The first lines of Edwin Muir’s “Reading in Wartime,” both downbeat and content, grabbed me: “Boswell by my bed, / Tolstoy on my table.” You can sing it, probably as a blues. The next lines turn maudlin and Muir peters away his opportunity. He recovers somewhat midway through the poem when he returns to his writers:
“Boswell's turbulent
friend
And his deafening verbal
strife,
Ivan Ilych's death
Tell me more about life,
The meaning and the end
Of our familiar breath,
Both being personal,
Than all the carnage can.”
Muir seems unable to
resist preachiness. His diction falters. Strife is off, as is carnage,
both overheated, but his choice of turbulent to describe Dr. Johnson is
just right. I think of a river in spring, swollen with melted snow, crashing
over stones. In physics, turbulent suggests barely contained chaos – a characterization
of Johnson the man himself might have accepted. In his Dictionary he
defines the word as “tumultuous; violent,” and gives two citations, both attributed
to Dryden. The first is from his translation of Juvenal’s Tenth Satire, and
refers to Hannibal:
“What wondrous sort of
Death has Heav’n design’d,
Distinguish’d from the
Herd of Humane Kind,
For so untam’d, so
turbulent a Mind!”
The second citation, though
attributed by Johnson to Dryden, seems to have been taken from a two-volume
poem, Cyder (or Cider), published in 1706 by John Philips:
“Nor need we tell what
anxious cares attend
The turbulent mirth of
wine, nor all the kinds
Of maladies that lead to
death’s grim cave,
Wrought by intemperance.”
In his “Life of Philips,” Johnson calls Cyder “his greatest work” and says it was “received with
loud praises, and continued long to be read, as an imitation of Virgil’s Georgick,
which needed not shun the presence of the original.” Johnson seems to have
found little to value in turbulence. He associates it with pointless, frenetic activity. In The
Idler No. 31 he writes: “As pride sometimes is hid under humility, idleness
is often covered by turbulence and hurry.”
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