Evelyn Waugh's brilliant essay "Well-Informed Circles...and How to Move in Them"

      In the vocabulary of the daily press "well-informed circles" have by now been relegated to a place of secondary importance.  On those very frequent days when foreign and diplomatic correspondents find themselves without any credible information to report, it is their custom to appease their editors with modest forecasts of their own.  On these occasions, it is usual to evoke as authority some anonymous source.  If, for instance, they have heard something from the postman, they attribute it to "a semi-official statement"; if they have fallen into conversation with a stranger at a bar, they can conscientiously describe him as "a source that has hitherto proved unimpeachable".  It is only when the journalist is reporting a whim of his own, and one to which he attaches minor importance, that he defines it as the opinion of "well-informed circles".
      At home, however, in ordinary social intercourse, "well-informed circles" still retain their prestige.  It is significant of the diffidence with which we, as a nation, hold our opinions that the English for "on dit" is "They say".  The Parisian repots what is being said at the café by his cronies and by himself; the Londoner pays homage to the enigmatic They—the people in the know.  To be well-informed in England does not mean—as it used to in Germany and still does in the United States —to have studied the subject, written a thesis and earned a diploma.  It means to be in constant, intimate association with the Great.  Nothing is more helpful to a shy young man than to get this reputation.  It is by no means difficult.  Like all arts, it is simply a matter of the proper use of raw material.
      The difficulty is not in meeting the Great—most of us from time to time find ourselves within measurable distance of them—but in making the proper use of our meetings.  Suppose, for instance, you are asked to luncheon at the last moment by a harassed hostess and, on arrival, see in the distance a face which has long been familiar to you in newsreels and caricatures.  You are introduced and drift away to a more obscure part of the room.  At the table, he sits six places from you.  You are dimly aware of his expressing a liking for porridge.  He leaves immediately after luncheon.  You wait until he is clear of the hall and then go, too.  Nothing much there, you think, to qualify you for a member of the "well-informed circles".
      "Mary had the Prime Minister to lunch today," you report.
      "Oh, how exciting.  What did he say about Palestine?"
      "I don't think he mentioned it."
      "Oh."
      No ice cut.  But try it this way: "I had luncheon with the Prime Minister today."
      "Oh, how exciting.  What did he say about Palestine?"
      "Mary was there, and, as you know, the PM never talks in front of her.  He won't be saying anything about Palestine this week anyway.  Ask me next Thursday, and I may be able to tell you something rather interesting."
      When celebrities fail, it is always possible to introduce quite unknown names with such an air of authority that no one dares challenge you.  This is particularly useful when you meet a rival Well-Informed Man and are getting the worst of the encounter.  You have asserted, for example, that the Paraguayan government is in the hands of a military clique, you have been caught on this by a sudden disclosure of superior knowledge.  "What about Hernandes, Cervantes and Alvarez?"  you are suddenly asked.  You have never heard of them; nor, in all probability, has your rival.  Counter smartly with, "You need not worry about them.  Perhaps I ought not say that.  I got it only this morning from Henry Scudamore himself."  There is only one answer to this particular gambit.  "Ah yes.  I suppose Scudamore was cutting your hair at the time?"  It is conclusive, but it makes a lifelong enemy.  Generally speaking, a certain reciprocal loyalty should be observed by "well-informed men".
      Of these, there are two distinct schools, both of which enjoy wide popularity at the moment.  Anyone who wishes to make a social career on these lines should decide early what school he wishes to belong to and follow it without deviation.  His temperament must be the deciding factor.
      The simpler, perhaps, is the Pseudo-Secret Service.  Those who seek admission to this honourable corps must have travelled a little in the Near East and, if possible, beyond.  They must exhibit and interest in languages—a different and vastly easier thing than a knowledge of them.  If, for instance, you are caught out by the menu, say blandly, "I've never been able to pay much attention to Latin languages," or, better still, "the Romance Group"; and to such direct questions as, "Do you speak Magyar?" answer, "Not nearly as well as I ought."  It is a good policy to introduce linguistic questions whenever possible; for instance, if someone says he has spent three weeks in Cairo, instead of asking about the hotels, say, "Tell me, is much demotic Armenian spoken there now?", and if big-game hunting in Kenya is mentioned, say, "I suppose one can muddle along with Swahili, Arabic, and Kikuyu?"  You must also be an expert ion accents—"...she spoke Catalan with a strong Cretan accent..."
      In appearance, the Pseudo-Secret Service are conventional.  From time to time, they must be seen in public with a very queer company and, when asked about it, reply, "Well in a way it's more or less my job."  They must have a keen memory for diplomatic appointments, not only our own, but the whole boiling.  "...Going to Warsaw?  Let's see, who have the Siamese got there now?..."  You can also flatter your friends and enhance your own prestige by gibing them little commissions to execute for you: "Going to Paris?  I wonder if you could find out something for me.  I should very much like to know who owns a little weekly called Le Faux Bonhomme..."  Or "...I wonder if you'd mind posting a letter for me in Budapest.  I'd prefer the government not to have it in their hands..."
      Above all, you must assume a mysterious compulsion behind all your movements.  "I may have to go abroad next week.  Where?  Well, I shan't really know until I reach Paris.  It depends on what I hear when I get there.  What shall I do?  Well," (with a knowing smile) "I expect I shall play a little golf.  I find it is a very good tip to take golf-clubs about with me abroad.  They save one a lot of awkward questions."
      The strength of this school is that, as one of its prime objects is evasion, it is almost impossible to be shown up; the weakness is that it is very easy, in a confidential or convivial moment, to show oneself up.  It also imposes restraints that often become irksome.  For more boisterous and expansive spirits, the Bluff -and-Glory school is recommended.
      Personal appearance counts for a lot here: an opulent and in-artisitc  Bohemianism is the effect aimed at.  the Pseudo-Secret-Service have affiliations with the Russian Ballet, Wiltshire and the fashionable weeklies, the Bluff-and-Glory boys move about the Stock Exchange, Fleet Street, and the House of Commons smoking-room.  They have definite traces of City soot behind the ears, and they are usually too busy to visit the barber.  They have hoarse and rather hectoring voices, a gangster vocabulary, effusive geniality.  They eschew moderation and either drink to excess or not at all; they are boastful in love and pursue rather accessible quarry.  They know the names of everyone with more than twenty thousand pounds a year and can furnish, unasked, exact details of the disposition of their fortunes.  "Old So-and-s moved back one hundred thousand in Commodities," they say, or, "I will hand it to So-and-so, he made a very pretty clean-up last week in Oxides."  In Parliament, they know all the gossip from the lobbies and Whips' offices.  Cabinet secrets are not secrets to them, particularly in regard to personal dissensions.  In spite of their ruggedness of appearance, they have a keen regard for personal comfort, and few of them have travelled further than Los Angeles and the Lido.
      An essential quality is resilience in face of exposure.  For example, you have been dominating the table for some time about the character of Catalan nationalism, and, towards the end of your discourse, you reveal the fact that you thought Bilbao and Guernica were in Catalonia.  Do not be put out.  Either say offensively, "It's no use trying to talk reason to Communists"—of "Fascists", at will; or shout, "I'm not talking about Catalonia; I'm talking about the Basques," or "Who said anything about Bilbao?  I'm talking about Barcelona," or "My dear fellow, look at the map.  I'm not here to teach you elementary geography."  Any of these replies, or all of them in one fine perforation, should suffice to clear your reputation.  Treat all discussion as though you were being heckled in a tough ward at an election.  Rely on the impromptu statistic; e.g., someone says, "All ships' engineers seem to be Scotsmen"; reply, "The latest Mercantile Marine figures give the percentage at 78.4 recurring."  Attribute all facts of common knowledge to personal information; for instance, do not say, "What a wet week it has been," but, "They tell me at Greenwich they have registered the highest rainfall for six weeks."  Instead of "I see there have been a lot of jewel robberies lately," say, "THe Chief Commissioner tells me that Scotland Yard is up against it."  Always refer to big-business concerns by the name of their chief magnate.  "Ashfield is making a new station," "Mond is putting up the price of pills," "Write to Astor about it."
      By following these simple instructions and studying the methods of those who have already made good in the job, you can assure yourself a glamorous youth, prosperous middle age, the title of Grand Old Man, and finally some laudatory obituaries.

Day 12: Poetry From Several Nobel-worthy Poets

Well, the Nobel Prize in Literature will be given out tomorrow, and though it had earlier seemed (based on the odds set by Ladbrokes) that a poet would be given the prize, the favorites now seem to be Ngugi wa Thiong'o, Cormac McCarthy, and Haruki Murakami. But there are still a number of poets with good odds, and everybody knows that the Ladbrokes list is far from official. Today, we’re going to read some poetry from some of the poets who seem to have the best shot at winning the Nobel this year. NB: I have chosen works only by authors who are most notable for their poetry, therefore there is no Vargas Llosa or Achebe poetry. Maybe sometime later I’ll have a special post on “fantastic poetry written by novelists”, but that’s not the focus today. NB part 2: Achebe’s poetry really is spectacular, though.

* * *

KO UN

Ko Un is a Korean poet. He grew up during a time of great disturbance in Korea, and actually poured acid into his own ears at one point after the death of many of his family members. He has been a political activist, spending a lot of time in jail protesting for democracy in South Korea, and actually was a Buddhist monk for a time. His poetry reflects the tragedy which he has seen, though not all of it is as melancholy as this selection from Ten Thousand Lives, entitled “The Moon”.

THE MOON

Every time the moon rose, she prayed.
Finally Wol-nam's mother, at forty, bore a son.
In dreams before pregnancy,
she swallowed the moon.
After her son was born, Wol-nam's mother
would lose her mind
without fail
every time the moon rose.
Late at night, washing dishes,
she'd smash one bowl-
the moon then hid in a cloud
and the world grew blind.

* * *

Also, because I just couldn’t resist, here is another of Ko Un’s brilliant poems, the next in the sequence from Ten Thousand Lives, entitled “The Little Spring”.

THE LITTLE SPRING

Without its little spring,
what would make Yongtun Village a village?
Endlessly, snowflakes fall
into the spring's dark waters
and dissolve.
What still still stillness,
as Yang-sul's wife,
covered in snow, goes out to draw water,
puts down her tiny little water jar
and picks up the gourd dipper but forgets to draw water,
watching snowflakes die:
that still still stillness.

Translated by Brother Anthony of Taizé, Young-Moo Kim, & Gary G. Gach

* * *

THOMAS TRANSTRÖMER

Possibly one of the greatest Swedish poets to ever live, Tranströmer seemingly has an inside track to the prize, since his work is already in the language of the committee, and he was, in fact, the favorite when betting opened. Tranströmer has been criticized for avoiding political issues in his poetry, which may hamper his chances for the Nobel (since they like to choose writers who have been outspoken in their home countries). He suffered a stroke in 1990, but he continues to write and play the piano, though he was forced to give up his work as a psychologist. Our selection, “After a Death”, reveals Tranströmer’s command of images and his Expressionist and Surrealist tendencies.

AFTER A DEATH

Once there was a shock
that left behind a long, shimmering comet tail.
It keeps us inside. It makes the TV pictures snowy.
It settles in cold drops on the telephone wires.

One can still go slowly on skis in the winter sun
through brush where a few leaves hang on.
They resemble pages torn from old telephone directories.
Names swallowed by the cold.

It is still beautiful to hear the heart beat
but often the shadow seems more real than the body.
The samurai looks insignificant
beside his armor of black dragon scales.

Translated by Robert Bly

* * *

ADONIS

Ali Ahmad Said (penname: Adonis) is easily the most influential Arabic-language poet living. He was born in Syria, receiving a degree in Philosophy from the university in Damascus at the age of 24. He spent time in prison as a member of a radical pan-Arab party, before founding the Arabic literary magazine Shi’r and becoming a proponent of Syrian nationalism. The selection, from Adonis’ landmark 1961 collection Mihyar of Damascus, his Songs, is entitled “New Testament”. Adonis’ skill speaks for itself.

NEW TESTAMENT

He doesn't speak this language.
He doesn't know the voices of the wastes—
a soothsayer in stony sleep,
he is burdened with distant languages.

Here he comes from under the ruins
in the climate of new words,
offering his poems to grieving winds
unpolished but bewitching like brass.

He is a language glistening between the masts,
the knight of strange words.

Translated by Adnan Haydar and Michael Beard

* * *

LES MURRAY

Les Murray is a celebrated Australian poet. His 30 poetry collections qualify him for the epithet “prolific”. Murray has been no stranger to controversies, opposing the modernist poetry movement in his own country due to its elitist intellectuality, defending the accessibility of poetry to “widespread, popular readership”. For this reason, Murray may have an outside chance of winning the prize, and his collection Subhuman Redneck Poems (from which our selection is taken) has been previously translated into Swedish, giving the committee an opportunity to read some of his best work. The selection, “Comete”, shows Murray’s effective use of radical imagery and experimental words that permeates much of his poetry.

COMETE

Uphill in Melbourne on a beautiful day
a woman is walking ahead of her hair.
Like teak oiled soft to fracture and sway
it hung to her heels and seconded her
as a pencilled retinue, an unscrolling title
to ploughland, edged with ripe rows of dress,
a sheathed wing that couldn't fly her at all,
only itself, loosely, and her spirits.
A largesse
of life and self, brushed all calm and out,
its abstracted attempts on her mouth weren't seen,
not its showering, its tenting. Just the detail
that swam in its flow-lines, glossing about—
as she paced on, comet-like, face to the sun.

* * *

JUAN GELMAN

Juan Gelman, the Argentine winner of the 2007 Cervantes Prize, was heavily effected by his reading (at age 8!) of Dostoyevsky’s The Insulted and Humiliated. Gelman subsequently became a political activist and supported the Montoneros as a journalist. His son and daughter-in-law were murdered during the Dirty War, though he later found their daughter living in Uruguay. His poetry is imbued with a sense of exuberance, but also with the feelings of sorrow and tragedy that he has been through. This can be seen in the selection, the first poem from his collection Dibaxu, about the remembrance of a lost lover.

DIBAXU: I

the tremor in my lips
I mean: the tremor of my kisses
will be heard in your past
with me in your wine
opening the door of time
your dream
allows sleeping rain to fall
give me your rain
I will stop you
still
in your rain of sleep
far inside the thinking
without fear
without forgetfulness
in the house of time
is the past
under your foot
dancing

Translated by Ilan Stavans

* * *

ADAM ZAGAJEWSKI

Czeslaw Milosz and Wislawa Szymborska may be the reason Adam Zagajewski does not win the Nobel this year (or ever): the committee probably doesn’t want to seem like the only poetry they read is Polish poetry. Zagajewski, however, certainly has the chops to win the prize. He left Poland in the 80’s, but returned in 2002. Our selection, “Try to Praise the Mutilated World”, appeared in the New Yorker and gained fame after the September 11 attacks.

TRY TO PRAISE THE MUTILATED WORLD

Try to praise the mutilated world.
Remember June's long days,
and wild strawberries, drops of wine, the dew.
The nettles that methodically overgrow
the abandoned homesteads of exiles.
You must praise the mutilated world.
You watched the stylish yachts and ships;
one of them had a long trip ahead of it,
while salty oblivion awaited others.
You've seen the refugees heading nowhere,
you've heard the executioners sing joyfully.
You should praise the mutilated world.
Remember the moments when we were together
in a white room and the curtain fluttered.
Return in thought to the concert where music flared.
You gathered acorns in the park in autumn
and leaves eddied over the earth's scars.
Praise the mutilated world
and the grey feather a thrush lost,
and the gentle light that strays and vanishes
and returns.

Translated by Renata Gorczynski

* * *

JOHN ASHBERY

A highly influential American poet of the 20th century, John Ashbery once described himself as a "harebrained, homegrown surrealist whose poetry defies even the rules and logic of Surrealism." His most notable work (unfortunately too long to print here) is entitled "Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror" (based on the Parmigianino painting of the same name. His career began after W.H. Auden chose his collection Some Trees for the 1956 Yale Younger Poets Prize, and he was a member of the New York School with Frank O'Hara and James Schuyler. The selection, "El Dorado", contains examples of the novel descriptions and images (e.g. "living is a meatloaf sandwich") that are found throughout Ashbery's poetry.

EL DORADO

We have a friend in common, the retired sophomore.
His concern: that I shall get it like that,
in the right and righter of a green bush
chomping on future considerations. In the ghostly
dreams of others it appears I am all right,
and even going on tomorrow there is much
to be said on all these matters, “issues,” like
“No rest for the weary.” (And yet—why not?)
Feeling under orders is a way of showing up,
but stepping on Earth—she’s not going to.
Ten shades of pleasing himself brings us to tomorrow
evening and will be back for more. I disagree
with you completely but couldn’t be prouder
and fonder of you. So drink up. Feel good for two.

I do it in a lot of places. Subfusc El Dorado
is only one that I know something about.
Others are recently lost cities
where we used to live—they keep the names
we knew, sometimes. I do it in a lot of places.
Brash brats offer laughing advice,
as though anything I cared about could be difficult
or complicated now. That’s the rub. Gusts of up
to forty-five miles an hour will be dropping in later
on tonight. No reason not to. So point at the luck
we know about. Living is a meatloaf sandwich.
I had a good time up there.

* * *

YVES BONNEFAY

Yves Bonnefoy is a French poet and perennial favorite for the prize. In terms of influence, either he or Ashbery has the best resume, since both have inspired an entire generation of poets in their home countries. Bonnefoy uses deceptively simple words strung together into beautiful phrases to convey a sense of lightness and childishness, even when discussing heavy subjects, as in our selection, his poem "Mallarmé's Tomb".

MALLARMÉ'S TOMB

His sail should be his tomb, since no
Breath on this earth could convince
The skiff of his voice to say no
To the river's summons of light.

Here, he said, is Hugo's loveliest verse:
"The sun has set, this evening, in the clouds."
Water turns to fire, when nothing can be added
Or removed: by that fire he's consumed.

We see him blurring, far away, as his boat
Fades from view. At its prow, what is he
Waving? We can't tell—not from here.
Is that how people die? And who's he talking to?

What will be left of him, when night comes on?
Ploughing the river, this two-colored scarf...

Translated by Hoyt Rogers

* * *

CEES NOOTEBOOM

With possibly the greatest name of any living poet, Cees Nooteboom has probably the lowest chance of any poet at the Nobel. That said, Nooteboom is an exceptional poet who is regarded very highly in the Netherlands. He is probably better known for his novels and travelogues, but first gained literary notoriety when he won the Anne Frank Poetry prize and is a very gifted poet. His poem, "Silesius dreams", is found in the collection The Captain of Butterflies, and is an interesting meditation on the nature of dreams.

SILESIUS DREAMS

Dreams are true because they happen,
untrue because no one sees them
except for the lonely dreamer,
in his eyes that are only his own.

No one dreams us while we know it.
The dreamer’s heart keeps beating,
his eyes compose the dream, he is not
in the world. He sleeps inside and outside
of time.

The soul has two eyes, so he dreams.
The one looks at the hours, the other
sees right through them,
to where duration never stops,
looking is consumed into seeing.

Translated by Ko Kooman

Tomorrow: We celebrate the Nobel winner!

Day 11: "Tonight I can Write" by Pablo Neruda

Along with Fernando Pessoa, Pablo Neruda was considered one of the most representative poets of the twentieth century by Harold Bloom. Neruda, a Chilean, wrote many love poems (perhaps his most famous collection is his Veinte poemas de amor y una canción desesperada), but is noted for his use of expressive imagery and brilliant, thought often melancholy, word choice. "Tonight I Can Write" is one of the twenty love poems from the aforementioned collection, and is one of the most brilliantly written poems of melancholy in any language. The translation by W.S. Merwin keeps much of the feeling and emotion of the original Spanish to give the reader a sense of the depression felt by the speaker.

TONIGHT I CAN WRITE

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Write, for example, 'The night is starry
and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance.'

The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.

To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is starry and she is not with me.

This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.

The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.

Another's. She will be another's. As she was before my kisses.
Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.

Translated by W.S. Merwin

Tomorrow: A special pre-Nobel poetry extravaganza.

Day 10: "Constantly Risking Absurdity" by Lawrence Ferlinghetti

Lawrence Ferlinghetti was a member of the Beat Generation, who founded the City Lights bookstore which published a lot of early Beat poetry, including the first edition of Allen Ginsberg's Howl and Other Poems. As a poet, Ferlinghetti's collections include A Coney Island of the Mind and Pictures of the Gone World, as well as the poem "Constantly Risking Absurdity". "Constantly Risking Absurdity" uses imagery and eccentric formatting to compare the craft of poetry to acrobatics.

CONSTANTLY RISKING ABSURDITY

Constantly risking absurdity

                                             and death

            whenever he performs

                                        above the heads

                                                            of his audience

   the poet like an acrobat

                                 climbs on rime

                                          to a high wire of his own making

and balancing on eyebeams

                                     above a sea of faces

             paces his way

                               to the other side of day

    performing entrechats

                               and sleight-of-foot tricks

and other high theatrics

                               and all without mistaking

                     any thing

                               for what it may not be

       For he's the super realist

                                     who must perforce perceive

                   taut truth

                                 before the taking of each stance or step

in his supposed advance

                                  toward that still higher perch

where Beauty stands and waits

                                     with gravity

                                                to start her death-defying leap

      And he

             a little charleychaplin man

                                           who may or may not catch

               her fair eternal form

                                     spreadeagled in the empty air

                  of existence

Tomorrow: Pablo Neruda.

Day 9: "After the Flood" by Arthur Rimbaud

Described by Victor Hugo as an "infant Shakespeare", Arthur Rimbaud was an extremely talented poet who gave up writing before the age of 21 and died before the age of 40, after having had a turbid affair with Paul Verlaine and traveling on three continents. "After the Flood" is found in his collection Illuminations, and is a prose poem that features very surrealist imagery.

AFTER THE FLOOD

As soon as the idea of the Flood was finished, a hare halted
in the clover and the trembling flower bells, and said its prayer to the rainbow through the spider’s web.
Oh! The precious stones that hid, - the flowers that gazed around them.
In the soiled main street stalls were set, they hauled the boats down to the sea rising in layers as in the old prints.
Blood flowed, at Blue-beard’s house - in the abattoirs in the circuses where God’s promise whitened the windows. Blood and milk flowed.
The beavers built. The coffee cups steamed in the bars.
In the big greenhouse that was still streaming, the children in mourning looked at the marvellous pictures.
A door banged, and, on the village-green, the child waved his arms, understood by the cocks and weathervanes of bell-towers everywhere, under the bursting shower.
Madame *** installed a piano in the Alps. The Mass and first communions were celebrated at the hundred thousand altars of the cathedral.
Caravans departed. And the Hotel Splendide was built in the chaos of ice and polar night.
Since then, the Moon heard jackals howling among the deserts of thyme – and pastoral poems in wooden shoes grumbling in the orchard. Then, in the burgeoning violet forest, Eucharis told me it was spring.
Rise, pond: - Foam, roll over the bridge and under the trees: - black drapes and organs - thunder and lightning rise and roll: - Waters and sadnesses, rise and raise the Floods again.
Because since they abated - oh! the precious stones burying themselves and the opened flowers! - it’s wearisome! And the Queen, the Sorceress who lights her fire in the pot of earth, will never tell us what she knows, and what we are ignorant of.

Translated by Tony Kline

Tomorrow: Lawrence Ferlinghetti.

Day 8: "In the Library" by Charles Simic

Charles Simic, a Serbian-American poet who served as Poet Laureate for a time, is one of the masters of modern American poetry. Simic's poem "In the Library", from the collection The Book of Gods and Devils, contains one of my personal favorite images in all of poetry: in the second stanza, when Simic says that "angels were once as plentiful as species of flies." The poem seems to suggest that modern life has a dearth of wonder and spirituality.

IN THE LIBRARY

There's a book called
"A Dictionary of Angels."
No one has opened it in fifty years,
I know, because when I did,
The covers creaked, the pages
Crumbled. There I discovered

The angels were once as plentiful
As species of flies.
The sky at dusk
Used to be thick with them.
You had to wave both arms
Just to keep them away.

Now the sun is shining
Through the tall windows.
The library is a quiet place.
Angels and gods huddled
In dark unopened books.
The great secret lies
On some shelf Miss Jones
Passes every day on her rounds.

She's very tall, so she keeps
Her head tipped as if listening.
The books are whispering.
I hear nothing, but she does.

Tomorrow: Arthur Rimbaud.

Day 7: "Babi Yar" by Yevgeny Yevtushenko

Yevgeny Yevtushenko was a Russian poet of the Soviet era. Throughout much of his career, he seemingly walked a fine line between being anti-Soviet and being supported by the suppressive Soviet government. His best known work, "Babi Yar", is a harsh criticism of the Soviet policy towards Jews, and especially the Holocaust. The official policy of the Soviet government of the time was to acknowledge only the Soviet citizens that had been killed in the Holocaust. Yevtushenko here says that that policy is anti-Semitic. The poem was set to music by Russian composer Dmitri Shostakovich as part of his 13th Symphony, which is often called the "Babi Yar" symphony.

BABI YAR

No monument stands over Babi Yar.
A steep cliff only, like the rudest headstone.
I am afraid.
Today, I am as old
As the entire Jewish race itself.

I see myself an ancient Israelite.
I wander o'er the roads of ancient Egypt
And here, upon the cross, I perish, tortured
And even now, I bear the marks of nails.

It seems to me that Dreyfus is myself.
The Philistines betrayed me - and now judge.
I'm in a cage. Surrounded and trapped,
I'm persecuted, spat on, slandered, and
The dainty dollies in their Brussels frills
Squeal, as they stab umbrellas at my face.

I see myself a boy in Belostok
Blood spills, and runs upon the floors,
The chiefs of bar and pub rage unimpeded
And reek of vodka and of onion, half and half.

I'm thrown back by a boot, I have no strength left,
In vain I beg the rabble of pogrom,
To jeers of "Kill the Jews, and save our Russia!"
My mother's being beaten by a clerk.

O, Russia of my heart, I know that you
Are international, by inner nature.
But often those whose hands are steeped in filth
Abused your purest name, in name of hatred.

I know the kindness of my native land.
How vile, that without the slightest quiver
The antisemites have proclaimed themselves
The "Union of the Russian People!"

It seems to me that I am Anna Frank,
Transparent, as the thinnest branch in April,
And I'm in love, and have no need of phrases,
But only that we gaze into each other's eyes.
How little one can see, or even sense!
Leaves are forbidden, so is sky,
But much is still allowed - very gently
In darkened rooms each other to embrace.

-"They come!"

-"No, fear not - those are sounds
Of spring itself. She's coming soon.
Quickly, your lips!"

-"They break the door!"

-"No, river ice is breaking..."

Wild grasses rustle over Babi Yar,
The trees look sternly, as if passing judgement.
Here, silently, all screams, and, hat in hand,
I feel my hair changing shade to gray.

And I myself, like one long soundless scream
Above the thousands of thousands interred,
I'm every old man executed here,
As I am every child murdered here.

No fiber of my body will forget this.
May "Internationale" thunder and ring
When, for all time, is buried and forgotten
The last of antisemites on this earth.

There is no Jewish blood that's blood of mine,
But, hated with a passion that's corrosive
Am I by antisemites like a Jew.
And that is why I call myself a Russian!

Translated by Benjamin Okopnik

Tomorrow: Charles Simic.