'The Pure Astonishment of Life'

A reader expresses surprise at my admission that I once read William Gibson’s Neuromancer. “I thought you hated science fiction,” he writes. “You always seemed like a snob about it.” Guilty as charged, I guess. I read science fiction and related genres from roughly ages ten to fourteen. At some point I just lost interest. The arrival of puberty may have been an unrelated factor. A serious reader is forever culling aspects of his past, discarding previous favorites. Call it maturation or honing one’s critical gifts. The genre was no longer satisfying to read. I’ve never had a grand theoretical explanation for the change, though I retain a general lack of interest in any thesis-driven fiction -- 1984, for instance. 

I don’t recall why I read Gibson’s novel. I remember it getting a lot of attention when it was published in 1984, even in non-sci-fi circles. Perhaps a friend recommended it. Neuromancer is not the only novel I’ve read about which I remember nothing or almost nothing. The same can be said of books by such non-genre writers as Conrad Aiken, James Baldwin, Thomas Wolfe and others. In fiction I look for an ineffable but recognizable quality called by William Maxwell, in a note to his collection of reviews and essays The Outermost Dream (1989), “the breath of life.” He writes:

 

“Reading is rapture (or if it isn’t, I put the book down meaning to go on with it later, and escape out the side door). A felicitously turned sentence can induce it. Or a description. Or unexpected behavior. Or ordinary behavior raised to the nth degree. Or intolerable suspense, as with the second half of Conrad’s Victory. Or the forward movement of prose that is bent only on saying what the writer has to say. Or dialogue that carries with it the unconscious flowering of character. Or, sometimes, a fact.”

 

No binding theory there, but I intuitively understand what Maxwell is getting at. In 1997, in the new introduction to The Outermost Dream, reissued by Graywolf Press, Maxwell writes: “[W]hen I read for my own enjoyment I cannot—or mostly do not—read authors whose way of writing doesn’t give me pleasure. But of course style is not in itself enough. One wants blowing through it at all times the breath, the pure astonishment of life.”

 

It’s a quality difficult to articulate and simple to perceive. Henry James’ fiction has it, as does Tolstoy’s and George Eliot’s. They convince us. We forget them and ourselves while reading. Science fiction no longer does that for me.

'It Happens Every Year Almost the Same'

When we think of ferocious predators among animals we likely think of sharks and grizzly bears, big creatures with teeth. But I remember as a kid watching ladybugs on a rose bush moving through aphids like a combine through wheat. They can consume thousands in their brief life span.

Another small and notably efficient hunter is the order Odonata – dragonflies and damselflies. I spent a day in an upstate New York marsh with a neuroethologist, a biologist who studies how an animal’s nervous system determines its behavior. Odonata was his specialty. His research showed their kill rate for insects, most often mosquitoes, topped ninety-seven percent. Eighty percent of a dragonfly’s brain is devoted to vision, and their field of vision is 360 degrees. Like ladybugs they are harmless to humans.

I remembered that day when reading the Louisiana poet David Middleton’s “August into Autumn” (Time Will Tell: Collected Poems (Texas Review Press, 2025):

 

“It happens every year almost the same

And always late in August when we pause

Just long enough to see what time has done,

Sly changes nearly imperceptible

Moment to moment holding us at last

While molting birds gone quiet watch the stars

And summer moves to its appointed end.

 

“The mated dragonflies, whose months are years,

Their eggs already floating in the reeds,

Now glide more slowly over lake and blade,

The great blue skimmer, eastern amber-wing

Still hunting for mosquitoes, dusk and dawn,

But farther off as the dense swarms grow thin

And crickets call all night through cooling trees.”

 

Middleton describes the slow change of seasons in the South, with none of the North’s drama or unambiguous demarcations. Autumn is little different from summer here if you’re not paying attention. Temperature changes are incremental. No gaudy red or yellow explosion among the maples (we have few maples). We’ll see more hummingbirds here in September as they migrate south. For a transplanted Northerner, autumn in Texas and Louisiana can be a disappointment. In “The Dragonfly,” Louise Bogan describes the insect’s “ceaseless movement, / Unending hunger . . .” In the poem’s final lines she is almost clinical: “And you fall / With the other husks of summer.”

'A Wild Sostenuto of the Heart'

At the center of the screen is an acute triangle with a rounded bottom. Its shape resembles the pattern left by wipers on a dirty windshield, inverted. Before the device is activated it’s a gray blank and reminded me of the opening sentence of a novel I read more than forty years ago: “The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel” -- the only thing I remember from William Gibson’s Neuromancer. 

This was my second echocardiogram in less than two weeks. The first detected “reduced systolic function.” The second was performed using contrast. The technician put transparent jelly on the left side of my chest and moved the transducer probe around until she got a clean image. That picture replaces the “dead channel”: my pulsing heart. Seeing it seems miraculous, a gift denied us for most of human history. I remembered the first time I saw an ultrasound performed, which was also the first time I saw my oldest son, in utero.

 

The word that came to mind is sostenuto, which I learned from the fifth stanza of Richard Wilbur’s poem “For C.” (Mayflies: New Poems and Translations (2000):

 

“Still, there’s a certain scope in that long love

Which constant spirits are the keepers of,

 

And which, though taken to be tame and staid,

Is a wild sostenuto of the heart,

A passion joined to courtesy and art

Which has the quality of something made,

Like a good fiddle, like the rose’s scent,

Like a rose window or the firmament.”

 

Wilbur wrote the poem for his wife, known as Charlee. Sotenuto is a musical term, an adjective meaning, according to the OED, “to be sung or played in a sustained manner.” It’s from the Italian verb for sustain, which is precisely what I want my heart to continue doing for me.

'Conserved in Treasure, Finally'

Rare is the poet who can simultaneously think and sing. C.H. Sisson once quoted the French critic Charles Maurras saying, “Reason may convince, but it is rhythm that persuades.” Prose writers don’t talk much about the rhythms of their words, which is probably a good thing. Prose is the draft horse of style, getting the heavy job done. Too much filigree and the language turns precious. The reader rightly suspects the writer is compensating for sparsity of content (e.g., John Updike). 

Words are never in isolation and are more like notation in a musical score than stones in a mosaic. One word follows another according to the logic of sound and sense. We spend a lot of time matching words to the rhythm that already exists in our heads, a rhythm we can’t begin to perceive until we start arranging the words. Sometimes for emphasis we purposely break the rhythm, always with resolution or absence of resolution in mind.

 

Much of the poetry written in the last century and a quarter is indistinguishable from prose – often tone-deaf prose. No need to name names. A writer who wrote superior prose and poetry, a rare feat of juggling, is Janet Lewis. Consider “Carmel Highlands” (Selected Poems of Janet Lewis, ed. R.L. Barth, 2000):

 

“Below the gardens and the darkening pines

The living water sinks among the stones,

Sinking yet foaming till the snowy tones

Merge with the fog drawn landward in dim lines.

The cloud dissolves among the flowering vines,

And now the definite mountain-side disowns

The fluid world, the immeasurable zones.

Then white oblivion swallows all designs.

 

“But still the rich confusion of the sea,

Unceasing voice, sombre and solacing,

Rises through veils of silence past the trees;

In restless repetition bound, yet free,

Wave after wave in deluge fresh releasing

An ancient speech, hushed in tremendous ease.”

 

The words float like leaves in the currents of a river. There’s no hurry, no rush to the finish, but the lines are suffused with a steady, uninsistent sense of momentum. Throughout the seventy years of Lewis’ writing life, she wrote poems in both form and free verse. She is a writer seriously in need of rediscovery. One of her novels, The Wife of Martin Guerre (1941), is among the four or five finest ever written by an American. Here is a 1945 poem, “Lines with a Gift of Herbs”:

 

“The summer's residue

In aromatic leaf,

Shrunken and dry, yet true

In fragrance, their belief,

  

“These from the hard earth drew

Essence of rosemary,

Of lavender, faintly blue,

While unconfused nearby

 

“From the same earth distilled

Grey sage and savory,

Each one distinctly willed,

Stoic morality.

 

“The Emperor said: ‘Though all

Conspire to break thy will,

Clear stone, thou emerald, shall

Be ever emerald still.’

 

“And these, small, unobserved,

Through summer chemistry,

Have all their might conserved

In treasure, finally.”

 

“The Emperor” is Marcus Aurelius in Meditations (trans. Maxwell Staniforth): “Whatever the world may say or do, my part is to keep myself good; just as a gold piece, or an emerald, or a purple robe insists perpetually, ‘Whatever the world may say or do, my part is to remain an emerald and keep my color true.’” The passage suggests Lewis’ courage and steadfastness, her “Stoic morality.” Here is a 1941 poem she wrote after the death of a friend and fellow novelist, “For Elizabeth Madox Roberts”:

 

“From the confusion of estranging years,

The imperfections of the changing heart,

This hour leaves only tears;

Tears, and my earliest love, Elizabeth, and changeless art.”

 

Lewis, in her fiction and verse, is one of the few essential American writers of the last century, along with Cather, Nabokov and her husband, Yvor Winters. Lewis was born on this date, August 17, in 1899 and died in 1998 at ninety-nine.

'A Very Deadly Sort of Slave Feeling'

Regardless of her putative subject, Stevie Smith always seems to get around to death. That sounds like a prescription for adolescent morbidity, like a low-budget horror movie. There’s a theory going around, probably rooted in Freudian quackery, that all artistic creation is about death or its denial. Yet, somehow – often formally, with her nursery rhymes and rhythms – Smith charms and amuses us. Death is impertinent. “Up and Down” appeared in her first collection, A Good Time Was Had By All, published in 1937: 

“Up and down the street they go

Tapping tapping to and fro

What they see I do not know

 

“Up and down the streets they hurry

Push and rush and jerk and worry

Full of ineffectual flurry

 

Up and down the street they run

From morning to the set of sun

I shall be glad when they have done

 

I shall be glad when there’s an end

Of all the noise that doth offend

My soul. Still Night, don cloak, descend.”

 

The pair of spondees in the middle of the final line fall like clods of earth on a coffin lid. Smith’s work is subversive, not of politics or morals but of literary expectations. A diminutive woman, she knowingly donned a girlish costume (in life, in work) that was eccentric in an acceptably British manner. How liberating that must have been, setting her free to be a seriously silly poet. Pompey, the heroine of the first and best of her three novels, Novel on Yellow Paper (1936), recalls her understanding of suicide as a little girl. She urges parents to discuss the subject with their children:

 

“So I think every sensitive young child should early learn this. It is a great source of strength and comfort. It is so possible that things may become more than we can bear, is it not? That is not my thought at all. But rather, it is so possible that we may be afraid that things will become more than we can bear. There is a very deadly sort of slave feeling in this thought. For if we think this and become undone by our fear, we may too anxiously placate our fellow-beings, who appear to us to be in more authoritative positions and to have more of power than we over the things that oppress us. But with death as our immediate ally, such thoughts vanish.”

 

I’m not advocating suicide and neither is Smith. I’m not sure it’s even possible to posthumously diagnose Smith (dead at age sixty-eight in 1971) as a depressive. Rather, I think she is forthright and brave and reminds me of the seventeenth-century English prose writers – Sir Thomas Browne, in particular. To put it simply, she understands death as a part of life, as least as important a part as having children. I remember the deaths by suicide of two classmates when I was in grade school. That early exposure to self-destruction has been useful. It never frightened or depressed me.

'Thine Unsuspecting Gratitude and Love'

We’ve had a damp spring and summer in Houston – thirty-nine inches of rain since the start of the year. No major storms but frequent brief showers, often in late afternoon. At this time nine years ago, Hurricane Harvey was about to hit, flooding my car and leaving us without power for four days. Lawns now are lush. Mosquitoes swarm in clouds. Step outside and get sucker-punched by the humidity. Our front garden is a jungle, almost taking over the sidewalk. 

Walter de la Mare published “Dry August Burned” in Memory and Other Poems in 1938, though it suggests the Great War years. August was the time when farmers traditionally burned stubble on their land, causing hares to flee the fire. World War I started in August 1914. The poem begins indoors:

“Dry August burned. A harvest hare

Limp on the kitchen table lay,

Its fur blood-blubbered, eye astare,

While a small child that stood near by

Wept out her heart to see it there.”

 

De la Mare had two daughters and two sons. He was sensitive to the lives of young children, their volatile emotional natures. Sounds attract the girl outside:

 

“. . . like a leveret she ran,

To feast her glistening bird-clear eyes

On a team of field artillery

Gay, to manoeuvres, thudding by.

Spur and gun and limber plate

Flashed in the sun.”

 

A leveret is a young hare. De la Mare describes the girl as “nibbling a green leaf,” like a leveret. She is dazzled by the “sun-tanned soldiery,” the field artillery, the spectacle:

 

“She turned, and ran,

Elf-like, into the house again.

The hare had vanished. . . . ‘Mother,’ she said,

Her tear-stained cheek now flushed with red,

‘Please, may I go and see it skinned?’”

 

Like many of de la Mare’s poems, “Dry August Burned” is a compressed short story, a revelation of character. He suggests even the youngest among us, the most seemingly innocent, knows bloodlust. We are the most savage species.

 

And yet, kindness persists. William Cowper (1731-1800) kept as pets three hares, Puss, Bess and Tiney. A neighboring child who had become bored with them gave them to the poet, who wrote a poem when Tiney died at age nine. When Cowper fed bread to his dog Marquis, he also fed Puss, who lived to the age of twelve. In The Task he writes of Puss:

 

“One sheltered hare

Has never heard the sanguinary yell

Of cruel man, exulting in her woes.

Innocent partner of my peaceful home,

Whom ten long years’ experience of my care

Has made at last familiar, she has lost

Much of her vigilant instinctive dread,

Not needful here, beneath a roof like mine.”

 

We suspect some animal lovers of virtue-signaling, wishing to advertise their compassion and sensitivity. One never detects this in Cowper. He could never have lived in London among the crowds and social demands. In Olney he found respite. When Cowper writes of hares and other animals, one senses his identification with these creatures, as in The Task:

   

“Yes—thou mayst eat thy bread, and lick the hand

That feeds thee; thou mayst frolic on the floor

At evening, and at night retire secure

To thy straw-couch, and slumber unalarmed;

For I have gained thy confidence, have pledged

All that is human in me to protect

Thine unsuspecting gratitude and love.

If I survive thee I will dig thy grave,

And when I place thee in it, sighing say,

I knew at least one hare that had a friend.”

'My Poems Sing of Life'

The new century -- no longer new -- has been insatiably consuming good writers. In the early years of the twenty-first we endured a rough patch. In a five-year span we lost Anthony Powell, Edgar Bowers, William Maxwell, W.G. Sebald, R.S. Thomas, Penelope Fitzgerald, C.H. Sisson, Eudora Welty, D.J. Enright, Herbert Morris, Anthony Hecht, Thom Gunn, Donald Justice, Czesław Miłosz, Saul Bellow, Guy Davenport and Hugh Kenner.

More recently we saw the deaths of Hilton Kramer, Thomas Berger, Roger Scruton, Gertrude Himmelfarb, John Simon, Geoffrey Hill, Evan S. Connell, Richard Wilbur, Whitney Balliett, Les Murray, Turner Cassity, Helen Pinkerton, Terry Teachout, Robert Conquest, V.S. Naipaul, Norman Podhoretz and Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn. Life and culture are depleted. Now we’re expected to say, “But at least we have their books for consolation.”

 

Add to this sad roll call the name of Clive James, dead in 2019 at age eighty. I had been reading his books for roughly the last twenty years of his life. Most enduring is Cultural Amnesia (2007); perhaps most entertaining, Latest Readings (2015), for what he writes about Joseph Conrad, Dr. Johnson and Olivia Manning. In 2010, James was diagnosed with emphysema, kidney failure and leukemia, and lived to publish another dozen books (including a translation of Dante) before his death. Much of the poetry he wrote in that final reprieve was devoted to his illness and its reckoning. Published in the Yale Review in April 2017 and collected in that year’s Injury Time was “Declaration of Intent.” In the fourth of its five stanzas he writes:

 

“My poems sing of life. Though death is also there

In how they crystallise an emphasis

Like a tango maestro pausing, they do not despair:

They just acknowledge the abyss

Awaiting us. It brings finality

To what we were. It will do that for me

Soon now. My poems prove that I accepted this.”

'My Unreliable Retrieval System'

Welcome news is so rare in our withered literary culture, we are obligated to celebrate good new work when we encounter it. The summer 2026 issue of New Verse Review has been published, and it includes work by several of our finest established poets, as well as poems by newcomers worth reading. You’ll find three epigrams by R.L. Barth, including “McNamara’s 100,000”: 

“Moronic? Bumbling? Drooling? Poor? Sign here.

There are 100,000 openings

In McNamara’s scheme. You’ll learn some things

You might convert to skills; and never fear,

If under fire you don’t know zig from zag,

Be sure he’ll give you your own body-bag.”

 

Mike Juster’s “Nothing in Hell Is Up to Snuff” is dedicated to his late friend the poet X.J. Kennedy:

 

“It rankles us that Satan doesn’t care

for process. Brimstone shipments are too slow

for summer fun, so flesh is roasted rare,

and He has banished Barry Manilow

without an explanation. Long ago,

He welcomed new arrivals with a show

of evil…not now! He seems unaware

that he is failing as a CEO.

Unshaven, dazed in tattered underwear,

He leaves His pitchfork on His patio,

then curses God without the same old flair.

Though revolution simmers in the air

and demons hatch new schemes for overthrow,

most souls prefer The Devil who they know.”

 

Here is Aaron Poochigian’s “Heliolatry,” a poem that revels in the miracle of photosynthesis:

 

“There are the trees forever doing

a slow, expansive dance

called ‘Reaching Toward the Light.’

 

“Then there’s how shadows keep imbuing

the patterns with askance

and horizontal height.

 

“The whole show, with its matching ways

of moving, points to one

bright source of bud and sprawl.

 

“I close my eyes and tilt my gaze

into the sun, the sun,

the pivot of it all.”

 

And here are two poems by a poet new to me, Adrienne Su. “Solitude” is a meditation on memory, which she describes as “my unreliable / retrieval system.”

'What Are You Selling There – Despair?'

The Night of the Murdered Poets took place on August 12, 1952. Thirteen literary and intellectual figures were murdered on Stalin’s orders in the basement of Lubyanka Prison in Moscow. Four were poets who wrote in Yiddish – Perets Markish, Leyb Kvitko, Dovid Hofshteyn, and Itsik Feffer -- and a fifth, David Bergelson, was a Yiddish novelist. All were Jews – “rootless cosmopolitans,” to use Stalin’s phrase. The others were intellectuals and scientists who had been active in the Jewish Anti-Fascist Committee, organized during World War II by the Soviet government to mobilize world Jewish support for the Soviet war effort against Nazi Germany. All were arrested in 1948-49 and endured beatings and torture before their executions. Dovid Margolin writes in “The Exiled Rabbi and the Executed Poet: A Soviet Jewish Story,” published at Chabad.org: 

“After their arrests, the Jewish Anti-Fascist Committee activists were cruelly interrogated and tortured, with Markish’s treatment among the worst. He was interrogated two or three times a day, questioned all day, and then again from 11:30 p.m. until 5 the next morning, 96 times in all. Under torture at the hands of one of the MGB’s most sadistic officers, Markish signed a confession of guilt (he was accused of treason), effectively signing his own death sentence. On Aug. 12, 1952, after a sham secret trial at which they were all found guilty, 13 of the 15 defendants were executed with a bullet to the back of the head—a crime that has since become known as the Night of the Murdered Poets.”

 

Markish was born in 1895 in Polonnoye, then in the Russian Empire, now Ukraine. He served in the Russian army during World War I and published his first collection of avant-garde poems, in Yiddish, in 1919. After a series of pogroms in Ukraine in the early 1920s he moved to Warsaw, where he coedited with novelist I.J. Singer (brother of Isaac Bashevis Singer) an expressionist literary anthology. He returned to the Soviet Union in 1926 as a celebrator of the Soviet regime. He co-founded the Soviet School of Writers, in 1939 was awarded the Order of Lenin and in 1946 the Stalin Prize.

 

Markish published “Chatyr-Dag” (literally, “Tent Mountain”), named for a massif in Crimea, in 1920, revised and expanded in 1931. This is the opening quatrain from Jordan Finkin’s translation:

 

“Chatyr-Dag. With footsteps marking your wandering paths

I approach the hem of your cloud-patched cloak.

You recluse of stone with almond trees overgrown,

What lapidary tidings do you await from world’s end?”

 

And this from an untitled 1919 poem translated by Amelia Glaser:

 

“Hey, what do you deal in – sorrow?

What are you selling there – despair?”

Nadezhda Mandelstam in Hope Abandoned (trans. Max Hayward, 1974), in a chapter titled “The Wandering Jew,” writes: “A remarkable thing about the Jews is that, apart from suffering the lot of their own people, they also have to share the misfortunes of those in whose country they have put up their tents. Even a Jew who publicly renounces his Jewishness still goes to the gas chambers with the others, or is sent to Kolyma, like any member of the alien tribe whose language he speaks.”

 

On November 22, 1955, the Military Collegium of the Supreme Court of the USSR ruled there had been “no substance to the charges” against Markish and the other defendants and closed the case.

'Never Perfectly Free from Giddiness'

Yet another unfamiliar word I would like to see revived: gasconade. Dr. Johnson gives a typically terse definition: “a boast; a bravado.” He cites the letter Jonathan Swift wrote to Alexander Pope in which I encountered the word this week: “Was it a gasconade to please me, that you said your fortune was increased to one hundred a year since I left you?”

 As a noun, the word entered English from the French in the seventeenth century. Later it became a verb and an adjective. The OED’s definition is “extravagant boasting or exaggeration; boastful or bombastic language.” In other words, bluster, bloviation, braggadocio, magniloquence, bullshit, the way politicians talk. Richard Steele used the word in The Tatler No. 115 in 1709: “[H]is great volubility and inimitable manner of speaking, as well as the great courage he showed on those occasions, did sometimes betray him into that figure of speech which is commonly distinguished by the name of ‘gasconade.’” Other sources cited are Tobias Smollett and John Quincey Adams. 

 

Swift’s letter to Pope is dated August 11, 1729. In it, he describes symptoms of a chronic inner-ear disorder – likely, scholars have deduced, Ménière's disease – that plagued him from the age of twenty. Swift suffered from vertigo, nausea, tinnitus and progressive deafness:

 

“[M]y head is never perfectly free from giddiness, and especially toward night. Yet my disorder is very moderate, and I have been without a fit of deafness this half year; so I am like a horse, which, though off his mettle, can trot on tolerably; and this comparison puts me in mind to add that I am returned to be a rider, wherein I wish you would imitate me.”

'Objects of Value or Virtue'

The only summer mornings we woke up and got dressed early was garbage collection day. We had to beat the trash men. This was long before recycling came into fashion. Everything went into the fluted metal trash cans. Larger objects were piled beside them. Once we found an oversized television set which we carried away in a wagon, hauled deep into the woods, lugged across the creek and up the hill and threw off a cliff for the pure delight of hearing a cathode ray tube explode. I marvel that some of that glass, metal and plastic are probably still in that creek bed after sixty years.

We claimed old magazines and assorted bric-à-brac. At the time – early-to-mid-sixties – I was reading my way through the collected oeuvre of Edgar Rice Burroughs. Once I found a machete-length butcher knife with a wooden handle. I painted the blade red and proudly carried my John Carter of Mars sword. I suspect kids today would be admonished not to do any of the things I’ve just described, though we were practicing our own version of recycling. Howard Nemerov precedes his poem “The Town Dump” with lines from Act III, Scene 2 of King Lear. Lear is on the heath during the storm. Kent leads him to a hovel for shelter and Lear says “The art of our necessities is strange, / That can make vile things precious.” That’s a nice gloss on our hobby as kids. Nemerov goes on to describe our weekly summer pastime:

 

“Objects of value or virtue,

However, are also to be picked up here,

Though rarely, lying with bones and rotten meat,

Eggshells and mouldy bread, banana peels

No one will skid on, apple cores that caused

Neither the fall of man nor a theory

Of gravitation. People do throw out

The family pearls by accident, sometimes,

Not often; I’ve known dealers in antiques

To prowl this place by night, with flashlights . . .”

'Capricious and Leaking'

“[T]here is, perhaps, a special pleasure in re-learning the names of many of the flowers every spring. It is like re-reading a book that one has almost forgotten. Montaigne tells us that he had so bad a memory that he could always read an old book as though he had never read it before.”

The Irish critic Robert Lynd (1879-1949) is writing in the title essay of his 1921 collection The Pleasures of Ignorance. Naturally, I couldn’t remember which essay by Montaigne he cited but logically enough I found the passage in “Of Books”:

 

“To compensate a little for the treachery and weakness of my memory, so extreme that it has happened to me more than once to pick up again, as recent and unknown to me, books which I had read carefully a few years before and scribbled over with my notes, I have adopted the habit for some time now of adding at the end of each book (I mean of those that I intend to use only once) the time I finished reading it and the judgment I have derived of it as a whole . . .”

I had a similar experience recently when looking up something I had written on Anecdotal Evidence eighteen years ago. I quickly found it but in the same post I referred to another book I have no recollection of having read. The title and even the author’s name are blanks in memory. Lynd would understand:

“I have myself a capricious and leaking memory. I can read Hamlet itself and The Pickwick Papers as though they were the work of new authors and had come wet from the press, so much of them fades between one reading and another.”

 Even serious readers and rereaders, at least those not cursed with photographic memories, must concede that we’re left with general impressions of books in memory, not transcripts. I’ve read Conrad’s Nostromo twice but just the other day I had to search a digital version to confirm the precise wording of a passage I incompletely remembered.

 

“With a bad memory,” Lynd writes, “one can go on reading Plutarch and The Arabian Nights all one's life. Little shreds and tags, it is probable, will stick even in the worst memory, just as a succession of sheep cannot leap through a gap in a hedge without leaving a few wisps of wool on the thorns. But the sheep themselves escape, and the great authors leap in the same way out of an idle memory and leave little enough behind.”

 

In On the Ivory Stages (Mirabeau Press, 2024), Theodore Dalrymple calls Lynd “a distinguished essayist” and says his work is “very un-strident in tone” for a man so heavily involved in Irish politics. Rather, his essays are “those of an amused, sceptical observer of the follies of mankind, as well as a recorder of the small pleasures of existence.”

 

[The Montaigne passage is from the translation of The Complete Essays of Montaigne by Donald Frame (Stanford University Press, 1957).]

'It Is to Live'

Literature is a hobby, and not. It is an academic discipline, and not. It is a diversion, a distraction, an escape. But some of us can’t imagine a well-lived life without it. There’s a lot of talk about books being good for us, making us better, more empathetic people, all of which may be true but that’s not why I read. If I were asked for a definitive explanation, I would be lost. In part it’s habit, the pure momentum of a lifetime spent reading, and I see no reason to stop. I know good books make me happy, even their proximity in the same room, which sounds vaguely fetishistic. They’re companionable, friend-like – but so is a cat. There’s consolation in books – but more in loved ones. Such metaphors seem to suggest we read to be in the company of other humans, even when we’re alone. 

Theodore Dalrymple has been publishing a series of books with a simple premise – the books he has been reading and the thoughts they trigger. They are not collections of reviews and some of the books he reads are admittedly lousy. He’s fond of saying that every book has something of interest in it, something that can be thought about and cherished or dismissed. In the latest installment, Not for the Proud Man Apart (Mirabeau Press, 2026), Dalrymple writes:

 

“[O]ne of the pleasures of growing old – perhaps the pleasure of growing old – is that the association of ideas with what one reads, which is never quite logical, and certainly not voluntary, becomes richer.”

 

I stretch to imagine a life without reading. My understanding of the world would be threadbare. It’s perfectly possible to be virtuous, even saint-like, having never read a book, and it's likely that most of the world’s problems are caused by literate people.

 

For several months early in the century I read nothing but books by or about Henry James. I had returned to college to complete my B.A., having dropped out thirty years before. I was writing a senior thesis on James and his “poor sensitive gentlemen,” life’s spectators, too timid or passive to do other than live an unlived life. I began to notice the peculiar regularity with which benches appear in his novels and stories, often as a refuge for such characters.

 

Madame de Mauves in her eponymous story occupies a bench on the terrace at Saint-Germaine-en-Laye when she is introduced to Longmore. Frederick Winterbourne is seated on a bench outside the hotel at Vevey when he first meets Daisy Miller. Isabel Archer takes her place on a bench at Gardencourt during her final scene with Caspar Goodwood in The Portrait of a Lady. For their only meeting outside her workplace, the unnamed heroine of “In the Cage” sits with Captain Everard on a park bench in London and announces her secret, unacknowledged devotion. Dencombe, the doomed, doubt-wracked novelist in “The Middle Years,” faints and comes under the care of Dr. Hugh while on a bench at the seaside. Stransom suffers his apparently fatal attack on a chapel bench in front of his altar at the conclusion of “The Altar of the Dead.” John Marcher twice takes his seat on a bench in “The Beast in the Jungle,” James’ greatest story.

 

It’s thesis fodder, I know, of no interest to anyone. But by reading James I became aware of the ways people use park benches – for lovers’ trysts, as a place for tired parents to watch their kids, as a public sanctuary for old people. I consulted Jane Jacobs on the importance of urban parks. I experienced no colossal epiphany. I just made life a little more interesting.

 

Henry Oliver writes about books with love and without grandiosity. In “Literature as Part of Life,” a recent essay at The Common Reader, he writes: “To read, then, is not to receive commentary; it is not to see art as a mirror of the world or the lamp of a soul. It is to live. It is another way of living, just as walking and eating and loving and talking are.”

'The Sudden Erection of Your Small Dorsal Hairs'

The medical technician performing the echocardiogram asked me to lie on my side, not “dorsally.” I thought first of the triangular fin on the back of a porpoise. Then I thought of Nabokov’s 1966 interview with Alfred J. Appel, who asks, “Do you think literary criticism is at all purposeful, and if so, what kind of criticism would you point to?” He replies: 

“My advice to a budding literary critic would be as follows. Learn to distinguish banality. Remember that mediocrity thrives on ‘ideas.’ Beware of the modish message. Ask yourself if the symbol you have detected is not your own footprint. Ignore allegories. By all means place the ‘how’ above the ‘what’ but do not let it be confused with the ‘so what.’ Rely on the sudden erection of your small dorsal hairs. Do not drag in Freud at this point. All the rest depends on personal talent.”

 

The reference to “small dorsal hairs” is characteristic of Nabokov’s imagination – physical, playful, precise. He was a lepidopterist. His remark  reminds me of the test for poetry A.E. Housman proposed in the Leslie Stephen Lecture at Cambridge (Nabokov’s alma mater) in 1933, published as “The Name and Nature of Poetry”: “Experience has taught me, when I am shaving of a morning, to keep watch over my thoughts, because, if a line of poetry strays into my memory, my skin bristles so that the razor ceases to act.”

 

Such sensitivity and openness to a text is part of the “personal talent” Nabokov commends. He endorses in critics and other readers sensitivity mingled with attention to detail and independence of thought. So much criticism is written in lockstep with prevailing fashion. Janet Lewis, in a poem from 1930, “Lines to a Kitten” (Poems Old and New 1918-1978), describes her cat as a “morsel of suavity.” It sits on her knee and intently watches a fly six feet across the room:

 

“Only the great

And you, can dedicate

The attention so to one small thing.”

'A Collection of Good Books'

“It is only about the contents of a book that I care, not its shape, its date, or the number on its flyleaves.”

Spoken like a reader, not a parvenu accumulating vogueish titles as though they were bowling trophies. Books as fashion statement or evidence of “interleckchul” (Flannery O’Connor’s spelling) status are comically pretentious. Aldous Huxley published his essay “If My Library Burned Tonight” in the November 1947 issue of House and Garden magazine (!). He posits a fire that destroys his library: “[A]s an emergency measure, in the first few weeks after our hypothetical fire, I shall buy myself only the most indispensable aids to mental health and security.”

Many of Huxley’s choices are admirably predictable: Shakespeare, Chaucer, Homer, Dante. He doesn’t select obscure titles merely to show off – a common scam among bloggers and other readers. Nor does he sanctify even those he chooses: “There will be Wordsworth because he is one of the forces of nature, and this in spite of the fact that he could write worse than anybody and that, after Milton and Dante, he was probably the least sympathetic of the great poets.” Donne, Baudelaire, Yeats and Eliot follow.

Among novelists: Proust, Joyce, Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Balzac, Dickens. A few debatable surprises: Stendahl, Choderlos de Laclos. Benjamin Constant, Fielding, Voltaire. Again, Huxley asserts winningly personal criticism: “. . . Swift, perennially comic and a misanthrope whose distaste for the human race finds in every successive year of our history new and ever more hideous justifications. As for Smollett – no; my sense of humor is not robust enough to rejoice unreservedly in syphilis and broken legs.” Trollope, yes; Goethe, Scott, Thackery, no. With Flaubert, a surprise: “Bouvard et Pecuchet, however, will be among the first books to be re-bought. . . . Compared with it, Swift’s Advice to Servants and Polite Conversation are mere Theocritean idylls.” D.H. Lawrence? Huxley, a hearty yea. Kurp, nay. His endorsement of Conrad is reluctant.

Next, essays and other forms of nonfiction. Montaigne and Pascal, of course. Bacon and Balthazar Gracian. A nice surprise is Huxley’s inclusion of Thomas Traherne’s Centuries of Meditation, which he calls “the beautiful expression of that supernatural joy which is one of the fruits of the spirit.” Hume, Johnson, Coleridge (“only in his notebooks and his Aids to Reflection”), Lamb, De Quincey, Macaulay (“who writes like a military band and is the best possible reading for a rainy afternoon”), Emerson (a stentorian Kurp “nay”), Bagehot, Saint-Beuve, Arnold, Ruskin, Schopenhauer. A polite and welcome partial-dismissal of Virginia Woolf follows. The letters of Keats and the Goncourt Journals.

Conspicuous omissions: Greek and Roman writers except for Homer, Sterne, Leopardi, Hazlitt, George Eliot, Darwin, Henry James, Chekhov, Auden. Huxley closes with a line from a Matthew Arnold sonnet:

“‘What props, thou ask’st, in these bad days my mind?’ One of the answers to Arnold’s curiously unpronounceable question remains today what it has been ever since man first invented the art of writing: a collection of good books.”

[Thanks to Isaac Waisberg of IWP Books for alerting me to this essay. Isaac has published fifteen Huxley titles.]

'And He Disappeared'

On the morning of August 5, 1763, Dr. Johnson accompanied Boswell on the stage-coach that would carry him to the port of Harwich. Then twenty-two, Boswell would be taking the packet-boat to Utrecht in the Netherlands, where he would study law. The two men – Johnson was fifty-three – had met less than three months earlier. Johnson would never have children of his own but already he had developed a paternal devotion to his future biographer. He schooled Boswell the way he schools the rest of us: 

“Next day we got to Harwich, to dinner; and my passage in the packet-boat to Helvoetsluys being secured, and my baggage put on board, we dined at our inn by ourselves. I happened to say, it would be terrible if he should not find a speedy opportunity of returning to London, and be confined in so dull a place. Johnson. ‘Don’t, Sir, accustom yourself to use big words for little matters. It would not be terrible, though I were to be detained some time here.’ The practice of using words of disproportionate magnitude, is, no doubt, too frequent every where . . .”

 

What follows may be my favorite scene in all of Boswell’s Life. I’m touched every time I read it. Boswell could be a whoring drunkard but here his reverence for Johnson overflows and his prose -- little words for big matters -- rises to the occasion:

 

“My revered friend walked down with me to the beach, where we embraced and parted with tenderness, and engaged to correspond by letters. I said, ‘I hope, Sir, you will not forget me in my absence.’ Johnson. ‘Nay, Sir, it is more likely you should forget me, than that I should forget you.’ As the vessel put out to sea, I kept my eyes upon him for a considerable time, while he remained rolling his majestic frame in his usual manner; and at last I perceived him walk back into the town, and he disappeared.”

'The Oxford Book of Depressing Verse'

“Some day I shall compile an Oxford Book of Depressing Verse, which shall contain nothing but the most magnificent expressions of melancholy and despair.” 

I’ve never spent much time reading Aldous Huxley – Brave New World in junior-high school, Crome Yellow a little later, then, inevitably, The Doors of Perception, when it was a cult book for many of my generation. I remember almost nothing about any of them and recall his fiction as idea-driven, often a giveaway for a stillborn story. In On the Ivory Stages (Mirbeau, 2024), Theodore Dalrymple says of The Olive Tree and Other Essays (1936): “Huxley was a wonderful essayist: amusing, erudite and opinionated (who wants to read an essayist who is always fair and judicious?).”

 

Thanks to Dalrymple, I’ve been reading Huxley’s first collection, On the Margin: Notes and Essays (1923), and may re-evaluate at least a portion of his body of work. I had never suspected Huxley of having a sense of humor. The passage above is from the essay “How the Days Draw In!”:

 

“Of late I have found myself almost incapable of enjoying any poetry whose inspiration is not despair or melancholy. Why, I hardly know. Perhaps it is due to the chronic horror of the political situation. For heaven knows, that is quite sufficient to account for a taste for melancholy verse. The subject of any European government to-day feels all the sensations of Gulliver in the paws of the Queen of Brobdingnag’s monkey—the sensations of some small and helpless being at the mercy of something monstrous and irresponsible and idiotic.”

 

Amusing and timely. Even better, he plans to include in his anthology one of my favorite poets, championed by Yvor Winters and Thom Gunn: “A duly adequate amount of space, for example, will be allotted to that all but great poet, Fulke Greville, Lord Brooke [1554-1628]. For dark magnificence there are not many things that can rival that summing up against life and human destiny at the end of his ‘Mustapha’:

 

“Oh, wearisome condition of humanity,

Born under one law to another bound,

Vainly begot and yet forbidden vanity,

Created sick, commanded to be sound.

What meaneth nature by these diverse laws,

Passion and reason, self-division’s cause?

 

“Is it the mark or majesty of power

To make offences that it may forgive?

Nature herself doth her own self deflower

To hate those errors she herself doth give....

If nature did not take delight in blood,

She would have made more easy ways to good.”

 

Huxley adds: “Milton aimed at justifying the ways of God to man; Fulke Greville gloomily denounces them.” He then quotes an excerpt from Greville’s Alaham: A Tragedy. The next candidate for inclusion in Huxley’s anthology is a seventeenth-century Frenchman unknown to me, Jean Ogier de Gombauld, followed by these familiar lines:

 

“The flesh is bruckle, the fiend is slee:

Timor mortis conturbat me:—”

 

The Latin, “fear of death disturbs me,” is probably best known from “Lament for the Makers” by the Scottish poet William Dunbar (c. 1460-c. 1530).