Posts Tagged ‘literature’

Voices and Voices

March 5, 2016


There was no shutting them down! Whether we had anything for them to do or not, they ran all the time! And were they ever loud! Oh, God, were they ever loud.

—Kurt Vonnegut
, Galapagos

People and people screaming with need
Their dreams and desires and egos to feed
Attacking my senses and making me bleed

Bloody compassion fills me inside
My fragile existence cannot abide
I’ll dig me a hole where I can hide

But even alone I can’t clear my head
Voices and voices of anguish and dread
Rattle the skull until we are dead

by Richard W. Bray

Vanity: The Mother of all Noble and Vile Illusions

July 7, 2013
Joseph Conrad

Joseph Conrad

It’s usually more fun to think about other people’s problems, but we can never get away from ourselves. And our fixations on others can teach us a lot about ourselves. For example, if you often hear yourself saying, “Dave is such a jerk for always talking about how much money he has,” you are probably more than a little bit jealous. Or, if you are constantly telling yourself, “It’s a good thing I don’t drink as much as Larry. He really has a problem,” well, you might just be an alcoholic.

I have found that a great opportunity for reflection is the moment after the flood of hostility and righteous indignation has passed. But first I have to remind myself that it’s not my task in life to figure out what’s wrong with everybody else.

But in order for human beings to function as social organisms, some level of interest in others is necessary. A perfectly solipsistic person who spends all his psychic energy focused upon his inner world would be incapable of social interaction in addition to being a tedious bore. (Think Sheldon Cooper minus the modicum of concern he has for the rest of humanity.)

Our view of the world is filtered through the prism of our thoughts and feelings; the trick is to maintain some level of sanity by achieving a workable harmony between our inner and outer worlds. People who are unable to reconcile the pain and frustrations of this world with their need to assert some level of dignity often resort to drastic solutions. As Joseph Conrad notes of the hapless, ragtag lot of would-be world-fixers in The Secret Agent:

in their own way the most ardent of revolutionaries are perhaps doing no more but seeking for peace in common with the rest of mankind—the peace of soothed vanity, of satisfied appetites, or perhaps of appeased conscience.

Broken on the inside but lacking the requisite courage and self-understanding to confront their pain, Conrad’s misbegotten idealists endeavor vainly to incite a revolution that will obliterate their woes.

There are two types of revolutionaries in The Secret Agent: The fanatics (The Professor and Karl Yundt) and the ineffectual justice-seekers (Michaelis, Comrade Ossipan, and Stevie.) (Verloc, the paid informant of an unidentified foreign power, is, of course, no sort of revolutionary at all.) Conrad sums up theses two sects:

the majority of revolutionists are the enemies of discipline and fatigue mostly. There are natures too, to whose sense of justice the price exacted looms up monstrously enormous, odious, oppressive, worrying, humiliating, extortionate, intolerable. Those are the fanatics. The remaining portion of social rebels is accounted for by vanity, the mother of all noble and vile illusions, the companion of poets, reformers, charlatans, prophets, and incendiaries.

For the two fanatics in The Secret Agent, this monstrously enormous sense of justice is crammed inside their feeble little egos. The ghoulish Karl Yundt (The Terrorist) is obsessed with manly violence and self-glorifying violence. In his twisted, misanthropic mind, destruction is the highest form of benevolence:

I have always dreamed,” he mouthed, fiercely, “of a band of men absolute in their resolve to discard all scruples in the choice of means, strong enough to give themselves frankly the name of destroyers, and free from the taint of that resigned pessimism which rots the world. No pity for anything on earth, including themselves, and death enlisted for good and all in the service of humanity–that’s what I would have liked to see.”

In striking contrast to Yundt, the Professor doesn’t require any followers. This man actually is an island. He lives, works, and plots his destruction alone. As he brags to Ossipan: “I’ve the grit to work alone, quite alone, absolutely alone. I’ve worked alone for years.” The professor’s gargantuan vanity feeds his acute need for isolation. It’s not his fault that humanity refuses to bow in obeisance to his manifest greatness.

His struggles, his privations, his hard work to raise himself in the social scale, had filled him with such an exalted conviction of his merits that it was extremely difficult for the world to treat him with justice— the standard of that notion depending so much upon the patience of the individual. The Professor had genius, but lacked the great social virtue of resignation.

And no one, not even the Professor, deserves to live in a world where the Professor is not adequately appreciated: “What happens to us as individuals is not of the least consequence,” he tells Ossipon.

The Professor is ready to blow himself up at any moment as a means of “affirming his superiority over all the multitude of mankind.” Like the petulant child who constantly threatens to take his ball and go home, the Professor is perpetually prepared to obliterate himself in order to prevent anyone from ever getting the best of him.

In order to preserve this illusion of strength, the Professor has convinced himself that his utter fear of humanity is a mark of virtue: “There are very few people in the world whose character is as well established as mine.”

Too vain, too pure, and too weak to scrutinize his inability to engage in the quotidian give-and-take of human interaction, the Professor’s fear of intimacy manifests itself as a twisted death wish which is only heroic in his own mind.

They depend on life, which, in this connection, is a historical fact surrounded by all sorts of restraints and considerations, a complex organised fact to attack at every point; whereas I depend on death, which knows no restraint and cannot be attacked. My superiority is evident.

Conrad notes that an appetite for intrigue and action is a prerequisite for the constable as well as the revolutionary: “The terrorist and the policeman both come form the same basket.” In contrast to the would-be revolutionists in The Secret Agent, however, Chief Inspector Heat and the Assisstant Commissioner possess sufficient self-awareness to maintain their sanity. (This is no small achievement. As Joseph Wambaugh notes, police work involves “a daily drop of corrosion.”) The Assistant Commissioner finds police work messy and unpleasant, but an honest self-appraisal allows him to keep his psyche intact.

No man engaged in a work he does not like can preserve many saving illusions about himself. The distaste, the absence of glamour, extend from the occupation to the personality. It is only when our appointed activities seem by a lucky accident to obey the particular earnestness of our temperament that we can taste the comfort of complete self-deception

Idealists have brought us, among other things, the abolition of slavery, child labor laws, and universal suffrage. The world is a better place for their efforts. But Joseph Conrad reminds us that “the way of even the most justifiable revolutions is prepared by personal impulses disguised into creeds.”

Richard W. Bray

Choosing Isolation: Edna Pontillier and Lewis Lambert Strether

June 22, 2013

fear intimacy

At first consideration, Lewis Lambert Strether of Henry James’s The Ambassadors and Kate Chopin’s Edna Pontellier of The Awakening could hardly appear more dissimilar: Strether is a timid older bachelor of modest means whose every decision is tempered by social mores; Mrs. Pontellier is a bold, young married woman in a financially comfortable position who is invulnerable to societal constraints. But they both ultimately choose to turn their backs on life. Pontellier’s suicide is only slightly more drastic than Strether’s decision to flee a woman who loves him in order to return to a world where nothing awaits him. They are both running away from human contact.

Kris Kristofferson’s observation that, “Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose,” is an accurate description of the prospects facing Strether and Edna Pontellier at the conclusion of their respective novels. Edna Pontellier decides to end her life whereas Strether eschews the possibility of love in order to return to Boston where his social and professional prospects are nil. Their respective choices demonstrate that Edna Pontellier and Strether do not need anyone but themselves. Some reviewers have praised the existential courage which allows Edna to shun all human connections in her pursuit of freedom; Strether’s return to Boston has been cast by critics in a similar, heroic light. However, it is a fear of intimacy rather than a quest for freedom which epitomizes their decisions.

Edna Pontellier has no empathy. She is not concerned with how her actions will affect others. She is consumed with her appetites to the extent that she views personal and filial relations merely as barrier to her sexual liberation. She will infuriate her father and sister, disgrace her husband, break Robert’s heart, and abandon her children in pursuit of sexual gratification without a hint of regret. Edna Pontellier does not comprehend the forces which will eventually lead her to forsake earthly existence, but her inexplicable depression makes her life unbearable:

An indescribable oppression, which seemed to generate in some unfamiliar part of her consciousness, filled her whole being with anguish (574).

Edna Pontellier yearns for a type of fulfillment which was largely unachievable for a married woman of her day, and the fact that many of her contemporaries might have found her situation enviable is of no comfort to her.

Edna Pontellier’s inability to find contentment living comfortably with her beautiful children and perfect husband (“all declared that Léonce Pontellier was the best husband in the world. Mrs. Pontellier was forced to admit that she knew none better”) is the result of a spiritual malaise which leads her to seek her salvation via sexual expression (574). (In this respect, Edna Pontellier is a forerunner of Erica Jong’s Isadora Wing who unabashedly promotes female liberation by means of the so-called “zipless fuck.”) Edna Pontellier does not comprehend the nature of her longings, but she never doubts that their fulfillment is the preeminent purpose of her existence. Despite the mysterious origin of her malady, Edna Pontellier is convinced that the pursuit of sexual freedom is her highest calling, of much greater importance than any relationship with another human being:

She had all her life been accustomed to harbor thoughts and emotions which never voiced themselves. They had never taken the form of struggles. They belonged to her and were her own, and she entertained the conviction that she had a right to them and they concerned no one but herself. Edna had once told Madame Ratignolle that she would never sacrifice herself for her children, or for any one (605-606).

When Strether Lambert decides to return to Boston, he is motivated by a fear of intimacy no less profound than the inability to make meaningful human contact which afflicts Edna Pontellier. The difference between the two characters is that while Edna Pontellier evades meaningful contact by immersing herself in loveless sexual liaisons, Stretcher avoids both emotional and physical intimacy. Despite his extreme immediate attraction to Maria Gostrey, Strether never seriously considers pursuing a relationship with her, even after Mrs. Newsome breaks off their potential engagement.

Strether is able to acknowledge to Miss Gostrey that he is utterly smitten by her upon their first meeting, but he is constitutionally incapable of achieving a physical relationship with her. He is, however, able to admit how this attraction both frightens and astounds him. When Maria asks Strether if he trusts her, he responds:

I think I do!–but that’s exactly what I’m afraid of. I shouldn’t mind if I didn’t. It’s falling thus, in twenty minutes, so utterly into your hands. I daresay, Strether continued, it’s a sort of thing you’re thoroughly familiar with; but nothing more extraordinary has ever happened to me (14).

And later in the novel we see the intensity of his attraction to her:

He was extraordinarily glad to see her….She was the blessing that had now become his need, and what could prove it better than without her he had lost himself? (74-75)

In his fifty-five years on Earth, Strether has never known an attraction to another human being comparable to what he feels for Miss Gostrey. Yet he is unable to act upon it. His inexplicable declaration that he is returning to Boston “To be right” is perplexing even when we take his overdeveloped sense of propriety into account (375). What could possibly be right about a man leaving a city and a woman he loves in order to return to a world where no one and nothing awaits him?

Edna Pontellier and Strether Lambert both lack whatever it is which allows human beings to attempt to reach across the divide which separates us. And although their depravity manifests itself in contrasting manners—she submerges herself in loveless affairs while he shuns intimacy entirely—they are more alike than different. Ultimately, they both choose isolation over love.

Richard W. Bray

One Way Trip

April 14, 2013


If I had lived a different life
In a different house with a different wife
With different kids and different pets
Would I still feel the same regrets?

Days gone by I can’t retrieve
The past’s a place we all must leave
Though it’s not easy to believe

Lamenting is a waste of time
Hardly worth this little rhyme
Now I must resume my climb

Life’s a trip that goes one way
Today cannot be yesterday
So laugh and sing and love and play
And carry on, come what may

Richard W. Bray

I Quit Crying but I Couldn’t Stop: Wild William Faulkner in the Land of the Nominalists

April 7, 2013

William Faulkner

William Faulkner was a writer of extremes and abstractions who was ready to try just about anything to stretch the boundaries of literary convention. He strove to demolish existing paradigms which interfered with his project—to drag the entire world of fiction to a new place. Thus Faulkner would not be bridled by accepted rules of grammar, style, and syntax.

One striking and prevalent feature in The Sound and the Fury, Absolom, Absolom!, and Light in August is the use of paradox, the collision of apparent opposites. Paradox has two functions here: First, it transmogrifies the ordinary into the abstract, and then it obliterates the reader’s standard method of ordering reality. In this regard Faulkner has something in common with Expressionist painters who tried to create multiple perceptions of reality. When Faulkner is at his most successful, his writing is fresh and exciting and capable of taking its reader to new frontiers; however, when he fails, he fails spectacularly. At his worst Faulkner can be cryptic, convoluted, and painfully cumbersome.

Faulkner’s style has always been controversial. Even those who acknowledge his greatness are often annoyed by it:

No other contemporary American novelist of comparable stature has been as frequently or severely criticized for his style as William Faulkner. Yet he is a brilliantly original and versatile stylist. The condemnations of his way of writing have been in part just; all but the most idolatrous of Faulkner’s admirers must have wished he had blotted a thousand infelicities (Beck 142).

Warren Beck’s hyperbolic phrase “brilliantly original” is accurate because Faulkner’s diction is radical, particularly in contrast to what his contemporaries were writing. In some ways Faulkner reminds us of the long and winding prose of Henry James or the lurid and unrestrained world of Joseph Conrad, but even Conrad rarely approaches the extremes of Faulkner. Faulkner’s perfervid prose is less foreign to today’s readers because his various progeny, from Gabriel Garcia Marquez to Toni Morrison, has redefined the literary landscape in his favor.

Faulkner’s prolix fiction is in stark contrast to the muscular style utilized by many of his contemporaries, particularly Hemingway, Stevens, and Cummings. This lean approach which Panthea Reid Broughton labels nominalism was preferred by many of the hard-nosed post-WWI writers who rejected the abstract and flowery world of the nineteenth century novel. For many such writers, the bombast and idealism of earlier novels seemed insincere and incongruous with the carnage of Verdun. The harsh, ugly truth of human depravity demanded a meaner and leaner approach to literature. Prewar writers such as Henry James built elaborate edifices containing various layers of meaning in order to depict a complex and often abstract world where there were no simple truths.

The nominalists would have none of this: “Cummings and his entire generation seem to have developed an almost paranoid fear of the abstract phrase” (Broughton 12). This war-weary group of authors strove to depict the brutality of existence in a direct and unsentimental way. Instead of attempting to mimic their predecessors by creating new levels of understanding via innumerable and parallax depictions of distinct phenomena, the nominalists strove to simplify their art by peeling away all that was redundant and superfluous. According to Wallace Stevens, the idea was to describe, “Not Ideas about the Thing, but the Thing Itself” (Broughton 21). Hemingway argued that the goal was to “strip the language clean, lay it bare down to the bone” (Broughton 14).

Greater clarity can often be achieved with fewer words; however, nominalism not only “ignores the complexity of reality, the evasiveness of truth,” but it also leads to smaller and smaller portrayals and eventually succumbs to minimalism, which is ultimately a meditation on futility in search of nothingness (Broughton 16). Faulkner took the opposite approach: He tried to say more with more while his contemporaries were attempting to do more with less.

Precisely because words are so inadequate to capture reality, Faulkner attempted to pile words upon words in order to create a variety of images and ideas which might add up to a fragmented picture of reality, somewhat in the manner of cubism. While the nominalists eschewed the use of abstraction, Faulkner reveled in it. Because Faulkner’s “understanding of the existential and esthetic functions of abstraction is…more balanced, complex, and sophisticated than that of, say, Ernest Hemingway who thought that abstractions were obscene, their use in art immoral,” his writing achieves things unimaginable for anyone who would attempt to “strip language clean” (Broughton xii).

Faulkner certainly enjoyed the notion of himself as an artist who was swimming upstream against contemporary fashion. In their day, Hemingway not only sold more books than Faulkner, but he was generally more cordially received by critics. This must have galled Faulkner despite innumerable claims he would make to the contrary. The following backhanded (and paradoxical) complement which Faulkner gave Hemingway reveals not only his contempt for Hemingway as an artist, but also Faulkner’s true assessment of which one of the two writers was aspiring to create great works of fiction:

I thought that he found out early what he could do and he stayed inside of that. He never did try to get outside the boundary of what he really could do and risk failure. He did what he could do marvelously well, first rate, but to me that is not success but failure….failure to me is the best to try something you can’t do, because it’s too much [to hope for) but still try and fail, then try it again. That to me is success (Meriwether 55;88).

Faulkner also says this about Hemingway: “He did it fine, but he didn’t try for the impossible” (Slatoff: 1960b;185).

So we can begin to understand the method in Faulkner’s madness by appreciating that he was merely trying to achieve the impossible. Although Faulkner did not write like a nominalist, he shared their ultimate goal, to depict truth with a capitol “T”. This is an extremely ambitious (indeed, Quixotic) undertaking. Faulkner was thus willing to experiment with language and the conventions of the novel in a variety of ways. This makes Faulkner a darling of the poststructuralists who are enthralled by Derrida’s concept of “free play.” John T. Matthews, deeply infected by postmodern jargon, sees Faulkner as an excellent example of someone whose “distinctive modernity involves an understanding of meaning as the infinite play of signifiers, and not as the attainment of an absolute signified, the ‘facts’ of the story itself” (118).

In other words, Faulkner was willing to break just about every rule of good writing in order to expand the possibilities of his medium. Faulkner willfully disregarded and obliterated convention because he was trying to achieve something new. In this Herculean endeavor he would omit much standard punctuation and create sentences which last for several pages. He coined many new words, often by means of adding unorthodox suffixes and prefixes (an unpainted house is “paintless”) and utilized existing words in unconventional ways (“he abrupted”). He also employed long streams, or “clusters” of verbs, nouns, adverbs, and adjectives. For example, Edwin R. Hunter has discovered a cluster in which thirteen adjectives modify a solitary noun (138). Many of these adjective and verb cluster are redundant, as though the author were sharing the writer’s process of grasping for meaning with the reader. This reflects Faulkner’s goal of accomplishing clarity by means of redundancy. But sometimes the clusters contain contradictory meanings:

Like Faulkner’s writing in general, the oxymoron involves sharp polarity, extreme tension, a high degree of conceptual stylistic antithesis, and the simultaneous suggestion of disparate or opposed elements. Moreover, the figure tends to hold these elements in suspension rather than fuse them (Slatoff 177).

Faulkner’s writing has the appearance of a slapdash project, something hastily conceived between frequent drinking binges. But the author (paradoxically) searches for clarity in a land of confusion: “his paradoxical descriptions are not pointless riddles but rather terse formulae to describe the subversion of resolved meaning, closed form, and to full representation by the language that aspires to those very achievements” (Matthews 22).

Like existence itself, Faulkner’s writing abounds in contradiction. Slatoff notes that “a remarkably frequent and persistent phenomenon in Faulkner’s writing is his presentation of opposed or contradictory suggestions” (174). While his contemporary John Dos Passos employed elements of journalism in order to create a photographic depiction of life, Faulkner assembled a much more vivid and complex picture of reality by suggesting that irresolvable contradictions are a fact of nature.

One of Faulkner’s most common types of oxymoron involves presenting paradoxes “which simultaneously contain elements of quiescence and turbulence” (Slatoff 175). From Absolom, Absolom! we have “furious inertness” and “blazing immobility” (182; 238); in Light in August we have “the terrific and aimless and restless idleness of men who work” and Grimm is “indefatigable, restrained yet forceful” later “he ran swiftly, yet there was no haste about him.” These paradoxes have a dizzying effect on the reader. Inert objects do not naturally suggest turbulence and fury. The sense of vertigo achieved by these oxymorons opens the reader’s mind to accept a world where the Newton’s laws of physics do not apply.

Another frequently utilized category of oxymoron in Faulkner’s writing involves the use of contradictory images of “sound and silence” which “are frequently seen as existing simultaneously” (Slatoff 1960:b 175). From Absolom, Absolom! we have “I could hear the Sabbath afternoon quiet of that house louder than thunder,”(19); in Light in August voices are heard to echo “somewhat as a meaningless sound in a church seems to come from everywhere at once.”(43-44); in The Sound and the Fury Benjy says “I quit crying but I couldn’t stop”(22). In Faulkner’s universe sound and silence do not represent opposite ends of a continuum. Instead, they are both facets of the same phenomenon and therefore inseparable.

Many of Faulkner’s paradoxes reflect his preoccupation with the fluidity and unreality of time. In Light in August Hightower has the misfortune of being “born about thirty years after the only day he seemed to have ever lived in” (66); Faulkner describes the dietitian’s dalliance which Joe Christmas witnesses at the orphanage as a “blind interval of fumbling and interminable haste” (144). Faulkner’s narrative defies all notions of linear existence. The author fractures time in order to create a universe where it seems like everything is happening at once and the past is always present. As Hightower “seemed ever to live in” the past, lines between past and present become blurred to the point where no such distinctions can be made. If sexual intercourse involves “interminable haste” it becomes a timeless phenomenon. (Hence the expression “making time”.)

Slatoff notes how “(S)ome of Faulkner’s oxymorons are brilliant and completely justified by their context; others seem mechanical or excessive.” (Slatoff: 1960a, 176). At his best, Faulkner achieved things that most other writers could only dream about. In The Sound and the Fury Jason Compson sees his mother’s face as “clairvoyant yet obtuse” and we witness how “in a quick swirl the trout lipped a fly beneath the surface with that sort of gigantic delicacy of an elephant picking up a peanut” (280 116-7); in Absolom, Absolom! Quentin contemplates the magnitude of a letter “whose bulk had raised itself by the leverage of the old crease in weightless and paradoxical levitation.”; in Light in August Joe Christmas watches the dietitian as “she became quite calmly and completely mad.”(138); as Joe Christmas is wondering why he is being prepared to leave the orphanage the narrator wryly notes that “five is still too young to have learned enough despair to hope” (156); Mr. Compson inverts our notions of the meaning of existence with the disturbing declaration that “(B)ad health is the primary reason for all life. Created by disease within putrefaction, into decay.”(22). All of these paradoxes achieve the narrative function of expanding the reader’s perceptions by challenging her expectations. In a world where telepathy is imperceptive, “delicacy” can be “gigantic”, “bulk” is “weightless” , “madness” is tranquil, “despair” teaches “hope” and “decay” defines existence, the reader is forced to question so many of her assumptions that she is able view reality in new and different ways.

But Faulkner, a writer who dealt in extremes, often went too far. Not all of his experiments in paradox are felicitous, and his failures are as spectacular as his successes. As Irving Howe observed, “(S)ometimes the writing breaks down in an excess of abstractions, as in the sentence which cannot be read but must be deciphered (Howe 230). If the reader is forced too frequently to lose the flow of a novel in order to stop and “decipher” it, she will eventually give up. Over the years Faulkner has certainly lost many readers who were unwilling or unable to unpack dense and convoluted passages such as this:

That blending of childlike and ready incompetence and paradoxical reliability that tends and protects them it loves out of all reason and robs steadily and evades responsibility and obligations by means too barefaced to be called subterfuge even and is taken in theft or evasion with only that frank and spontaneous admiration for the victor which a gentleman feel for anyone who beats him in a fair contest, and withal a fond and unflagging tolerance for whitefolks’ vagaries like that of a grandparent for unpredictable and troublesome children which I had forgotten. (The Sound and the Fury 77)

Rereading this passage only heightens the sense of confusion. The passage is so abstract and so full of mindless meandering clauses (signifying nothing, indeed) that it ceases to have any meaning at all and the reader is “doomed to fail” (Slatoff: 1960b, 261).

William Faulkner’s quixotic quest to achieve the impossible has exasperated innumerable critics, including one who lamented that the novelist “searches tirelessly yet vainly for a full expression of truth, for a complete rendering of experience” (Mathews 39). One critic even suggested that Faulkner had an innate fear of success which led him to covet failure:

It is as though he is determined to avoid clarifying or finishing his ideas, almost as though he feared to take hold of them, to give them shape or realization, as though in some ways he wished to fail so that he would be able to go on trying (Slatoff: 1960b, 260).

But Faulkner’s ridiculous protestations about “seeking failure” must always be taken with a grain of salt. Such assertions are a function of false modesty which should not be construed as serious self-assessment of Faulkner’s.

All three novels discussed here fit Irving Howe’s description of Absolom, Absolom!: “Wild, twisted and occasionally absurd, the novel has, nonetheless, the fearful impressiveness which comes when a writer has driven his vision to an extreme (232). When reading Faulkner, the reader has no choice but to take the good with the bad. Paradoxically, had the author attempted to exorcise himself of the demons which caused him to have such an extreme vision, he would have forfeited the very qualities which made him a genius.

Richard W. Bray


March 20, 2013


a politician is an arse upon
which everyone has sat except a man


With greed that festers like a stinking flower
Every breath you suck promotes a scheme
The only thing you care about is power

Glory-seeking minions don’t see how you’re
Warping minds by tapping ageless themes
With greed that festers like a stinking flower

All you see are lambs to be devoured
With gluttony that feeds on hopes and dreams
The only thing you care about is power

If I were you I’d always need a shower
You curdle filth and throw away the cream
With greed that festers like a stinking flower

Lackeys sing your praises by the hour
Like starstruck fans support the local team
The only thing you care about is power

Piling up your lies, you build a tower
And live a life that’s nothing like it seems
With greed that festers like a stinking flower
The only thing you care about is power

Richard W. Bray

Dreamers of Dead

March 4, 2013

love among ruin

So many now have joined the hapless dead
As though a contest—how many can we kill
By sending others’ children off to war
The health of the state is unchecked power
Which feeds on frustration and unmet desire
This lust for blood that we confuse with love

Catenations bind us by our love
In webs of hate that recollect our dead
Murder machine fulfills the group desire
To locate people God wants us to kill
In fear a people shall relinquish power
To cowards who will always answer: War

The terrified succumb to endless war
It’s easier than proffering our love
In times of doubt the people will trust power
No matter if million end up dead
If you look and sound like those who kill
Killing you is what our dead desire

Humans have a basic born desire
To eliminate our enemies with war
Enemies exist for us to kill
Who’s the Fool who said they must be loved?
Enemies are only good when dead
Enemies embrace in lust for power

Millions murdered in pursuit of power
Pelf and power propagate desire
Desires undeterred beget more dead
The dead are mere ingredients of war
Death is all the tyrant knows of love
And Thanatos consummates the kill

Words enliven hearts we send to kill
Empty words engender frightful power
Some died for freedom, others died for love
Zombies march in cadence of desire
When unleashed the platitudes of war
Sing a dreary song of walking dead

Among the ruins, love decries our kill
Dreamers of dead are quick to kill for power
Unchecked desire is the seed of war

Richard W. Bray

Under an Arch of the Railway: In Praise of W. H. Auden on his One Hundredth Birthday

February 21, 2013

railway arch

I’d like to read one of W. H. Auden’s best-known poems and one of the best-known poems, I suppose, modern poems of the last ten years. Probably someone will find that it was written in the last nine years, but it doesn’t matter…”As I walked Out One Evening.”

—Dylan Thomas (from the Caedmon Collection)

No poet consistently knocks me on my tailbone the way W.H. Auden does. Listening to Auden read Death’s Echo from the Voice of the Poet recordings makes me want to lie down in the fetal position and turn out all the lights.

As I Walked Out One Evening, depressing as it is, leaves me with some hope, however. At my lowest points, I try to remind myself that my life remains a blessing although I cannot bless.

Each stanza of “As I Walked out One Evening” is by itself a masterpiece, containing more literary merit than you will find on this entire blog.

The theme of the poem is certainly nothing new: Everything human beings do and feel is ephemeral. But a poet’s task is not to discover new themes. As Richard Wilbur notes, the “urge of poetry” is to bring its subject matter “into the felt world.”

The poem has many notable lines, but I’d like to focus on one that seems mundane at first reading, line seven:

“Under an arch of the railway”

There are, of course, many less lovely ways to express this particular image: Beneath the railroad line, below the arch which a train passes over, underneath the elevated train tracks, etc. But Auden’s construction magically sings itself off the page and into my brain where it will remain until such time as I am forced to surrender my smidge of nitrogen to the World Fund

Richard W. Bray

The Vaster Economy of Desire: Richard Wilbur on the Sumptuous Destitution of Emily Dickinson

November 16, 2012


Philosophers are bound to paradigms and past pronouncements. But no paradigm comes close to capturing our multifarious world. That’s why my favorite philosophers are mostly poets. Poets are less likely to get boxed in by theory or even worry too much about what they were saying a week ago.

Richard Wilbur notes that Emily Dickinson (“not a philosopher”) was “consistent in her concerns but inconsistent in her attitudes” (10; 5). One of Miss Dickinson’s major concerns is the limited capacity of human beings to absorb even a fraction of what we crave. Our gargantuan appetites are ill-fitted to our frail, finite, and terminable bodies. But instead of lamenting this unsuitable arrangement, Emily Dickinson celebrates privation for its own sake:

Heaven is what I cannot reach!

In his 1959 article “Sumptuous Destitution,” Wilbur explores Dickinson’s “huge world of delectable distances,” where desire trumps actual possession (11). As Wilbur explains Dickinson (“Linnaeus to the phenomena of her own consciousness”) the poetess finds anticipation far more enticing than actual possession because “once an object has been magnified by desire, it cannot be wholly possessed by appetite” (4; 8). Employing physical hunger as a metaphor for all human desire, Dickinson explains in “I had been Hungry All the Years” how she “found”

That hunger was a way
Of persons outside windows,
The entering takes away.

Frustration is the inevitable consequence in Dickinson’s world of perpetual want where itching vanquishes scratching. The vigor of Dickinson’s yearnings are “magnified” by elusive wants:

[N]ot only are the objects of her desire distant; they are also very often moving away, their sweetness increasing in proportion to their remoteness. “To disappear enhances” one of the poems begins (11-12).

When Dickinson asserts that

Success is counted sweetest
By those that ne’er succeed

she is “arguing the superiority of defeat to victory, of frustration to satisfaction, and of anguished comprehension to mere possession” (9). Wilbur posits convincingly that, for Dickinson, the dead soldier in “Success is Counted Sweetest” made “the better bargain” than his compatriots who survived the victorious battle because his “defeat and death are attended by an increase of awareness, and material loss has led to a spiritual gain” (10).

Emily Dickinson chose her seclusion, and “At times it seems that there is nothing in her world but her own soul, with its attendant abstractions, and, at a vast remove, the inscrutable Heaven” (12). The God of Emily Dickinson’s capacious consciousness is immense and mysterious. We can spend our lives contemplating Him, but He can only be ingested in small bites.

The creature of appetite (whether insect or human) pursues satisfaction, and strives to possess the object in itself; it cannot imagine the vaster economy of desire, in which the pain of abstinence is justified by moments of infinite joy, and the object is spiritually possessed, not merely for itself, but more truly as an index of the All (11).

In his poem “Hamlen Brook,” Richard Wilbur discovers sumptuous destitution when he is nonplussed by overwhelming natural beauty.

How shall I drink all this?

Joy’s trick is to supply
Dry lips with what can cool and slake,
Leaving them dumbstruck also with an ache
Nothing can satisfy.

by Richard W. Bray

All the Suffering the World Can Feel: The Pain and the Glory of Graham Greene’s Catholicism

September 2, 2012


About twenty years ago I entered a Catholic church for the first time.  It was a funeral mass for the father of a colleague delivered at Our Lady of the Assumption, a small church in Claremont, California.  I felt almost suffocated by the large, bleeding Christ hanging from a cross by the altar with its dreary promise of agony.

My first thought was: “Someone should really cover that thing up.”

My second thought was: “How many times do they kneel during a service?”  Herb (an Evangelical from work) and I kept looking over at each other as we struggled to figure out when to sit and when to stand and when to kneel.  (I had not been expecting an aerobic workout.)  Afterwords Herb said, “Damn, I’ve never been in a church with so much kneeling.”

My third thought was: “These people are incredibly masochistic.”

Over the years I’ve attended masses in other Catholic churches for various reasons.  There is usually less kneeling than there was that day at OLA and crucifixes are generally less prominently displayed, but pain is always the dominant motif.  This has long perplexed me.

With the help of Graham Greene, I’m finally beginning to appreciate the allure of a pain-stricken God.  Perhaps the agony of Christ is the mechanism by which Catholics negotiate the incomprehensible chasm between the finite and the infinite.  (As the saying goes, a God who does not suffer is insufferable.)

Sarah Miles, the self-loathing, self–described “bitch and a fake” from The End of the Affair, Greene’s marvelously–constructed novel of wartime infidelity, is drawn to Roman Catholicism despite her strong misgivings (76).  Similar to my own revulsion for the celebration of physical pain in the figure of a massive, bleeding Christ right next to the alter, Sarah “hated the statues, the crucifix, all the emphasis on the human body.” Sarah was “trying to escape from the human body and all it needed” (87).

Sarah Miles’ lover, the God-hating utterly recalcitrant atheist Maurice Bendrix who narrates The End of the Affair, provides some cogent elucidations of Greene’s idiosyncratic variety of Catholicism.  Bendrix explains why agony is a much more substantial emotion than joy:

The sense of unhappiness is so much easier to convey than that of happiness.  In misery we seem aware of our own existence, even though it may be in the form of monstrous egotism: this pain of mine is individual, this nerve that winces belongs to me and to no other.  But happiness annihilates us: we lose our identity (36).

Along with fear, pain is the overriding, omnipresent truth of existence for all sentient beings.  Pain, as Emily Dickinson noted, has “infinite realms,” and “new periods of pain” are always foreseeable.  Pain has no ending, and its existence predates human consciousness on Earth by millions of years:

Pain has an element of blank;
It cannot recollect
When it began, or if there was
A time when it was not.

Nobody really knew how long a second of pain could be.  It might last a whole purgatory–or for ever(133).  Thus laments the Whiskey Priest, the forlorn and touchingly human hero from Greene’s novel The Power and the Glory.  The Whiskey Priest is the last practicing Padre in the Mexican state of Tabasco during the rabidly anticlerical governor Tomás Garrido Canabal’s reign of terror when Catholicism was banned and every church in the state was shuttered.

From Greene’s perspective, a hapless drunkard who impregnates a parishioner is the ideal hero in this fallen world because:

It was for this world that Christ had died; the more evil you saw and heard about you, the greater glory lay around the death.  It was too easy to die for what was good or beautiful, for home or children or a civilization—it needed a God to die for the half–hearted and the corrupt (97).

There is much paradox here:  We need a perfect God who is also human to deliver us from our imperfection.  And we also require our sin-hungry flesh in order to fully appreciate God’s perfection.  As the Whiskey Priest is “praying against [the] pain” of his own corruption, he comes to the realization that through death and resurrection, “[t]his is what we escape at no cost at all, sacrificing an unimportant motion of the body (66).

Alden Pyle is Graham Greene’s repugnant eponymous Quiet American CIA officer who callously perpetuates human suffering in the name of something he calls Democracy.  When explosives supplied by Pyle kill several civilians, he dismissively notes that “[i]t was a pity, but you can’t always hit your target.  Anyway, they died in the right cause (171).”  Pyle is truly monstrous because “he was as incapable of imagining pain or danger to himself as he was incapable of conceiving the pain he might cause others” (53).

Suffering is the cornerstone of Graham Green’s unique strain of Catholicism.  I am a devout deist who will never share Greene’s faith.  But, paradoxically, his novels inform my existential humanist perspective in ways that no atheist author ever could.  And all humanists would do well to remain cognizant of Thomas Fowler’s important observation: “Suffering is not increased by numbers: one body can contain all the suffering the world can feel” (TQA 175).

by Richard W. Bray