Portrait of a poetry critic

Last week I was noodling about in Thomas Moore's Lalla Rookh, a story in which a marriageable bit of property is carried off to meet Aliris, her bridegroom and king-to-be. In it, "Fadladeen, one of Lalla Rookh's entourage on the journey, assumes the role of ill-tempered critic of Feramorz's tales in the manner of the Tory critics of Blackwood's and the Edinburgh Review (this was the year before they lambasted young Keats for the faults of Endymion)" (wwnorton.com). Here Fadladeen reviews the poetry of the young poet Feramorz after the fourth narrative in verse...

FADLADEEN, at the conclusion of this light rhapsody, took occasion to sum up his opinion of the young Cashmerian's poetry, --of which, he trusted, they had that evening heard the last. Having recapitulated the epithets, "frivolous"-- "inharmonious"-- "nonsensical," he proceeded to say that, viewed in the most favorable light it resembled one of those Maldivian boats, to which the Princess had alluded in the relation of her dream, -- a slight, gilded thing, sent adrift without rudder or ballast, and with nothing but vapid sweets and faded flowers on board. The profusion, indeed, of flowers and birds, which this poet had ready on all occasions, --not to mention dews, gems, etc.-- was a most oppressive kind of opulence to his hearers; and had the unlucky effect of giving to his style all the glitter of the flower garden without its method, and all the flutter of the aviary without its song. In addition to this, he chose his subjects badly, and was always most inspired by the worst parts of them. The charms of paganism, the merits of rebellion, --these were the themes honored with his particular enthusiasm; and, in the poem just recited, one of his most palatable passages was in praise of that beverage of the Unfaithful, wine; --"being, perhaps," said he, relaxing into a smile, as conscious of his own character in the Haram on this point, "one of those bards, whose fancy owes all its illumination to the grape, like that painted porcelain, so curious and so rare, whose images are only visible when liquor is poured into it." Upon the whole, it was his opinion, from the specimens which they had heard, and which, he begged to say, were the most tiresome part of the journey, that-- whatever other merits this well-dressed young gentleman might possess-- poetry was by no means his proper avocation; "and indeed," concluded the critic, "from his fondness for flowers and for birds, I would venture to suggest that a florist or a bird-catcher is a much more suitable calling for him than a poet."

Want spoilers? As one might have predicted, Lalla Rookh falls for the poet on the long trip to her bridegroom, but hers is no tale of Tristan and Isolde. While she is cast down by her fate, "yet, when she rose in the morning, and her Ladies came around her, to assist in the adjustment of the bridal ornaments, they thought they had never seen her look half so beautiful. What she had lost of the bloom and radiancy of her charms was more than made up by that intellectual expression, that soul beaming forth from the eyes, which is worth all the rest of loveliness. When they had tinged her fingers with the Henna leaf, and placed upon her brow a small coronet of jewels, of the shape worn by the ancient Queens of Bucharia, they flung over her head the rose-colored bridal veil, and she proceeded to the barge that was to convey her across the lake; --first kissing, with a mournful look, the little amulet of cornelian, which her father at parting had hung about her neck." Lucky for Lalla Rookh, it turns out that Aliris has been slumming as a mere poet, entertaining her along the way with verse narratives, and getting acquainted with his bride-to-be.

So, indeed, Aliris has a more consuming vocation as king, although in a world (like our world, once, where courtiers could conduct combat with poetry and their sovereigns wrote poems) in which great power and the pursuit of poetry could be married. The entire poem and tale of romance with its interior recounted stories can be seen as a vehicle for skewering the poetry critic, who soon jettisons his criticisms (having been caught by a powerful bird-catcher) and sings a sweeter tune...

A royal pain in the neck

Evidently when you have three and a half months to read 300+ books, you need to take very good care of your neck and back. I am longing for poet Dale Favier, Monsieur le Masseur, to drop by from the other side of the continent.

Today all I can think about is pains in the neck.

Here are some sharp pangs from an infamous and intelligent Pain in the Neck (or so many regard him), all bright and prickly (just full of points):

...complaint is the first symptom of criticism.

If the avant-garde wants to make it new, in Pound’s dictum, what can be left to accomplish when the etiquette has been as codified as the place setting for a twelve-course banquet?

Free verse looks easy to the outsider, as if it just fell off the lap of prose—if you’re going to write a long poem, however, perhaps you ought to possess some ear for the poetic line.

Few poets have examined their bodies more minutely (you feel she hides a speculum in her purse) or taken more childish satisfaction in announcing everything they find.

If a poet has no particular verbal gifts, he’s dependent on an odd point of view, or a warming tone, or—always the refuge of a scoundrel—something to say.

It’s hard to write from a child’s point of view without fatally compromising the illusion or seeming cheerfully stupid.

Even if you paid through the nose to get a vanity press to publish this, you’d have to bribe the typesetter not to cut his own throat.

How can the prescient dog not howl? Only Shrödinger’s cat knows for sure, and I confess I was laughing too hard to ask it.

He’s as protean as many British poets—they write plays, libretti, novels, translations, songs (you’re surprised they haven’t been asked to rewrite traffic laws or contribute the occasional slogan to a Marmite campaign).

Were he unfortunate enough to develop Alzheimer’s, the poems wouldn’t change a bit.

The ghost of William McGonagall must be jealous.

(The believable children in literature are rarely interesting, and the interesting rarely believable.)

There’s no poet quite so in love with her own pain, no contemporary purer in her extremity— she has the gorgeous gloominess of Sylvia Plath, her angers scrunched up like damp handkerchiefs.

A poet’s talents exist in productive tension for only a decade or so. Before, the language is all main force, the subjects mistaken, the voice immature; after, the poet often hardens into manner, his subjects written to extinction.

As he ages, a poet’s main competitor is himself —his younger, ravenous, unforgiving self.

Want to guess? The answer is in comments.

"A young, naive invertebrate," or, frolicsome facts about the state of books, c. 2012

“Why is anyone the way they are? That’s kind of hard to answer. Why do some people like cheese and other people hate it? Do you like cheese?” --According to EW.com, that critical powerhouse, this quote refers to Christian Grey's odd preferences. And here I will confess that a. I do like cheese and b. that I have never so much as cracked the spine on 50 Shades. 

In answer to a question elsewhere: yes, this is what is called tongue in cheek, although mentioning body parts at all is somewhat risible in this context. Am I one of those angry folk? Not at all. I, like Elizabeth Bennet of Pride and Prejudice, simply observe the world's follies and hope to keep my equanimity and good cheer...

1. Comments on and discussions of 50 Shades of Grey are known as "critical reception." Those who discuss are called "critics." Some of them are angry. Some are tongue in cheek. Some are perfectly serious. Some prefer the Christian in Pilgrim's Progress, another book that has sold well over the years. Some have daydreams about Christian Grey and his enthusiastic but allegedly dumb sidekick, Ana.

2. Selling many copies now means a book is good. Selling fewer copies means it is bad. 50 Shades of Grey is the "fastest-selling paperback of all time." Therefore the ancient discipline of Logic tells us that 50 Shades must be a good book, and no doubt the accountants of the publishing industry agree.

3. Book rights to 50 Shades of Grey have been sold in 37 countries, according to Wikipedia. That's a lot. According to the aforementioned Logic, this book must be really, really (really!) good.

4. The book has hunkered down on bestseller lists around the world. People who read 50 Shades are called "readers." Logic says that there are many, many "readers" in the world, far more than I had realized before! This, too, surely must be good, right?

5. Librarians, those people who in times of positively yore had time to help other people to find good books, have sometimes refused to carry the book for various stated reasons but have been over-ridden by readers and people in charge.

6. As Perez Hilton and other major webbish pontificators note, author Brett Easton Ellis (American Psycho) tweets that he wants to do the screenplay.

7. Katrina Lumsden has rioted her way through all five (oops, no three--numbers are very important) volumes and posted her colorful thoughts on Goodreads. Among other things, she collects words. In the first volume, she finds the count on these words:
"Oh My" - 79
"Crap" - 101
"Jeez" - 82
"Holy" (linked to assorted surprising nouns) - 172
"Whoa" - 13
"Gasp" - 34
"Gasps" - 11
"Sharp Intake of Breath" - 4
"Murmur" - 68 "Murmurs" - 139
"Whisper" - 96 "Whispers" - 103
"Mutter" - 28 "Mutters" - 23
"Fifty" - 16
"Lip" - 71
"Inner goddess" - 58*
"Subconscious" - 82
    *i.e. the vagina of the protagonist, according to Katrina
    (though EW.com argues that it is a part of her psyche)
I am very glad that Katrina has read the book and has been anal enough to do all this counting for us. Also, she corrects prior mistaken analyses by pithy summations such as: "This is not a book about BDSM, this is a book about one sick, abusive man and his obsession with a young, naive invertebrate."

Oh my.

Mome raths outgrabe; or, how to deal with a bad review

Photo courtesy of sxc.hu
and Paulo Oliveira Santos
of Rotterdam, the Netherlands.

Every few years a writer (Franz Wright, Alice Hoffmann, etc.) spills the boiling pot of his resentments about some critic or other to the entertainment of readers. This time it was Jonathan Lethem, going on about the perceived failings of James Wood--who had, oddly enough, praised the book in question a good deal. If you like such things, and many people do, you may find the Lethemian dismay and reproach here, along with a passel of comments both barbarous and thoughtful. The essay is also included in just-out The Ecstasy of Influence (New York: Doubleday, 2011.)

No doubt I must sympathize with outrage in the tribe of inksmiths because I don't enjoy getting a negative review. I can remember several: one by an author who complained at length that a book was too short for the price. (The publisher had accepted a novella and nine stories and then decided to do them as two little books.) One who just disliked. If there are others, I have forgotten them entirely. Oh, yes, one who thought there were already enough books about the time period and that we ought to move on.

I have a friend who cried all day over her review in the old version of The New York Times Book Review. I'm not sure anybody still cries over reviews in the new incarnation.

But one should have rules for dealing with a bad review...

1.  Creep off and deal with it, either with a large shrug (followed by later consideration of whether the critic might actually have had a point) or by a bit of self-indulgence--hey, go watch "Travellers and Magicians," why don't you?

2.  Don't read reviews.  Presto. Simple. This method seems to work for writers who can control their curiosity. (I always wonder if they peek.)

3.  Or, don't read a review until three months have passed. As the words pierce your bodkin and outlying areas until you become a profane St. Sebastian, you will know that nobody anywhere will still be reading that review and jeering, chuckling, sneering, enjoying the thought of your howl of outrage, feeling pity at public evisceration, etc. And that's good. You will feel the balm of it on those nasty stings.

4.  Manners.  Courtesy.  Manners are on the decline, so everybody says.  Put them on the incline and then walk up.

5.  Remember, a writer is a person who does a foolish thing and wears heart on sleeve for anyone to mock (or "like" on facebook.) Go on, go on:  be a fool for your art and don't worry about what people say.

6.  A critic is just like anybody else, with a slightly (or maybe greatly) silly backside and the need to commit undignified bodily acts. So recall that he or she is just a person, one who (one hopes) likes books and has just spent a piece of his or her short life with yours. It's fairly likely that somebody somewhere loves them! Astonishing. So give it a week. Give it a month. Is it really going to matter in a month? A year? (Okay, so it has been eight years and Jonathan Lethem is still slapping on quantities of rhuli gel. Make it a round decade. It won't matter by then.  Something else will have come along in a decade...)

7. Go read pig-headed reviews of Melville, Hardy, James, etc. Very consoling.

8.  Be grateful? You have a reader!

9. Have courage.

10. Sing a little.