In Time Read online

  C. K. Williams is professor of creative writing at Princeton University. He is the author of eighteen books of poetry, including Repair and The Singing, as well as several books of prose, most recently, On Whitman.

  The University of Chicago Press, Chicago 60637

  The University of Chicago Press, Ltd., London

  © 2012 by The University of Chicago

  All rights reserved. Published 2012.

  Printed in the United States of America

  21 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 1 2 3 4 5

  ISBN-13: 978-0-226-89951-0 (cloth)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-226-89952-7 (e-book)

  ISBN-10: 0-226-89951-9 (cloth)

  ISBN-10: 0-226-89952-7 (e-book)

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data

  Williams, C. K. (Charles Kenneth), 1936–

  In time : poets, poems, and the rest / C.K.Williams.

  pages ; cm

  ISBN-13: 978-0-226-89951-0 (cloth : alkaline paper)

  ISBN-10: 0-226-89951-9 (cloth : alkaline paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-226-89952-7 (e-book)

  ISBN-10: 0-226-89952-7 (e-book) 1. English poetry—History and criticism. 2. Williams, C. K. (Charles Kenneth), 1936—Interviews. I. Title.

  PS3573.I4483A6 2012

  811′.54—dc23

  2012007986

  This paper meets the requirements of ANSI / NISO Z39.48-1992 (Permanence of Paper).

  THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO PRESS

  CHICAGO AND LONDON

  IN TIME

  Poets, Poems, and the Rest

  C. K. Williams

  For Robert Pinsky

  Contents

  Preface

  PART I Poetry and Poets

  Unlikely Likes: George Herbert and Philip Larkin

  Amichai near the End

  Autobiography with Translation

  Lowell Later

  Odd Endings

  Some Reflections on Tragedy

  Letter to a Workshop

  PART II Answerings: Interview Excerpts

  PART III The Rest

  Two Encounters Early On

  Literary Models of Adolescence

  Paris as Symbol, Idea, and Reality

  Letter to a German Friend

  Nature and Panic

  On Being Old

  Acknowledgments

  Notes

  Preface

  The first time I gave a lecture was a terrifying, traumatic experience. I’d had no idea it would be—I was asked by a friend who taught architecture to give a talk on poetry to an assembly of undergraduates; it would be one of my first public appearances, and I was quite excited. I scribbled a page of notes and, fortunately, also brought along my first book, Lies, which had just been published.

  I took my stand behind the lectern, began to improvise from my notes, and was horrified to discover that at the end of five minutes, I had absolutely nothing more to say—I’d exhausted every idea on that sad single page of scrawl. I stood for a moment in paralysis and panic before I realized that the only thing I could possibly do was to read from my book, which I did for the remainder of my allotted fifty minutes. Though my friend tried to cheer me up afterward, I was really quite miserable, feeling I’d failed dreadfully.

  For a long time after that awful afternoon I would simply decline invitations to give talks. Then I was asked to deliver the inaugural lecture for a series dedicated to the memory of my friend Paul Zweig. I felt I had to accept, I did, this time I wrote out my talk in advance, and it went well. Thus began my career as an essayist—I’d discovered that writing prose was rather pleasurable and, in truth, much easier than composing poems, if surely less exciting. I realized, too, that when I was invited to give a talk I’d be able to survive speaking prose before an audience if I wrote out what I was going to say in the form of an essay, and before long I found that I’d written enough for a book, and so published Poetry and Consciousness.

  Since then, I’ve continued to write essays, sometimes as lectures, sometimes in response to requests from periodicals, sometimes just because I’d be taken by ideas about poetry and poets I felt I might like to explore, and once because I felt I had something I wanted to offer in the realm of morality and history, which resulted in “Letter to a German Friend.”

  This book is a collection generated by these various propulsions, as well as a section of brief excerpts from interviews, which has its own introduction. The last essay, “On Being Old,” was commissioned by the English Poetry Society. When I was asked for a subject for a lecture, the title for some reason immediately popped into my mind: it had come to me that I wanted to do some summing up of the fifty-five years I’d been immersed in the both gratifying and occasionally maddening struggle with my craft. I’ve had a life that’s been long—rather amazingly so—and full, which is another sort of wonder. Through all my adult years, poetry has been with me, and I think “On Being Old” is an expression of gratitude and astonishment that I managed to stumble into a world the richness of which I really had no idea when I began. I certainly do now.

  PART I

  Poetry and Poets

  Unlikely Likes

  George Herbert and Philip Larkin

  1

  A painter I know tells his students a parable about the creative process: “When you go into your studio and stand in front of your canvas,” he says, “about sixteen people are there with you: some of your teachers, a lot of painters from the past and some from the present, some friends, maybe even relatives, and you. As you begin to think about your painting a few of the people get up and leave; when you lift your brush, a few more go; as you advance on the canvas you’re down to just one or two, and when you start to paint you’re all alone with the canvas, and with the work you’re trying to make.” I like the story because it encapsulates so much of the artist’s struggles, but it also slights a bit other elements of aesthetic decision.

  Because when the painter picks up the brush or the poet the pen, it isn’t only the obvious artistic influences that make claims on the creating consciousness—the entire world does, every detail of every reality the artist has ever known or even heard of; every belief, every myth and every concept, every iota of every perception the artist has ever had or imagined. That’s not even counting those other variables that constitute our personal identities, the assemblages of assets and liabilities, ambitions and gifts and quirks, facilities and flaws that drive or impede us as we confront the more than improbable undertaking of reducing all this to a sheet of linen or the puffs of bent air that indicate that a poem is being spoken.

  Really, the most radical decisions an artist or writer has to make concern what of reality to omit from the work. Of course we don’t have to be conscious of most of these variables all the time: many of the choices about what to deal with and how to deal with them are made in advance. We’re situated at a certain point in history from which we encounter reality, and we are the recipients of a conglomerate of cultural assumptions that eliminate other areas of reality and experience. Then there are those elements of the metaphysical that were inculcated in us and that we “believe in,” or wish we did, or once believed in, or wish we didn’t or hadn’t. Our vision of course is further determined by the language we speak, as well as by the aesthetic forms in which we’re fluent.

  It’s clear then, that every artist, and every poet—I’ll speak only of poets now—more or less systematically though not necessarily entirely consciously develops modes of inclusion and exclusion with which to elaborate a vision and to accomplish works in accord with that vision. One might even imagine a scale of inclusion and exclusion as a way to categorize poetic intention. Poets like Shakespeare, Dante, Whitman, Wordsworth, and Yeats would be at one extreme, writers who mean to account for as many instances of re
ality as possible. At the other extreme would be those poets who for various ends purposefully limit their work in either an experiential or formal way. The reason for such limitings might be to go more deeply rather than comprehensively into aspects of self or nonself or to investigate more subtly rather than inclusively perceptual consciousness or belief. It’s in this category in which I would situate George Herbert, whose work is an obvious instance of a conscious limiting of spiritual concern and aesthetic scope, and Philip Larkin, whose systems of exclusion are less apparent but just as rigorous.

  2

  There’s no great puzzle in seeing how Herbert strictly defined his aesthetic intentions: all his poems are designed to serve one single purpose, which is prayer, although this also includes preparation for prayer and despair about not being able to pray, or to pray properly, with adequate conviction or purity of conscience and consciousness. To pray is to praise and thank Christ for the benefits, some not immediately evident, that his incarnation and self-sacrifice have brought to humanity; all other movements of mind, unless intimately connected with those facts, are trivial, distracting, spiritually dangerous, and potentially repulsive. Herbert is alone in his poems with his God, and a listener, one who also presumably wishes to pray. If Herbert participates in a community of human affection, that is incidental to his purpose; if he has aesthetic aspirations for his poetic gifts, they are to be mistrusted, although he is perfectly aware of his talents. For example, in “Jordan II,” he writes

  When first my lines of heav’nly joys made mention,

  Such was their lustre, they did so excel

  That I sought out quaint words, and trim invention;

  My thoughts began to burnish, sprout, and swell,

  Curling with metaphors a plain intention,

  Decking the sense, as if it were to sell.

  Thousands of notions in my brain did run,

  Off’ring their service, if I were not sped:

  I often blotted what I had begun;

  This was not quick enough, and that was dead.

  Nothing could seem too rich to clothe the sun . . .

  Herbert’s genius is so ample that he can command himself to spontaneity, and accomplish it, so richly elegantly and with such unselfconscious abundance do his verses seem to flow from him. And we take more pleasure in his work than he claims to allow himself, for in fact he does bring great areas of the world into the poems—both in their associations and figurations—and intricate and precise examples of worldly reality and personal experience (though now presumably renounced) adorn the poems. Passions, though overcome, are still accounted for; earthly longings, though sublimated for spiritual ends, are elaborately recast. In one of my favorite poems, “The Pearl,” Herbert acknowledges his attentiveness to the pleasures of human experience and reveals how much he has incorporated of them.

  I know the ways of Learning; both the head

  And pipes that feed the press, and make it run;

  What reason hath from nature borrowed,

  Or of itself, like a good housewife, spun

  In laws and policy; what the stars conspire,

  What willing nature speaks, what forc’d by fire;

  Both th’ old discoveries, and the new-found seas,

  The stock and surplus, cause and history:

  All these stand open, or I have the keys;

  Yet I love thee.

  I know the ways of Honor, what maintains

  The quick returns of courtesy and wit:

  In vies of favours whether party gains,

  When glory swells the heart, and mouldeth it

  To all expressions both of hand and eye,

  Which on the world a true-love-know may tie,

  And bear the bundle, wheresoe’er it goes:

  How many drams of spirit there must be

  To see my life unto my friends or foes:

  Yet I love thee.

  And then, although Herbert is dedicatedly abstinent, he continues, in one of the most sensual stanzas of poetry in the language:

  I know the ways of Pleasure, the sweet strains,

  The lullings and the relishes of it;

  The propositions of hot blood and brains;

  What mirth and music mean; what love and wit

  Have done these twenty hundred years, and more:

  I know the projects of unbridled store;

  My stuff is flesh, not brass; my senses live,

  And grumble oft, that they have more in me

  Than he that curbs them, being but one to five:

  Yet I love thee.

  3

  It’s more difficult to see how Larkin made an equivalent limiting aesthetic decision for his poetry. There’s a great deal of reality directly and concretely considered in his work; he is vigorously contemporary in his imagery; and his poems incorporate a wide variety of his own experiences, sentiments, and perceptions: he writes of everything from mine explosions to race horses to train rides, country fairs, sadly spoiled love affairs, and dismal rooms in horrid boarding houses. And yet his poetry manifests just as severe a system of omission as Herbert’s, and its content and modes of reflection are equally determined by that system.

  If Herbert committed his poetry to the ultimate and intimate demands of his religion, the resolution manifested in Larkin’s work is perhaps even more radical. Larkin’s poems evidence a vision of commitment to absolute personal truth: there is present in the poems only the poet as he actually lived, with no compromising illusions about himself or about the reality in which his life took place. Larkin dedicated his work to an unflinching refusal to allow in it any element of his character that aspired to be other than it really was, which generated illusion or lied to itself or others, that fantasized or aggrandized or mythologized itself in any way.

  This can seem to be a rather self-evident commitment for a poet, but in fact it’s quite rare. The aggrandizement of the lyric personality is a basic assumption in poetry, and in Romantic and post-Romantic poetry the act of writing itself came to be regarded as redemptive: the poet as the protagonist of his poems became something like a secular priest, or a prophet, recasting modalities of beauty and veracity and redefining ethical and aesthetic boundaries. There are obvious examples: Wordsworth, Shelley, Baudelaire, Rimbaud, Whitman, Yeats, Eliot, and Lowell. But even in figures of apparently lesser ambition, it’s the rule rather than the exception for poets to assume implications for their writing that imply a larger-than-life scale and significance. Furthermore, even introspective activities such as self-scrutiny, even an analytic vision of consciousness, point in most modern poets towards a presumably valiant enlarging of lexicons of concern.

  Larkin will have none of this. Despite the powerful influence of Yeats on his early work (he famously replaced Yeats as his tutelary spirit with Hardy and declared that this had allowed him to mature as an artist), and despite some later experiments with an Audenesque public persona, and even a Dylan Thomas-like orchestration of the ego, in all his mature work there is apparent what can only be called a renunciation, a refusal to allow the self any deceiving overevaluation, and this discipline brings as decisive a limitation in thematic enactment as Herbert’s, and one that is as poetically effective.

  Larkin, at heart, was surely an incorrigible romantic, haunted by the transcendence he longs for but knows he can’t have, whether that transcendence is in the form of sexual or spiritual fulfillment, and yet this passion is always kept in check, ironized, even sometimes quietly mocked, and finally the strictures on these desires end up constraining anything like the solace they might offer. No more than Herbert will he find pleasure in any manifestation of worldly satisfaction; though he certainly knows their attraction, Larkin will not comfort himself with anything that might be characterized as metaphysically illusory.

  There is much else similar in the two poets. Both have an ascetic, even mistrustful attitude towards beauty, yet both are brilliantly accomplished in a wide variety of poetic music, and compose with an inimi
table polish. There is even a certain unlikely conjunction in their areas of concern: both write of the seductive absurdity of money, of the temptations of the flesh, and of the illusions of worldly success. Of course we read the poets very differently: his poetic gifts aside, Herbert’s spiritual agon, though exhilarating and even inspiring, takes place at a certain moral distance from most of us; his poetry enacts a spiritual struggle that concerns us mostly in a theatrical way.

  With Larkin, in contrast, the exertions and tensions of the person moving through the poems are intensely familiar; we live Larkin’s experience with him in a way that can afflict us with realizations we would just as soon not have to acknowledge about ourselves. By so completely shedding any pretension towards personal mythologizing, towards situating the self in an overt spiritual or philosophical context, Larkin positions himself unadorned, often, it can seem, even unclothed, flayed of his skin, against the potentially oppressive forces of contemporary moral and metaphysical debasement. The truth Larkin confronts and implements in his work is the insidious, barely admissible suspicion that someone else is possibly closer to the center of the reality one values than one is oneself or, perhaps even worse, that no one is at that center at all, that there might not be a hero in our way of existing. Eliot wrote, “I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be,” but just from his tone we know he doesn’t for a moment mean what he says: all his poems are cunningly constructed so as to be certain we take him not merely as the hero of his own poetic moment but also as the culminating identity of a poetical-mythological process spanning all the realms of human angst. Larkin wouldn’t dream of saying he wasn’t Hamlet or any other dramatic protagonist: he has made the decision, in his poems, where it works often to great effect, and apparently in his life as well, where perhaps it brought about a less happy result, never even to entertain such foolishness; he mocks, vehemently and contemptuously, much more harmless pretensions than this.

  At his best, at his most withholding and wise, Larkin’s daunting commitment allows him a very effective objectivity; there’s a forceful union of self-effacement and skepticism in his poems. He’s like the figure at the side of some Baroque paintings who holds back a curtain with one hand while coolly gesturing a welcome into a room presumably previously concealed. Except Larkin’s drama is more harrowing, because viewed in another way he is the room; language in its most reflective mode will deal with nothing other than the contents of itself, and, as with any reflective poet, it is most often the space of Larkin’s own sensitivity that is the subject of his poems. And the mind he presents to us is not so much self-effacing as self-abnegating; he reduces himself in many of own poems and, in his recounting of events in his life, to a very contingent presence, one who observes, comments, scorns, despairs, and occasionally, very occasionally, exalts, but only rarely pretends to satisfying personal experience or emotions.