The pale unsatisfied ones

Since there is such an abundance of good poetry about the nativity, I thought I would spread it out over the next twelve days, rather than clog up this post with six or seven poems of which you would probably only read the first one or two anyway. So here's the first one, a dense little poem, written in 1914, called “The Magi” by WB Yeats.

Now as at all times I can see in the mind’s eye,
In their stiff, painted clothes, the pale unsatisfied ones
Appear and disappear in the blue depth of the sky
With all their ancient faces like rain-beaten stones,
And all their helms of silver hovering side by side,
And all their eyes still fixed, hoping to find once more,
Being by Calvary’s turbulence unsatisfied,
The uncontrollable mystery on the bestial floor.

I wouldn't pretend to understand this poem, but in the context of Yeats' rejection oforthodoxy and interest in the occult, the more I read it the more it seems to me to be about the strange conjunction of an episode in Christian history and a firmament of ancient, pagan mythology; a conjunction which promises more than the crucifixion appears to justify. The 'turbulence' at Calvary is, to these 'pale unsatisfied ones', an ordinary instance of bloody human struggle and death, whereas the nativity, told in the stars, is a compelling and, to them, endlessly mysterious intervention of divinity. Much depends on one's reading of Calvary itself. To a Christian, the incarnation entire (including the crucifixion) is an uncontrollable intervention unfolding on the bestial floor of mortal life. The death of Christ, no less than the birth, is a divine mystery. The search ends there; the star comes to rest above the cross.

Ruth Park dies at 93

Ruth Park died yesterday in Sydney where she lived most of her life after moving here from New Zealand. Her husband, D'Arcy Niland, was also an author and wrote The Shiralee. Their twin daughters were both illustrators. 

Though she wrote several adult novels, including The Harp in the South, she's more famous for her children's books Playing Beattie Bow and The Muddleheaded Wombat, a copy of which I once won as a prize in an eisteddfod. I hope her death might inspire more people (including me) to read her books.  Australia doesn't have so many literary icons that we can allow one of them to languish unread.

It certainly makes me want to hunt out my Wombat book. These opening lines, which Google found for me, remind me how sweet it was, and, bizarrely, how strongly my 10-year-old self identified with the wombat:

There was once a muddle-headed wombat sitting in the grass and feeling very lonely. A wombat is a square animal with thick hair like a door-mat, stumpy legs, and no tail to speak of. He has brown eyes and a comfortable, leathery flat nose like a koala. This wombat was lonely because he had no sisters or brothers or aunties or uncles, and besides, he had spent all his pocket money. 

“I wish I had a friend,” he thought, “a nice, comfy little friend who would fit in my cardigan pocket. A wombat could have lots of adventures with a friend like that.” 

The Paris Review Interviews

If you haven't discovered them, I highly recommend a visit to the Paris Review archive of interviews.

This New York-based quarterly began interviewing authors and poets in 1953 (EM Forster was first) and they have amassed a trove of fascinating and irreplaceable records. I've been reading them quite systematically, going backwards from the 2000s and hugely enjoying not only the theoretical or critical or historical reflections, but also their descriptions of how and when they write: pen or computer, morning or evening, quiet place or town square; how many words a day, how often, how methodically etc. All different, but some common themes emerge: most writers born pre-1970 write first in longhand, eschewing even the typewriter, let alone the word processor. Nearly all say writing requires and rewards solitude. Nearly all say it's not easy. In fact Thomas Mann said “a writer is a person for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.” This seems to be true.`

My favourites so far: Marilynne Robinson (predictably), Stephen King (surprisingly), Salmon Rushdie, and Martin Amis. These last three are certainly not favourite authors of mine, but their interviews are frank, funny, engaging, and profitable. Others come across as pompous or pretentious (Umberto Eco) and others exactly as one might have expected having read their books (E Annie Proulx, Hunter S Thompson).

Ironically, in that very first interview, EM Forster said “I am more interested in works than in authors.” Roland Barthes announced the death of the author and ushered in the reader as the central figure of literature, but of late we (as readers) have shown an insatiable interest in biography, memoir, diary and other kinds of life writing. We are intrigued by the celebrity author as well as by the recluse, and the book tour is these days the inevitable corollary of the book.

More than a glimpse of the private lives of authors, these interviews contain the reflections of successful practitioners of literature on their craft and the state of creativity more broadly. Again, they're all different, but they all offer first hand accounts of their long-hand grapple with the difficulties of writing - difficulties which non-writers don't seem to face, and which seem to constitute both writing's cost and its gift. These interviews should be prized not as pontifications by those with pretensions to knowledge, but as dispatches from the frontline of creativity.

Love bade me welcome

I haven't given my pet poets much of an airing in this space, so what about some George Herbert? He is, as AS Byatt remarked here, “perfect and unexpected.” Here's one of his more perfect poems, “Love (III).” 

Love bade me welcome: yet my soul drew back,
Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-ey'd Love, observing me grow slack,
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning,
If I lack'd anything.

A guest, I answer'd, worthy to be here:
Love said, You shall be he.
I the unkind, ungrateful? Ah my dear,
I cannot look on thee.
Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,
Who made the eyes but I?

Truth Lord, but I have marr'd them: let my shame
Go where it doth deserve.
And know you not, says Love, who bore the blame?
My dear, then I will serve.
You must sit down, says Love, and taste my meat:
So I did sit and eat.

The Author

My book (!) is out.  It represents roughly a decade of my life, though not, I should add, a decade of work. I started my PhD in 2000, finished it in 2005, submitted a revised version to Ashgate in I think 2007, and completed the final revisions early this year.  So, with a publication date of November 2010, my book (!!) really began ten years ago.

The book is called Verse and Poetics in George Herbert and John Donne. It's about two seventeenth-century poets and their commitment to poetry as a culturally and theologically privileged mode of expression. If you want to read more about it, the best place is the publisher's own website, though personally I find it more thrilling to view it on Amazon.

PS An e-version was also published, but an online search suggests that the author of the ebook is not in fact me but someone called (much more excitingly) Cecilie Vindal Odegaard. I assume this is someone who works for Ashgate, but I'm also thinking seriously about assuming it as my own nom de plume.