In May 2018, I read a fair amount; here are some reflections on my reading.
A longish trip out west in the back half of this month, much of which was spent on a bus, saw me complete May Swenson’s Collected Poems (Library of America). I bought this volume on the strength of her poem “Bleeding”. After reading the totality of her published work (plus a generous selection of her “uncollected” work), “Bleeding” remains her single finest poem, a harrowing picture of domestic violence, presented as a conversation between a knife and a cut. But her body of work contains a wealth of riches, peaking with her fourth book, Half Sun, Half Sleep. Toward the end of her career, her poems start to take on the appearance (accurate or not) of straight-out-of-life descriptions, and I become less interested, though every volume has a few poems I’ll remember. And the strange, extended exercise of “Banyan”, the final poem of her final book (In Other Words), is a triumph. A mix of prose and poetry, it ruminates on the purpose of life by telling a story that (surreally) glides between the realistic and the surreal. In another context, I described Swenson’s poetry as “concrete poetry that liquifies in the mouth”—I can’t do better here.
My neglect of Wallace Stevens up to now mystifies even me. I’ve owned his The Collected Poems (Vintage) for some time, and I’ve known without a shadow of a doubt that, whenever I did get around to working through it, I would love it. I know this because the works of his I have read present abstract reflections with effortless beauty and striking imagery—present abstract reflections in gorgeously concretized form. He’s also quietly hilarious, when he wants to be. This is more or less what I strive for in my poetry, so I find in Stevens a kindred voice. At last, I’ve started working through Stevens’ corpus systematically. This month I read Harmonium, Ideas of Order, and The Man With the Blue Guitar, each delightful in its way.
The depressing thing about loving a book that you can only read in translation is knowing that you are held at bay from much of the original. But there is a happy complement to this: the possibility of reading the book in numerous translations, seeing it each time in a new light. This I’ve been doing with Zhuangzi, beginning with Palmer’s (mediocre) translation, then moving on to Graham’s translation (which is tied to a heavy-handed but compelling reconstruction of the text), and finally, this month, Brook Ziporyn’s translation (Hackett). Though not complete, it contains all of the Inner Chapters and generous selections from the Outer and Miscellaneous Chapters. Other work I’ve read by Ziporyn has had a gratingly portentous style (see his SEP article on Tiantai Buddhism), but he approaches Zhuangzi with a lighter hand, and I found his translation a delight to read. It was also interesting to note places where his interpretation differed from Graham’s, and to consider the implications of these differences (which were sometimes substantial). In addition to reading Zhuangzi himself, I also read Hans-Georg Moeller and Paul D’Ambrosio’s Genuine Pretending, a book that attempts to position Zhuangzi’s philosophy as an alternative to the western dialectic of sincerity and authenticity. They argue that the Ruists presented an ethic of sincerity, to which Zhuangzi responded with a philosophy of genuine pretending, of being able to (genuinely) adopt whatever form is necessary in a given situation without identifying it with a fixed self to which one must be authentic. It’s a compelling take on a major strain running through the Zhuangzi.
Along with Swenson’s LoA volume, my main reading on my trip out west was Sei Shōnagon’s The Pillow Book, a look into court life in 10th century Japan. As she says in a section on “worthless things”, her aim is to record what is there to be recorded. She does not neutrally present it, however. The book is in effect a guide to taste: what is delightful, what is irritating, what causes regret, what nostalgia, etc.—a guide to the appropriate reactions to things. How much it reflects her individuality and how much merely the norms of the time is difficult to tell, and at times it seems to move between them. Regardless, the book is a treasure, endlessly charming, often funny, sometimes poignant. Though in many ways ridiculous to modern eyes, Sei takes her world with full commitment, and that enables the reader to enter into the book with ease, despite its strangeness. It is a delight to encounter a foreign way of life in this manner.