With planes in the sky and bombs in the air, the world seems intent on returning to darkness. So let’s look at how something can come from nothing. We’re not told how Eurynome appears, only that when she does it’s amidst chaos and she has nowhere to put her feet.
And so she makes a distinction: “there” is the sky and “here” is the sea; “there” remains distant and down “here” I can dance. And so she dances upon the waters.
She is lonely as she dances, but what else can she do? She has attended to her immediate needs, giving herself a place to rest her feet. And so the natural thing to do next is dance. (Walking would be pointless: you walk to get from A to B, but there is no A and B; and so she moves for no purpose except the joy of moving.)
As she dances towards the south, a north wind forms behind her. She is no longer alone and something is happening. Why does she now turn around and take the wind between her fingertips? I like to think it was part of the dance, an instinctual move. The wind blowing at her back seemed to invite a response and so she chose to dance with it. And out of the deft movements of her fingers a serpent is formed of the wind and his name is Ophion.
She dances more wildly now, inspired by her own creation to create more beautiful shapes and forms. She doesn’t know yet what will arise and waits for the forms to arise naturally from the movements she happens to make. But Ophion is less impulsive than her, more cunning and calculating. He is lust and desire opposed to joy and creativity. Ophion wants to transform the world into something more than merely dance and form.
If the goddess were paying attention she might laugh: what more than joy and beauty could there be worth having?
(I’ve been reading The Greek Myths by Robert Graves.)
In the last section of the final main chapter of Beyond Good and Evil, Nietzsche writes about the journey of a thought. When it is young, a thought is “many-coloured” and “malicious”; these new thoughts surprise him and make him laugh. But a thought immediately begins to grow old, lose its novelty, and harden into a truth.
Writing down a thought he compares to painting a still life: you capture it only once the flowers have begun to wither. A truth is a thought that has faded and lost that youth and energy it had when it was merely a thought. Thoughts are like people: they expect to be taken more seriously as they get older.
Nietzsche writes poignantly about how fresh a thought seems when it first appears to him, and how stale it looks once he’s found the words to express it. He writes it down, the book is published, readers read his words and perhaps nod their heads in agreement… But Nietzsche is not looking for people to agree with him. He wants us to feel excitement as we read; he wants his words to elicit the same thoughts in our minds as were in his, for the thought to strike us as it did him when he was out for a walk; what we do with those thoughts is up to us, and whether we agree with them or not is only of secondary importance, if any at all. He doesn’t want followers; he wants readers.
Nietzsche scholarship can be exhausting because scholars are usually trying to pin down precisely what Nietzsche believed, while Nietzsche himself seems to have had the soul of a poet; he enjoyed the play of thoughts rather than their truth-value. A thought is a phenomenon and he wants to share the excitement he first felt when he experienced it, just as a poet wants to share the feeling associated with a passing shadow on the grass or a breeze through the leaves of a tree. What makes Nietzsche a philosopher, in at least the loose sense of being someone interested in the question of thinking, is that he hopes that these thoughts, once you have experienced them, will lead you on to new thoughts of your own.
(I’ve been reading R.J. Hollingdale’s translation of Beyond Good and Evil.)
“Teach us to care and not to care / Teach us to sit still / Even among these rocks”
(T. S. Eliot, from “Although I do not hope to turn again” in Ash-Wednesday.)
The poet once again doesn’t know what he wants.
He wants to care and not to care.
He can’t sit still.
He is dissatisfied with the rocks.
Is there any pleasing T. S. Eliot?
Kathy Acker wrote about the difference between communication and expression. The latter is what most people seem to think creative writing is about: you find that feeling or impression and you express it in the work as best you can, as clearly and powerfully as you can, so that the reader will have for themselves something like the feeling or impression you are trying to express. This is what made Stephen King say (if I remember correctly) that writing is a form of telepathy: I’m trying to get my thoughts from my brain into yours.
But Acker suggests (again if I’m remembering correctly) that writing might in fact be about communication: I’m not trying to make you feel as I feel, or think as I think, or see as I see; I just want someone to talk to. I send off a piece of writing as I would an email to a friend.
If writing is expression, then we might say: Eliot’s gift is an almost paradoxical one, because what he does is powerfully express feelings of ambivalence, vagueness, and indecision.
If writing is communication then things might appear less contradictory: Eliot wanted to set his ideas down and straighten them out by talking about them. If we feel his indecision it is because he has earnestly communicated with us; he has entrusted us with it.
I’m not at all confident that I’ve delineated the difference between communication and expression correctly as Acker, or Eliot, or anyone else, would understand these concepts. But this is the point (as I see it) of communication in writing: a text is not the final statement of an author, or an authority whose word is to be taken as from one who knows; it is the beginning of a conversation.
“… And I who am here dissembled / Proffer my deeds to oblivion…”
(T.S. Eliot, from “Lady, three white leopards sat under a juniper-tree,” in Ash-Wednesday.)
“Dissembled” here seems to be intended to suggest “disassembled,” since the bones of the speaker lie strewn about the tree.
The message of the poem seems to be: the deeds of a mortal, once done, are done and finished. They are offered up for judgement, which decides the fate of the immortal soul, and then over time the deeds, and the mortal who did them, will be forgotten. It is foolish to seek immortality on earth. No deed will, ultimately, stand the test of time.
And yet the speaker speaks on. I think this might be the “dissembling” that is happening: the speaker speaks of forgetting, of being nothing, and yet continues to say “I”. The speaker is not quite committed to the idea of becoming nothing, and furtively continues to hope for a more mundane form of immortality than is promised by Christianity. Eliot can’t but hope that, by contributing to the literary tradition through his poems, he will earn a form of immortality on Earth.
In “Morning at the Window,” T. S. Eliot is looking down at a foggy street and it’s the brown fog itself that seems to throw up to him “Twisted faces from the bottom of the street, / And tear from a passer-by with muddy skirts / An aimless smile that hovers in the air / And vanishes along the level of the roofs.”
We’ve all seen faces in clouds, and what Eliot is showing us here is a real human face which is then, in the imagination of the poet, duplicated in the fog, the fog then drifting high, taking the face with it. The smile of the face is aimless to match the aimless drifting of the fog upon which it is carried.
One thing I like about this poem is the possibility that the poet didn’t in fact see on this occasion any actual human faces at all: all he sees is fog, he can’t see through it and he merely imagines the people down there, their faces twisted in just the kind of way a melancholy poet might imagine them to twist.
“The conscience of a blackened street / Impatient to assume the world.”
I’ve been thinking about these lines from T. S. Eliot’s “Preludes” over the past couple of days. The street is silent and empty at night, but we are invited to imagine it impatient for the morning’s traffic. What is still and silent might nonetheless be full of passion and energy.
Eliot often found it difficult to write; long periods of silence when he couldn’t produce anything. Looking back over a life, those silent stretches can be made to look like part of the plan, or part of the process at least. But in the moment the silent writer is churning with desperation.
I think it tells a lot that a writer can look at a silent, empty street and imagine it full of inner turmoil. It feels like a confession: I may seem calm on the outside, but…
This blog has been silent for a while but my conscience is tickling me and I hope to start posting more frequently from now on.
In the third part of Les Misérables, Victor Hugo describes the street-urchin of 19th century Paris in a sweeping, comic-philosophical style that Henry Miller must have admired, leaping from one pithy aphorism to the next to give us a portrait of the type:
“[The street-urchin of Paris] has bad teeth because he is underfed, and fine eyes because he has sharp wits.”
“He fights with both hands and feet.”
“He has two consuming ambitions, never achieved: to overthrow the government and to get his trousers mended.”
And so on. And it might seem for a moment that Hugo is romanticising poverty here, turning child poverty into something that makes its victims heroic and adds colour to the tapestry of life. But then Hugo strikes home with the line:
“In a word, [the street-urchin] amuses himself because he is unhappy.”
And from this point the tone shifts. Hugo writes about “light” and the importance of shedding it upon poverty. The implication seems to be: if only enough light can be shed upon the situation then the mass of people will see how bad their situation really is and some kind of revolution will be inevitable. Without this light, people will continue to suffer in the dark, perhaps believing their problems to be uniquely theirs and unaware that their troubles belong not just to themselves but to humanity as a whole.
But if light leads to social change, and Hugo shed his light so well, why are there still people unhoused and underfed? I think the answer is that poverty looks different now. Many of the problems of the past have been solved, the street-urchin of this particular historical type can no longer be found in Paris, and so it’s easy to get the impression that poverty is behind us. And the irony is that we are now able to romanticise the poverty of the 19th century in our adaptations and re-readings of Hugo and Dickens, since the particular character of poverty in those books now belongs to another world.
But what Hugo is reminding us in these pages is the importance of shedding light on the problems of every generation; in other words, that the work is never done. Poverty still exists, and so art is still necessary. This is why those who want to dominate the poor by keeping them poor will so often do their utmost to crush the arts: they fear the light that art can shed and the new visions for humanity that arise from the dreams of philosophers.
(I’ve been reading Norman Denny’s translation of Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables.)
I’m reading Les Misérables for the first time and I really enjoy the way Victor Hugo takes his time telling a story. The battle of Waterloo is discussed at length, and many details of it described, just so that a single scene can be played out at the end of the battle in which a man, left on the battlefield for dead, is come across by chance and saved so that he can later play a part in Hugo’s story.
The scene feels real because of all that has until this point been described: Hugo has described the crush of horses and men that led to the pile of corpses under which the man is buried and so we can vividly imagine the horror of it; the historical significance of the battle has been pressed upon us, lending the scene a kind of ominous weight, the meeting of two men aligning with the fall of Napoleon. In other words: the action is placed into a real context and so it feels all the more real than it might have done.
Was it necessary to go into so many details of the battle before describing this scene? No, but then again nothing in literature is strictly necessary. A work of art has its effect, and there is no denying that if the artist had proceeded differently, the effect would have been different. Hugo might have told his story with the barest bones: we all know the battle of Waterloo happened, and it was on this battlefield that this man was found by this other man, and it was because of this chance occurrence that a connection was formed between them. This would be if all Hugo wanted was to tell the story. But Hugo writes so that his readers can immerse themselves in a world, and given that the book is 1200 or more pages long, they have plenty of time to do that.
Literature is a product of choices on the part of the author, rather than their having some divine insight into the right or the wrong way of doing things. Some will criticise Hugo for being long-winded, while others (like me) are glad that there are and have been souls in the world who see the value in taking their time.
(I’ve been reading Norman Denny’s translation of Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables. Denny’s introduction contains an interesting discussion of Hugo’s “extravagance” as a writer due to his being “incapable of leaving anything out”; Denny is one of those who thinks Hugo too long-winded, calling the inclusion in the novel of the detailed account of the battle of Waterloo “indefensible.”)
I’m trying to write something for my Substack, which I haven’t updated in months, and it’s got me realising how much I still have to learn about the business of writing.
I’m reading Geoffrey Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales and thinking about the art of story-telling.
As you probably know, The Canterbury Tales is a collection of stories, framed as tales told by a bunch of pilgrims to entertain each other as they travel to Canterbury.
Chaucer was, of course, one of the greatest writers of all time, so it’s not surprising he knows how to make these stories riveting and memorable. It’s made me realise that there’s at least two things you have to do when writing a story: take your time but don’t be boring.
Take your time because however long or short your story is, you mustn’t rush past any details that might make the story more enjoyable for your reader. One of my favourite writers is Lydia Davis, who famously writes very short stories indeed, but I would argue even she follows this rule. To make a short story truly good, the reader shouldn’t feel that anything is missing from it. The author didn’t rush the job, but took her time making sure the story is told as well as it needs to be.
I suppose it’s a bit like the art of writing haiku: the authors of these little poems take their time making sure that every relevant sensation is captured in just a few lines.
And I suppose the other rule is obvious: when making sure to paint a full picture for your reader, it can be easy to include unnecessary details, and your readers’ attention will start to wander.
There’s obviously a bit of a balance to be struck if you’re going to follow both rules at once.
One of the ways Chaucer achieves this balance, holding the readers’ attention while filling out his stories with vivid detail, is by making his characters so interesting, by which I mean in his descriptions of the people who tell the stories. The General Prologue gives a little portrait of each one, and when it comes time to tell their tale, we can see why they in particular have chosen to tell it. For example, the Miller tells his own bawdy tale of adultery as a kind of rebuttal to the knight’s tale of courtly love.
So maybe there’s another rule that underlies the two I’ve already mentioned: write with purpose. Each narrator in The Canterbury Tales knows exactly why they’re telling the tale they’ve chosen to tell, and this is what makes sure they take the time and find enjoyment in telling their tale as it needs to be told.
Haven’t blogged for a while. Sometimes it’s hard to know what to write, why write, why share what I write.
I write almost every day and I know at least why I do that: it’s for myself, to get my thoughts in order, which is part of the process of generating new ideas and forms. Writing down ideas the struggle is often to express them clearly, and it’s in this struggle and I find myself expanding upon them, developing those thoughts and imagining new things. It gets the brain whirring, makes you feel alive.
Henry David Thoreau apologises for writing in the first person but then says: all writing is essentially in the first person. The writer is always writing from their own point of view. You can try to disguise it however you want.
Thoreau’s instruction to writers is: write your own truth, your own experience, your own thoughts. Every individual has their own unique perspective to share. What a waste to follow others, to write only what ideas seem acceptable to others, and let your own unique perspective be forgotten. You have something to say, so say it.
If you don’t feel like you have something to say then write anyway because it will emerge in the process of writing.
Perhaps I’m being too general assuming everyone can get it out by writing. But there are other ways to express yourself. The point is: don’t hide your truth; express yourself in whatever you do.
Perhaps I’m an idealist but I can’t help thinking if more people not only spoke their minds but actually did what was in their hearts instead of doing what they think their “duty” or what “common sense” dictates, or acting out of fear, then we might have built ourselves a better world by now and the latest news wouldn’t be every day that we’re once again on the brink of Armageddon.
Thoreau writes in the first person, but he doesn’t only write about himself. The book is really advice to the reader on how to live. Nevertheless it’s a personal work, because he has learned what he’s learned from his own experience. He writes about the “factitious cares and superfluously coarse labours” that make many lives a burden and he urges us to simplify our lives and free ourselves from those cares. The goal of life is to care for oneself and for other human beings, and that is often forgotten in the daily struggle.
I’m currently writing a story based on a tale in the One Thousand and One Nights. It’s about a woman who goes to sea and is blown off course to a strange shore, and ends up discovering a city where everyone has been turned into stone. The short version of the story is: she finds one survivor in the city who escaped the curse, falls in love with him, and persuades him to sail away with her and her crew. But the crew have by then piled the ship up with treasure from the cursed city, and are jealous of their share of the loot, and throw both the woman and the man overboard. The man drowns, while the woman is saved and, with the aid of the spirit who saved her, gets her revenge…
I think about this man who remained in a city filled with statues of the people of his past, alone for seven years with only memories and grim reminders of those memories, and I realise he must have been a writer. Most people would have left the city long before that ship arrived, to find living people to be around, but a writer can do a lot with memories and a bit of peace and quiet.
It’s not surprising that Thoreau has to remind himself and his like-minded readers how important is love for oneself and for one’s fellow human beings; the lonesome struggle can be so all-consuming that we forget why we were put here in the first place.
(I’ve been reading Walden by Henry David Thoreau.)
Lee Watkins 