I found this passage marked in my old copy of On Poetry and Poets by T. S. Eliot. Probably the first book of literary criticism I ever read, and it must have impressed me at the time. It still does—though I cannot help notice that, whether for criticism or review, the "value to the author" was probably not a consideration when the judgement was construed.
"Johnson did not confuse his judgment of what an author was saying, with his judgment about the way in which he said it. Now I observe sometimes in contemporary criticism of poetry, and in the more ambitious reviewing of poetry, a confusion of these judgments. The standard of edification has been fractured into a variety of prejudices: with no common opinion as to what poetry ought to teach, the critic is not necessarily liberated from moral judgment, but will frequently declare a poem good or bad, according to his sympathy with, or antipathy from, the author’s point of view. Not infrequently too, the critic’s knowledge of the author’s views will be derived from other sources than the particular poem presented for his criticism, and will influence his judgment upon that poem. And with the question whether a poem is well or ill written, whether it could be improved, whether the cadences are musical, whether the choice of words is fastidious and literate, whether the imagery is happily found and properly distributed, whether the syntax is correct and whether the violations of normal construction are justified: such questions are avoided as if they laid the questioner under suspicion of pedantry. The result is too often comment which is of no value to the author, except when, if favorable, it may be good advertisement; a criticism of the hustings, by which reviewers range themselves for or against a particular poet."
I found this passage marked in my old copy of On Poetry and Poets by T. S. Eliot. Probably the first book of literary criticism I ever read, and it must have impressed me at the time. It still does—though I cannot help notice that, whether for criticism or review, the "value to the author" was probably not a consideration when the judgement was construed. Somnambulist awake, the man who’s ill,
Stumbling both here and there like a blind dog, Because his illness leaves him with “brain fog” In popular expression. Former skill, Alacrity of mind, has blunted, dulled, As he proceeds forth like a damaged vessel, Barely seaworthy, mortar under pestle Pressure besieged—hull pierced, though double hulled. This illness may not kill him—not so fast! But so constricts the movement of his thought, That it may not jump to the place it ought, Limbo trussed—how much longer may he last? A man of public note has died,
The conversations and the news replete With mention of his worth, as far and wide The sobs of lamentation meet With eulogies of praise Which must continue on for days and days. This feeling of my peers, and this Esteem expressed on every throbbing tongue Is shared by me, but not the grief, which is Muted because I was but stung Less than a week ago With news of your death, if expected though. Lingering illness conquered you That made you suffer in a pain severe Increasingly unbearable—you who For many a gracious thirty year Had been a friend of mine Since I was young and sought your light to shine. I told you of my Beatrice— You knew the elemental origins That drove my being and art in synthesis, And knew the tribulations since As I toward manhood groped With less facility than I had hoped. You set for me transaction’s rate, A balance to which I might thence refer In perpetuity; and now I wait For my impending doom so near Hopeful to study your Courage and spirit facing heaven’s door. News of this public death is like The far illuminations of a star Amidst the morning’s sun’s rays as they strike— The grief for him appears so far But overwhelming near My all-absorbing grief for you, my dear. This morning I awoke with you
Attendant in my dreams, Much like the ghost who stumbles through Eternal gloom, because it seems Condemned for an eternity Rote actions to repeat, So even though you looked at me Your eyes unseeing did mine meet. What can it mean, my cherished friend, So recently departed, Here at our lengthy friendship’s end— What message was to me imparted? That “all is vanity” I know, As this dream but confirms: Like travellers we come and go, Sojourning here the briefest terms. A caravanserai, this world— It happened that we met, And from that chance encounter, whirled Vast consequences not done yet. You have become your photographs,
The name affixed Inside an old book’s cover: laughs And sighs have all been nixed Along with tears and sorrow Because for you there will be no tomorrow. While I take books down from the shelf To sort and pack, Remnants of your sartorial self Taken from off the rack— How this or that might flatter— Receive the scrutiny of women’s natter. We divvy up the goods, to keep Or to donate Diversely, some small gain to reap In settling your estate— We your surviving friends Gathered to sort and settle up loose ends. Dismantling your collection—books— Falls to my charge, Your library in various nooks Grown by accretion large Over a lifetime’s care Devoted to the intellect housed there. People you loved, and next to them Ideas; now we, Disparate friends, conjoined condemn To anonymity These parcels and effects Of you so as the wind of chance elects. A photograph is passed around, Betwixt some old Documents, sundry papers found, Of you, your hair like gold, Remarked by every tongue: “She looks so beautiful, and so, so young.” Dennis Hastert
Liked to cast dirt As a moral preacher, But before did Something sordid When he was a teacher. Once a nasty Pederast, he Went down to the Wal-mart, Thought, “I shall use Family values To become a stalwart. “Okie-dokie Here’s a cloakie, Quite Republicanny: Wearing virtue Facts can’t hurt you, Truth can’t claim a cranny.” That and funny (Hush hush) money Kept perhaps a victim From accusing That abusing Was how Hastert dicked him. Those years ago, what I revealed
Diminished your esteem, As I learned poetry concealed The substance of a dream. Almost as though upon a dare I set my songs together, Sonnets, as living proof to share The thesis on a tether. Many years later, now I see In blatant retrospect Wherefore I erred, in setting free, Not claiming, heart’s elect. The false steps, stumbles, courseway errant Do only, with such time In retrospect become apparent From vantage of the climb. The way was fraught. You hardly knew— Yet what success in proof That must be kept apart from you, Your heart from it aloof? ¡Ay, qué terribles cinco de la manaña!
¡Eran las cinco en todos los relojes! The call that I awaited came To bring the news expected, That burns no more the living flame Which your good life protected. At five o'clock this morning, life Departed, I was told, The ordeal ended, trauma rife In its compartment rolled. Yet, even though the spark has ceased The shadows keep on looming, Your influence, which, like a feast We heirs may keep consuming. What you bequeath, was not a thing Of monetary title, As attachéd attorneys bring Last testament's recital: What keepsakes be assignable We few partition up, The paltry dregs of life lived well— To life we raise our cup. Thank you for all the care and counsel
Those many years ago; I felt the grief rise like a groundswell, And count how much I owe. So innocent, and almost pure Those years gone by, I was, Alone and lost, in all unsure, Rebel without a cause. The deepest debts, cannot be said, Repayment, in a word Impossible—for how be paid The world? It is absurd. The end came swift before I might Relay my thanks to you; As you go into that good night I pray somehow you knew. It matters little. Words are words, Yet we were bonded by Unselfish friendship’s mystic chords Not broken as you die. If there be heaven, you shall join Blameless angelic ranks, Club membership not gained by coin, And so I give my thanks. One's time has been allotted, or has not;
In either case, with death man is encumbered— Even the hairs upon his head are numbered, The hours remaining none a very lot. Remember this when plans have gone awry, When all one's hopes and dreams gasp their last breath; For all of life was born for only death, Each one of us meant very soon to die. "But I am sick! Life's torment seems unceasing!" Have patience, 'twill be just a moment longer. "I hoped to finish plans if I were stronger!" Chance sunders all, age, illness aye increasing, But soon enough, despite a bit of pain, Discomfort or remorse, perhaps revulsion, From all of this there will be an expulsion, As in the grave adversities are lain. |
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