The poem that foretold modernism

Mallarmé and modernism — "Consider its title. Bloch points out that Jamais (Never) is out of sequence for an ordinary French sentence, where it would conventionally follow the verb. What then motivates this terrible “Never,” with its abnormal, jarring priority? What is this extreme of negativity that cannot be gainsaid?" (The New Republic)

"I feel I could crack open mines of life..."

Sylvia Plath in her diary. Thursday, July 17th, 1957. "After two days of no-schedule, disrupted by our seeking Baskins, Rodman [...] I sit down on a clear cold sunny day with nothing to beef at except the slick sick feeling which won't leave. It comes and goes. I feel I could crack open mines of life--in my daily writing sketches, in my reading and planning: if only I could get rid of my absolutist panic. I have, continually, the sense that this time is invaluable, and the opposite sense that I am paralyzed to use it: or will use it wastefully and blindly. I have all the world's reading on my back, instead of a possible book a day. I must discipline myself to concentrate on certain authors, certain fields, lest I welter, knowing nothing and everything. Across the street there is the chink, chink of hammers on nails, the tap of hammers on wood. Men are on the scaffolding. I am neither a know-nothing nor a bohemian, but I find myself wishing, wishing, to have a corner of my own: something I can know about, write about well. All I have ever read thins and vanishes. I do not amass, remember. I shall this year work for steady small growth, nothing spectacular, and the ridding of this panic. The windows shake in their sockets from some unheard detonation. Ted says they are breaking the sound barrier. Somewhere I have a vision, not of thwarting, of meanness, but of fullness, of a maturer, riper placidity, a humor to bear nightmare, an ordering, reshaping faculty which steadies and fears not. A housewife--with children and writing and reading in the midst of business, but fully, with good friends who are makers in some way. The more I do, the more I can do. I should choose first the few things I wish to learn: German, poets and poetry, novels and novelists, art and artists. French also. Are they making or breaking across the street here? All fears are figments: I make them up."

The greatness of Eva Brann

From the Washington Free Beacon: Had the Athenians lost at Salamis, Herodotus’ Histories would never have come to be, not to mention the entire subsequent literary tradition of Athens, or, indeed, America itself, which is a consequence of that tradition. As Brann puts it:

If the Greeks had lost here…[w]hat great and wonderful works would then have come to be in Europe and its America? Probably not these: science and democracy. For the Persian bequest to Europe, the one that would have aborted the Greek legacy we actually live off, would have been the religion, not the science, of nature, and the institution of despotism, not of freedom.

"I soon saw that it was simply not in me to be a mandarin."

Saul Bellow interviewed in the Paris Review -- "My first two books are well made. I wrote the first quickly but took great pains with it. I labored with the second and tried to make it letter-perfect. In writing The Victim I accepted a Flaubertian standard. Not a bad standard, to be sure, but one which, in the end, I found repressive—repressive because of the circumstances of my life and because of my upbringing in Chicago as the son of immigrants. I could not, with such an instrument as I developed in the first two books, express a variety of things I knew intimately. Those books, though useful, did not give me a form in which I felt comfortable. A writer should be able to express himself easily, naturally, copiously in a form that frees his mind, his energies. Why should he hobble himself with formalities? With a borrowed sensibility? With the desire to be “correct”? Why should I force myself to write like an Englishman or a contributor to The New Yorker? I soon saw that it was simply not in me to be a mandarin. I should add that for a young man in my position there were social inhibitions, too. I had good reason to fear that I would be put down as a foreigner, an interloper. It was made clear to me when I studied literature in the university that as a Jew and the son of Russian Jews I would probably never have the right feeling for Anglo-Saxon traditions, for English words. I realized even in college that the people who told me this were not necessarily disinterested friends. But they had an effect on me, nevertheless. This was something from which I had to free myself. I fought free because I had to."

"...wherefore I regard the book with that peculiar affection which results from sacrifice."

Chapter XII of George Gissing's The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft:
As often as I survey my bookshelves I am reminded of Lamb’s “ragged veterans.”  Not that all my volumes came from the second-hand stall; many of them were neat enough in new covers, some were even stately in fragrant bindings, when they passed into my hands.  But so often have I removed, so rough has been the treatment of my little library at each change of place, and, to tell the truth, so little care have I given to its well-being at normal times (for in all practical matters I am idle and inept), that even the comeliest of my books show the results of unfair usage.  More than one has been foully injured by a great nail driven into a packing-case—this but the extreme instance of the wrongs they have undergone.  Now that I have leisure and peace of mind, I find myself growing more careful—an illustration of the great truth that virtue is made easy by circumstance.  But I confess that, so long as a volume hold together, I am not much troubled as to its outer appearance.

I know men who say they had as lief read any book in a library copy as in one from their own shelf.  To me that is unintelligible.  For one thing, I know every book of mine by its scent, and I have but to put my nose between the pages to be reminded of all sorts of things.  My Gibbon, for example, my well-bound eight-volume Milman edition, which I have read and read and read again for more than thirty years—never do I open it but the scent of the noble page restores to me all the exultant happiness of that moment when I received it as a prize.  Or my Shakespeare, the great Cambridge Shakespeare—it has an odour which carries me yet further back in life; for these volumes belonged to my father, and before I was old enough to read them with understanding, it was often permitted me, as a treat, to take down one of them from the bookcase, and reverently to turn the leaves.  The volumes smell exactly as they did in that old time, and what a strange tenderness comes upon me when I hold one of them in hand.  For that reason I do not often read Shakespeare in this edition.  My eyes being good as ever, I take the Globe volume, which I bought in days when such a purchase was something more than an extravagance; wherefore I regard the book with that peculiar affection which results from sacrifice.

Sacrifice—in no drawing-room sense of the word.  Dozens of my books were purchased with money which ought to have been spent upon what are called the necessaries of life.  Many a time I have stood before a stall, or a bookseller’s window, torn by conflict of intellectual desire and bodily need.  At the very hour of dinner, when my stomach clamoured for food, I have been stopped by sight of a volume so long coveted, and marked at so advantageous a price, that I could not let it go; yet to buy it meant pangs of famine.  My Heyne’s Tibullus was grasped at such a moment.  It lay on the stall of the old book-shop in Goodge Street—a stall where now and then one found an excellent thing among quantities of rubbish.  Sixpence was the price—sixpence!  At that time I used to eat my mid-day meal (of course my dinner) at a coffee-shop in Oxford Street, one of the real old coffee-shops, such as now, I suppose, can hardly be found.  Sixpence was all I had—yes, all I had in the world; it would purchase a plate of meat and vegetables.  But I did not dare to hope that the Tibullus would wait until the morrow, when a certain small sum fell due to me.  I paced the pavement, fingering the coppers in my pocket, eyeing the stall, two appetites at combat within me.  The book was bought and I went home with it, and as I made a dinner of bread and butter I gloated over the pages.

In this Tibullus I found pencilled on the last page: “Perlegi, Oct. 4, 1792.”  Who was that possessor of the book, nearly a hundred years ago?  There was no other inscription.  I like to imagine some poor scholar, poor and eager as I myself, who bought the volume with drops of his blood, and enjoyed the reading of it even as I did.  How much that was I could not easily say.  Gentle-hearted Tibullus!—of whom there remains to us a poet’s portrait more delightful, I think, than anything of the kind in Roman literature.

An tacitum silvas inter reptare salubres, Curantem quidquid dignum sapiente bonoque est?

So with many another book on the thronged shelves.  To take them down is to recall, how vividly, a struggle and a triumph.  In those days money represented nothing to me, nothing I cared to think about, but the acquisition of books.  There were books of which I had passionate need, books more necessary to me than bodily nourishment.  I could see them, of course, at the British Museum, but that was not at all the same thing as having and holding them, my own property, on my own shelf.  Now and then I have bought a volume of the raggedest and wretchedest aspect, dishonoured with foolish scribbling, torn, blotted—no matter, I liked better to read out of that than out of a copy that was not mine.  But I was guilty at times of mere self-indulgence; a book tempted me, a book which was not one of those for which I really craved, a luxury which prudence might bid me forego.  As, for instance, my Jung-Stilling.  It caught my eye in Holywell Street; the name was familiar to me in Wahrheit und Dichtung, and curiosity grew as I glanced over the pages.  But that day I resisted; in truth, I could not afford the eighteen-pence, which means that just then I was poor indeed.  Twice again did I pass, each time assuring myself that Jung-Stilling had found no purchaser.  There came a day when I was in funds.  I see myself hastening to Holywell Street (in those days my habitual pace was five miles an hour), I see the little grey old man with whom I transacted my business—what was his name?—the bookseller who had been, I believe, a Catholic priest, and still had a certain priestly dignity about him.  He took the volume, opened it, mused for a moment, then, with a glance at me, said, as if thinking aloud: “Yes, I wish I had time to read it.”

Sometimes I added the labour of a porter to my fasting endured for the sake of books.  At the little shop near Portland Road Station I came upon a first edition of Gibbon, the price an absurdity—I think it was a shilling a volume.  To possess those clean-paged quartos I would have sold my coat.  As it happened, I had not money enough with me, but sufficient at home.  I was living at Islington.  Having spoken with the bookseller, I walked home, took the cash, walked back again, and—carried the tomes from the west end of Euston Road to a street in Islington far beyond the Angel.  I did it in two journeys—this being the only time in my life when I thought of Gibbon in avoirdupois.  Twice—three times, reckoning the walk for the money—did I descend Euston Road and climb Pentonville on that occasion.  Of the season and the weather I have no recollection; my joy in the purchase I had made drove out every other thought.  Except, indeed, of the weight.  I had infinite energy, but not much muscular strength, and the end of the last journey saw me upon a chair, perspiring, flaccid, aching—exultant!

The well-to-do person would hear this story with astonishment.  Why did I not get the bookseller to send me the volumes?  Or, if I could not wait, was there no omnibus along that London highway?  How could I make the well-to-do person understand that I did not feel able to afford, that day, one penny more than I had spent on the book?  No, no, such labour-saving expenditure did not come within my scope; whatever I enjoyed I earned it, literally, by the sweat of my brow.  In those days I hardly knew what it was to travel by omnibus.  I have walked London streets for twelve and fifteen hours together without ever a thought of saving my legs, or my time, by paying for waftage.  Being poor as poor can be, there were certain things I had to renounce, and this was one of them.

Years after, I sold my first edition of Gibbon for even less than it cost me; it went with a great many other fine books in folio and quarto, which I could not drag about with me in my constant removals; the man who bought them spoke of them as “tomb-stones.”  Why has Gibbon no market value?  Often has my heart ached with regret for those quartos.  The joy of reading the Decline and Fall in that fine type!  The page was appropriate to the dignity of the subject; the mere sight of it tuned one’s mind.  I suppose I could easily get another copy now; but it would not be to me what that other was, with its memory of dust and toil.