened up. They were executed on a scaffold: first they were clubbed with a big wooden mace, and then their throats were cut immediately. This is a punishment they say is sometimes used in Rome, though others maintained that it had been adapted to the misdeed, since they had killed their master in that way.”

 

This reader is struck by the cool thoroughness of Montaigne’s account. He writes more like a modern journalist than a self-conscious artiste. In his 1965 essay titled “Mr. Montaigne’s Journey to Italy,” the Polish poet Zbigniew Herbert writes:

 

“How to explain the fact that the only remarks on art in Montaigne’s travel journal are so meager and uninteresting? It seems unjust and simplistic to explain it by a lack of aesthetic sensibility. We should rather draw the conclusion that for people of the Renaissance, a work of art was a much more natural thing than it is for us; there was no need to set it apart from the surrounding reality and bury it in a museum.”

 

Herbert visited Western Europe for the first time in 1958-59: France, then England, Italy, France again and back to Poland. His budget was tight but Herbert was no hedonistic tourist. Nor was he a stuffy academic or critic. The resulting essays in Barbarian in the Garden (1962; trans. Michael March and Jarosław Anders, 1985) chronicle a self-guided tour of Western culture by a man temporarily liberated from the bleak, vulgar constraints of Soviet-era Poland. Unlike Montaigne, Herbert revels in the inherited art and architecture of Europe. In the Barbarian essay “Orvieto’s Duomo,” the poet recounts his visit to the fourteenth-century cathedral in that Umbrian city:

 

“The muses were not silent though the times were by no means peaceful. The town was a hotbed of heresy; and through historical irony and thanks to thick walls, the frequent refuge of popes. The Guelph clan of the Monaldeschi fought against its Ghibbelline faction, who were expelled from the town while the sculptors were illustrating Genesis. According to the reliable witness, the author of The Divine Comedy, both families suffer in purgatory along with the kin of Romeo and Juliet. There were prolonged contests for power within the town – in Dante’s words the fate of dolore ostello, ‘the inn of suffering.’”

Barbarian in the Garden may be my favorite collection of essays written by anyone, second only to Montaigne’s. It’s a poet’s book but never descends into the merely “poetic.” Herbert’s excitement and gratitude for finally being able to visit the primal sites of his culture – Western culture – are palpable. He echoes a passage in  Montaigne’s essay “Of Vanity”: “This greedy appetite for new and unknown things indeed helps to foster in me the desire to travel, but enough other circumstances contribute to it. I gladly turn aside from governing my house.”

 

The only essay in Barbarian in the Garden Herbert devotes to a single artist is “Piero della Francesca.” If you savor symbolism, consider that Piero died on the first Columbus Day – October 12, 1492. Herbert judges him virtually a saint of humanism. Here’s the conclusion of his essay: “Tradition holds that he went blind towards the end of his life. Marco di Longara told Berto degli Alberti that as a young boy he walked the streets of Borgo San Sepolcro with an old, blind painter called Piero della Francesca.

 

“Little Marco could not have known that his hand was leading light.”

 

Herbert begins “Lascaux” with a spirited, unexpected digression: “Breakfast in a small restaurant, but what a breakfast! An omelette with truffles. Truffles belong to the world history of human folly, hence to the history of art. So a word about truffles.” This is a man temporarily freed from the grim, gray strictures of the Soviet Bloc. He devotes the next two paragraphs to an entertaining account of truffle history and gastronomy. On to the caves at Lascaux, with Herbert’s wit as our guide:

 

“The cold, electric light is hideous, so we can only imagine the Lascaux cave when the living light of torches and crests set into motion the herds of bulls, bison and deer on the walls and vault. In addition, the guide’s voice stammering explanations. A sergeant reading the Holy Scriptures.”

 

Herbert revels in the continuity of human accomplishment, the living tradition of our cave-dwelling forbears, Montaigne and a twentieth-century Polish poet. Let’s all give thanks with him. Herbert died on this date, July 28, in 1998, at age seventy-three.

 

[All passages from Montaigne are taken from The Complete Works: Essays, Travel Journal, Letters (trans. Donald Frame, Everyman’s Library, 2003). The first passage from Herbert is drawn from The Collected Prose: 1948-1998 (trans. Alissa Valles, Ecco, 2010).]

'Something Which Longs to Be Filled'

An American children’s book published in 1908 reminded me of a metaphysical figment conjured by Jean-Paul Sartre. The book is The Hole Book, written and illustrated by Peter Newell. A friend who collects vintage children’s books told me about it. The verse is serviceable doggerel, rhythmically regular enough to be memorized and recited by kids. The premise is simple and clever and the book would never be published today. Here are the opening verses: 

“Tom Potts was fooling with a gun

(Such follies should not be),

When—bang! the pesky thing went off

Most unexpectedly!

 

“Tom didn’t know ’twas loaded, and

It scared him ’most to death—

He tumbled flat upon the floor

And fairly gasped for breath.

 

“The bullet smashed a fine French clock

(The clock had just struck three),

Then made a hole clean through the wall,

As you can plainly see.”

 

We follow the path of the bullet through the remainder of the book as it passes through a boiler, a rope holding a swing, an aquarium, a Dutchman’s pipe, a sack of grain and a watermelon, among other things. Not a soul is wounded by the stray bullet. Newell is no poet but he’s a marvelous illustrator. My sons would have loved this book.

 

The professor who taught the eighteenth-century English novel and introduced me to Smollett and Sterne had a sense of humor that once would have been described as “bawdy.” She was enormously funny and insisted that literature is written to be enjoyed. It’s a lesson that has stuck with me for more than half a century. Something that came up in class reminded Donna of Sartre’s concept of “the hole.” She giggled through her brief explanation drawn from To Freedom Condemned: A Guide to His Philosophy (trans. Justus Streller, 1960):

 

“The hole is something which longs to be filled. The small child is drawn as if by magic to holes. He can not restrain himself from putting in his finger or his whole arm. He makes a symbolic sacrifice of his body to cause the void to disappear and a plenitude of being to exist. The fundamental tendency of human beings to stop up holes persists throughout life, symbolically and in reality,” and so forth in unapologetically Gallic silliness.

'Someone, I Think, Heard the Name I Named'

It’s not fair to think of our dead as “The Dead,” a demographic category that erases all distinctions but absence. My brother (d. 2024) and Jane Greer, the North Dakota poet who died this week, would have had little in common in life. Ken had no use for poetry and he framed paintings and photographs for a living. He was an artist manqué and I knew him all his life. Jane I knew only recently from her poems and the emails we exchanged. Each was a notable individual, distinct, not a statistic, worthy of memory. Memory salvages both from oblivion. In some of us, the elegiac impulse is powerful. By my count, the Summer issue of New Verse Review 2.3 contains at least ten poems memorializing or addressed to those who have died. Here is Victoria Moul’s “I.m. Andrew, October 2024”: 

“Cozen me then, my restive Lord:

The candles in the church blow out

After only an hour or more.

I have forgotten now which saint

Was in which niche and in what stand

I set my candle, when I paid

A few coins, not quite the allotted price,

Or even whom I named

Sidelong while wondering too

Whether the man who knelt

Across from me was married; how

We might afford that flat; or if

I should buy leeks or aubergine.

Attention is

So short and slight a thing, a flame

Snuffed as soon as lit, but all the same

Someone, I think, heard the name I named.”

 

Moul adds a footnote: “This poem is in memory of Andrew Hurley, who died in Paris on 11th October 2024. Andrew’s encyclopaedic knowledge of, and unrelenting enthusiasm for French poetry are much missed by all who knew him.” She speaks for me: “the name I named.” John Talbot contributes “Epitaph of Menophilos” to New Verse Review:

 

“Such days as were my lot I passed in joy

Buoyed in the quickening flux of poetry.

Bacchus was never very far away,

Or Aphrodite either. As to friends:

Not one of them can tell of an offense

I ever did them. I am Menophilos,

A son of Asia, till I left to settle

Far from home in the sundown hills of Italy.

Here I held my ground, and now am held

Among the dead. I never did grow old.”

 

Together, Moul and Talbot edited C. H. Sisson Reconsidered (Palgrave Macmillan, 2023). Here is Sisson’s “The Absence” (God Bless Karl Marx!, Carcanet, 1987):

 

“How can it be that you are gone from me,

Everyone in the world? Yet it is so,

The distance grows and yet I do not move.

Is it I streaming away and, if so, where?

And how do I travel from all equally

Yet not recede from where I stand pat

In the daily house or in the daily garden

Or where I travel on the motor-way?

Good-bye, good-bye all, I call out.

The answer that comes back is always fainter;

In the end those to whom one cannot speak

Cannot be heard, and that is my condition.

Soon there will be only wind and waves,

Trees talking among themselves, a chuchotement,

I there as dust, and if I do not reach

The outer shell of the world, still I may

Enter into the substance of a leaf.”

 

Chuchotement: French for “whisper.”

'The Actual and the Unexceptional'

In its Summer 1965 issue, the editors of The American Scholar asked forty-two writers and critics the following question: “To what book published in the past ten years do you find yourself going back--or thinking back--most often?” I take the question personally because I turned thirteen that year and was already discovering contemporary literature, especially American fiction. If it’s possible to characterize the general sense of most of the responses, I would call them trendy, topical, pre-approved, fashion-conscious and largely, after sixty years, ephemeral. A similar pattern would be seen today. John Barth is honest and audaciously self-serving, naming his own early novels but graciously citing Pale Fire and Jorge Luis Borges’ stories (two of my own unsolicited votes from that era). Anthony Burgess likewise names Nabokov’s novel. 

Too many responses are ridiculous – E.B. White’s essays, for instance, and Joseph Heller’s cartoon-novel, Catch-22. Some are merely boring – two votes for John Kenneth Galbraith’s The Affluent Society. Teilhard de Chardin gets two votes. I’m reminded of the late D.G. Myers’ ten-year rule – not reviewing books until at least a decade has passed after publication. Otherwise, we risk errant idiocy.

 

Not all the responses are silly. Poet William Meredith names Auden’s prose collection The Dyer’s Hand. Walter Allen picks The Less Deceived (1955) by Philip Larkin, a rare choice endorsed by the subsequent six decades. Allen writes:

 

“[I]t is poetry of a remarkably pure kind, rooted in the actual and the unexceptional, although the unexceptional in this sense is very rare in poetry. I can think of no poet since Hardy in whom there is a more resolute honesty, a stronger determination to be himself, warts and all; and in a number of poems in The Less Deceived--in ‘Church Going’ most clearly perhaps--Larkin seems to me not inferior to Hardy.”