“Nothing I
wrote saved a single Jew from being gassed . . . it’s perfectly all right to be
an engagé writer as long as you don’t
think you’re changing things. Art is our chief means of breaking bread with the
dead . . . but the social and political history of Europe would be exactly the
same if Dante and Shakespeare and Mozart had never lived.”
Auden is
almost restating his commonsensical and much-debated line from “In Memory of W.B. Yeats,” that “poetry makes nothing happen.” Colloquially, “breaking bread” means
sharing a meal but with Auden as speaker it might also suggest fractio panis and the Eucharist. Either
way, the phrase implies an intimate, friendly occasion, a dinner party for two.
It also implies an ease of conversation, just you and one of your deceased forebears
– say, Montaigne -- in a cozy little nook. That’s a fine metaphor for serious reading.
It also reminds me of something written by another of those forebears, Charles
Lamb. He writes in a letter to Coleridge, his childhood friend, on Dec. 10,
1796: “I can only converse with you by letter, and with the dead in their
books.” A month later he writes again to Coleridge: “Books are to me instead of
friends.”
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