More Chekhov, more on books

This paragraph from a Chekhov short story describes something of how I read. The first and last sentences sound particularly familiar. Are these the last years of my confinement? What am I confined in? Life and consciousness and failure. Could books save me? (With the passage's final image, I was reminded of Ishmael clinging to Queequeg's coffin.) Ultimately, they destroy the prisoner in the story. Books, and his years of solitude, turn him into a cynic, a misanthrope, a Timon. Is Chekhov saying that if you knew humanity only through its books, you would want to avoid it in real life? Is he saying that that conclusion would be accurate? And if so, is he blaming humanity for this outcome, or just writers of books, like himself?


During the last years of his confinement the prisoner read an extraordinary amount, quite haphazard. Now he would apply himself to the natural sciences, then he would read Byron or Shakespeare. Notes used to come from him in which he asked to be sent at the same time a book on chemistry, a textbook of medicine, a novel, and some treatise on philosophy or theology. He read as though he were swimming in the sea among broken pieces of wreckage, and in his desire to save his life was eagerly grasping one piece after another.
                                                                                                         
                                                                                                           -Anton Chekhov
                                                                                                            "The Bet"

The part you can skip: WHF

I think it is much better for a book to have some parts that can be skipped just as well as not, you get through it so much faster. I have often thought what a good thing it would be if somebody would write a book that we could skip the whole of. I think a good many people would like to have such a book as that. I know I should. 
                                                                                           
                                                                                              -William Henry Frost
                                                                                                Fairies and Folk of Ireland (1901)

                                                                                                            

Line from the poet Desmond O'Grady

There's a time in the wound of childhood when something clots.
                                                                    -Desmond O'Grady
                                                                      from the poem "The Nail"

Also see: Poem by Desmond O'Grady - Was I Supposed to Know?

Books: the way of the horse

It wouldn't be a terrible fate; everybody loves horses. But I think someday print books will have gone the way of horses, once not too too long ago so essential in so many ways, now a curiosity, a luxury, a pleasure to see but few of us ever really get near them or need them. Someday there will be people among us who own books (horses), who read books (ride horses) regularly. And, like horse people today, book people will be seen as sort of interesting for that slightly exotic bit of culture they experience with their books (horses) and all their book-(horse)-friends. Some of us will envy them their special interest and the activity of reading (riding) and caring for their books (horses) and that extra bit of knowledge they have about types (breeds) of books (horses) and how to handle a book (horse). Having grown up around books (horses), many of their children will have learned to love books (horses) and will come to have their own. Nearly everyone will at some time in his or her life have read a book (ridden a horse), on vacation at a fancy resort or while visiting a family friend who keeps a few. Some will find they enjoy being around books (horses) and reading books (riding horses) but will never come to own one. Perhaps they will be prohibitively expensive to own. Perhaps some will find they are allergic to books (horses), or frightened of them. I think I will be dead by the time this happens, but perhaps not for long.

From Kickham's Knocknagow

Irishman C.J. Kickham's 19th Century novel Knocknagow is exceedingly charming and often very funny. That's why this dead-serious, grisly passage, which I read last night, came as a shock. I happen pretty much by accident to be reading Knocknagow immediately after finishing Thomas Flanagan's great historical novel, The Year of the French, about the bleak and bloody 1798 uprising of the Irish, with some aid from the French, against their English overlords. Knocknagow is set some decades later, but a couple of veterans of '98 populate the book, and the '98 Uprising has become part of the consciousness of many of the younger characters as well. Here we learn the reason that Mrs. Donovan (mother to Mat the Thrasher, local hero for his good looks, good nature, and hurling prowess) tends to have a sad face, which the narrator calls "the shadow of a curse." The soldiers referred to are English Red Coats, although some of them may well have been native Irish. The yoeman are local troops loyal to the crown.

Poor Mrs. Donovan got that sad face of hers one bright summer day in the year '98 when her father's house was surrounded by soldiers and yeomen, and her only brother, a bright-eyed boy of seventeen, was torn from the arms of his mother, and shot dead outside the door. And then a gallant officer twisted his hand in the boy's golden hair, and invited them all to observe how, with one blow of his trusty sword, he would sever the rebel head from the rebel carcase. But one blow, nor two, nor three, nor ten, did not do; and the gallant officer hacked away at the poor boy's neck in a fury, and was in so great a passion that when the trunk fell down at last, leaving the head in his hand, he flung it on the ground, and kicked it like a football; and when it rolled against the feet of the horrified young girl, who stood as if she were turned to stone near the door, she fell down senseless without cry or moan, and they all thought she too was dead. She awoke, however, the second next day following, just in time to kiss the poor bruised and disfigured lips before the coffin-lid was nailed down upon them.

Prose passage from Osip Mandelstam

The Russian Osip Mandelstam, vindictively exiled by Stalin for the second and final time in 1938, died in a Siberian transit camp, reportedly out of his mind. He is known for his poetry, but wrote great, rich, dense, evocative essays and stories about Russian life in St. Petersburg and elsewhere. These two paragraphs (translated by Clarence Brown) are a perfect example. ("Scellé" means sealed. I don't know the "Song of Malbourk," although I have been to the amazing Malbork Castle, in Poland, and it is sometimes spelled "Malbourk.")

From "Riots and Governesses:"

It is my opinion that the little songs, models of penmanship, anthologies, and conjugations had ended by driving all these French and Swiss women themselves into an infantile state. At the center of their worldview, distorted by anthologies, stood the figure of the great emperor Napoleon and the War of 1812; after that came Joan of Arc (one Swiss girl, however, turned out to be a Calvinist), and no matter how often I tried, curious as I was, to learn something from them about France, I learned nothing at all, save that it was beautiful. The French governesses placed great value upon the art of speaking fast and abundantly and the Swiss upon the learning of little songs, among which the chief favorite was the "Song of Malbourk." These poor girls were completely imbued with the cult of great men -- Hugo, Lamartine, Napoleon, and Molière. On Sundays they had permission to go to mass. They were not allowed to have acquaintances.
                Somewhere in the Ile de France: grape barrels, white roads, poplars -- and a winegrower has set out with his daughters to go to their grandmother in Rouen. On his return he is to find everything "scellé," the presses and vats under an official seal. The manager had tried to conceal from the excise tax collectors a few pails of new wine. They had caught him in the act. The family is ruined. Enormous fine. And, as a result, the stern laws of France make me the present of a governess.

Perfect little poem by Henry Taylor

Henry Taylor was a professor in the Lit Department at American University in D.C. when I was a student there in the late Eighties. He was my independent study adviser my senior year. I don't think he was much impressed with me, but was always very kind about it. I love this poem and think of it all the time, partly because it is brief enough for me to remember it, but more because he gets everything right in it (even down to the colon at the end of line 2). I think I recognized this even when I was young, but now, no longer young, I experience the poem in a way I wouldn't have then. It's from his 1985 Pulitzer Prize winning volume, The Flying Change. Here's how he inscribed my copy after an appearance before a great class I took my sophomore year with Robert Bausch called The Living Writers: 

For Jim,
With thanks for good questions and kind words --
All best,
Henry Taylor
25 March 88

The poem: 

Airing Linen

Wash and dry,

sort and fold:

you and I

are growing old.

Lines from Conrad

It was the farthest point of navigation and the culminating point of my experience. It seemed somehow to throw a kind of light on everything about me -- and into my thoughts. It was sombre enough, too -- and pitiful -- not extraordinary in any way -- and not very clear either. No, not very clear. And yet it seemed to throw a kind of light.
                                                                                  - Joseph Conrad
                                                                                     Heart of Darkness

It Was Supposed to be Funny

Uncovered: The revealing truth about how we eat now
by Jim O'Brien
in the November 2012 issue of Diablo Magazine

Poem by John Berryman

The first time I read John Berryman I was impressed with his sense of humor and with the self-deprecation in his confessional poetry. I thought, "What a great outlook he has on life." Then I learned he had killed himself. He jumped off the Washington Street Bridge in Minneapolis. Into the Mississippi River. (I always imagine people who jump from bridges regret it mightily on the way down.) It was jarring news, jarring in a way such news rarely is for me. Usually, news of the death of a famous stranger doesn't move me much. And in this case I'd come to Berryman late, so the death was decades old. But it was the nature of it, I guess, the contrast between the despair in the act and what I'd interpreted as his healthy confrontation with his demons in the poetry. Berryman was an alcoholic. Eventually I read his novel, Recovery, about being in rehab, and I got a sense of the hopelessness, loss and pain he must have felt, and perhaps the powerlessness over his condition. I also read his joyful and singular books on Shakespeare and Stephen Crane, and more and more of his poetry, all the time thinking about how prolific he was, in act and mind, despite the pain he must have been in. What can I say about this poem but that I love its tone.

A Prayer After All

Father, Father, I am overwhelmed.

I cannot speak tonight.

Do you receive me back into Your sight?

It seems it must be so, for

strangely the Virgin came into my mind

as I stood beside my bed --

whom I not only have not worshipped

since childhood, but also

harsh words have said of, that she pushed her Son

before his time as come

which he rebuked her for, and leaving home

repudiated hers & her --

and for no reason, standing in the dark

before I had knelt down

(as is my custom) to speak with You, I found

my tongue feeling its way

thro' the Hail Mary, trying phrase by phrase

its strangeness, for the unwelcome

to my far mind estranged, awaiting some

unacceptable sense, and

Father I was amazed I could find none

and I have walked downstairs

to sit and wonder. You must have been Theirs

all these years, & They Yours,

and now I suppose I have prayed to You after all

and Her and I suppose she is the Queen of Heaven

under your greater glory, even

more incomprehensible but forgiving glory.