Week 11, Poetry -- Modernism
Thoughts on Anglo-American Modernism and C20 British Literature Generally:
"C20 British" is of course a huge field, so we should begin with a discussion of Anglo-American literary modernism, which some critics say was a relatively short-lived literary epoch beginning around 1910 and winding down by 1930. Even with modernism, we may be too close to judge it the way we think we can judge the Romantics or the Victorians. That's probably a good thing since there's little reason to believe we've got the Romantics and Victorians right, either.
In order to talk about literary periods at all, we have to make some claims that one era ended at such and such a time and another one began. After all, what we call "the historical sense" has been around for a long time—the Regency novelist Jane Austen was already offering wry critiques of "Byronism" while Byron was still writing; Victorian intellectuals like Matthew Arnold self-consciously distanced themselves from the supposedly effusive and solipsistic Romantics, and Modernists like T. S. Eliot went out of their way to put the Victorians behind them. But our historical demarcations are in general "motivated" rather than pure—they may come from the need to firm up the past in order to make sense of the present, from the desire to be different from everyone who came before, or even (gasp!) from some tacit belief in the grand historical and intellectual narratives that we are all (according to those cigar-chomping French) supposed to have put away with our childhood toys. It's worth making our distinctions, but it's also worth keeping in mind what an old prof of mine says— the accusations we make against others often have at least as much to do with us as with those we accuse. The Romantics are solipsists? The Victorians are sanctimonious, hypocritical "believers in belief"? Modernists are obscurantists and high-art elitists? Hmmmm….
Lionel Trilling suggests that European literature of the twentieth century is characterized most of all by its intensely subjectivist vision and by a kind of hostility against civilization itself—a feeling that there’s a rat in the grain sack of human community, that the reasons we give for our actions and social and political forms are not altogether or even the least bit honest, that words are lies with which we cover up our unwillingness or inability to see the chaos around us, and so forth.
With this sense comes a rejection by many authors of any narrative of teleological social progress— whether that of the Enlightenment, with its audacious faith that reason could transform whole societies and bring about a more just and stable social order, or the romantic movements that privilege “poetic imagination” as the key medium for recuperating common human passions and the poets as social healers or “unacknowledged legislators of the world.” And although you can find some modern writers embracing a technical poetics and non-narrative strategy that employ juxtaposition, fragmentation, and other forms suited to a fast-paced and confusing world, such formal innovation and self-referential interest in artistic media do not necessarily mean that the artist approves of modern practices.
Ortega y Gasset, the Spanish existentialist philosopher wrote in the 1940’s that modern literature was part of the “dehumanization of art.” He didn’t mean the term derogatively, but instead objectively: he meant that modern art and “modernism” most particularly strip art of what makes it pleasant and uplifting for a great many ordinary people. What the average folks want, says y Gasset, is an experience that confirms their views about ethics and about “reality.” They want an art that faithfully imitates “the real world”—a nice representational painting, say, of an apple or an attractive person—and stories that “deck out,” even exalt, their sense of what’s right and wrong and of the dignity of being human. Who wants to go to a gallery or to a play and leave feeling disconcerted?
Instead of all this, modern art, not much caring whether we are comforted or afflicted, it seems—or perhaps even preferring that we be sorely troubled by things we don’t understand and can’t fix—hangs up paintings and erects sculptures that refer more to their own making and medium than to anything in the outside world. To add insult to injury, this self-referentiality is supplemented at times with words and images that do anything but confirm our sense of what’s right and wrong, or what’s true and false. Reading Dostoyevsky, Baudelaire, the Symbolists, Nietzsche and Freud, Conrad, the WWI poets or Orwell or Beckett or Burgess is hardly comforting, is it?
On the whole, taking our cue from Kant’s basic framework concerning the beautiful and the sublime, we might say that modern art prefers the sublime over the beautiful: while a disinterested “aesthetic judgment” about the beautiful gently affirms our mind’s superiority over nature even as it allows us to connect to nature’s objects in a satisfying way, the sublime seems instead to trouble us, to suggest that nature does not always politely accord with our faculties. We encounter, say, a raging sea or a vast constellation of stars or a looming Alpine peak with endless vista—all this seems limitless, uncontainable within any concrete sensuous form. Where in this kind of experience is the proportion and harmony we seek? We overcome our uneasiness only, says Kant, by withdrawing within our own minds; we can, in a way, “think” infinity and boundlessness, so again we are superior to anything nature can throw at us. But the victory comes at the cost, it seems, of our feeling of a “close fit” between ourselves and our world. (It threatens to make rationalists of us all.)
So it seems that modern art tends more to the sublime (that which is disjunctive, disaffirming, startling, which does not posit a basic harmony between the human, the natural, and the divine), than to the beautiful, which, in the Kantian framework, privileges a fundamental correspondence between us and our surroundings. A good deal of modern art produces disconcertedness, a feeling that things are not in harmony with us, that we are not in harmony with others, that art does not represent or express anything we recognize as part of ordinary experience, and so forth. And the trouble is, we are by no means to rely too easily, like good Kantians, on our powers of reason to set to rights a world that seems “out of joint.” Permanent revolution, perpetual unsettlement, seems rather the mode of modern art.
Notes on Ezra Pound
"In a Station of the Metro" (1041)
“The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.”
Imagism, of which this poem is an instance, was one of the experimental practices that Pound and H.D and some other American poets engaged in during the teens and twenties. The idea was to bracket out all sorts of narrative and instead write crisp little verses to convey a single clear image. That’s a similar ideal to the one promoted by Japanese Haiku masters like Matsuo Basho (1644-94). Condensation of vision and word is, after all, of the essence in poetry, right? There’s value in seeing things clearly, in making language a way of encouraging us to do that instead of replacing the world of things. Still, the urge to tell stories, to convey emotion, and do other things with poetry is too strong to allow this sort of experiment to seem self-sufficient for long. Pound eventually took to writing fragmentary but magnificent epic-length work in The Cantos.
T. S. Eliot. "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" (1015-19).
How can I not understand this poem, as one J. Alfred to another? I have, in fact, “measured out my life with coffee spoons,” and verses from Homer and Dante, et al. Eliot is both erudite and capable of a fine comic touch, both of which qualities are to be found in this poem. Notice the funny rhymes and repetitions, as if the speaker can’t quite take himself seriously. He’s the superfluous man, all right, and there’s no prospect of a duel or something like that putting him on the trail of a heroic end. The consciousness in the poem is going nowhere eloquently. The loss of power of art itself seems to be one theme referenced in this poem – notice the comic mentions of “visions and revisions” (33) and those effete women who keep talking about Michelangelo as if the fellow were a subject of mere gossip. The allusion to Marvell’s appeal to time is brilliant – there’s no pressure of time here, in fact “there will be time” for just about any sort of foolishness, triviality, deception and masking. Anything but the truth and full humanity, or the present moment in its authenticity. The poem even seems to ask, “well, what’s the point of laying all this predicament bare -- this inability, really, to do or even feel much of anything?” The answer we get isn’t much of an answer. The reference to mermaids towards the poem’s end, I think, is one way of saying that the poet’s task of encouraging us to transition to a state of vision isn’t going to be carried out here, today: our speaker can’t hear them singing. He’s no Hamlet, no hero, not a man who’s likely to be led beyond himself. Perhaps that’s just as well – those sirens tend to lead you to your doom, you know. Only Odysseus had better mess with them, and even he had himself tied to the mast of his ship. In the end, there’s no way to emerge from the subterranean superfluity evoked by the poem: “Till human voices wake us, and we drown.”
But of course if you read Eliot’s “Tradition and the Individual Talent,” you know that he places quite a burden on modern poetry as the bearer of European tradition – it has a serious reintegrative purpose in a fragmentary time, and poetry isn’t merely a thing of personal expression, in Eliot’s view. What it expresses is the aspirations and insights of entire cultures.
Wallace Stevens. "The Emperor of Ice Cream" (1042-43), "Anecdote of the Jar" (1043).
The first-mentioned poem seems to be about a wake, with a narrator ordering the progress of the day: let people go about their desires, seizing the time that remains to them. Basically, it’s a carpe diem poem. The second poem is an exercise in perspective, I suppose: the jar contrasts with everything around it, altering our perception of it.
Notes on William Butler Yeats
Introduction.
Yeats was a poet of many phases, not as clearly marked as critics imply: romanticism and symbolism, Irish politics and folklore, aristocratic values, Modernist stylistic compression and an interest in poetic texts as containing entire symbolic systems. But he never left behind his early phases even after moving on from them. Yeats was always concerned with the power of art in relation to other areas of life, with poetry’s status as expression, with its approximation to religion and the stability and ultimate insight religions offer. His poetry becomes more and more complex in its investigation of all these matters. A Vision is his prose attempt to create, in the manner of Blake and Swedenborg, an integral system, a mystic yet accurate way of dealing with change in individual identity, the collective unconscious, and world history. Whether all his talk of “gyres,” “will/body of fate,” “creative mind / mask,” and so forth makes a theosophic system is beside the point: the whole affair is a vehicle for his poetry. His complex mature period blends with the Anglo-American Modernism of Eliot and Pound, among others. Take the Symbolist insistence that art constitutes a higher reality all its own, add the allusiveness and integrative power of myth, the spiritual imperatives of mysticism, a paradoxical yet genuine engagement with politics, and a willingness to question his broadest claims for poetry’s truth-status and relevance—and you get Yeats the High Modernist. There is a certain aloofness in Yeats’ manner, an aristocratic contempt for those who want nothing but pleasure from art, as if, to borrow from Bentham, pushpin were as good as poetry. Like most Modernists, Yeats despises middle-class materialism, preferring the genuineness of the poor and the nobility alike. This carries forth a long romantic and Victorian tradition—recall Carlyle’s thundering at “Bobuses” who think of nothing but upward mobility and their stomachs.
But then, the argument over whether art should simply please us or improve us into the bargain is an ancient one; most critics and artists, even the most defiantly aloof among them, have implied that it should be a force both for social cohesion and for spiritual realization and transcendence. The Russian Formalists’ watchword “make it new” isn’t so new, and Modernists believe that art is a powerful shaping force over the spirit and intellect, even if they don’t trust themselves entirely when they say such things. The notion that Modernism doesn’t trust itself calls for an explanation: Yeats, with his occult and elitist tendencies, knows the risk he runs of his art collapsing into aestheticism or romantic solipsism. He’s fashioning a holy book out of his own semi-private symbolic language, a Book that promises special insight to the initiated. Even his use of the past’s myths and history throws down the interpretive gauntlet to us as readers—Yeats is a difficult poet who demands that we turn away from ordinary notions, step out of our individual selves, and understand him on his own terms. The self and the ordinary are cast as barriers to understanding and connection with others.
Yeats’ hero Blake wrote about religion’s tendency to become the province of an evil priesthood, a cynical hieratic class that feeds on the mysteries it propagates and guards. Mystery at its best—even the kind of manufactured mystery we see in the Victorian sages—can flow from genuine wonder at the complexity of humanity and the cosmos; but it can also take its origin from fear, ignorance, and misinterpretation, with consequent need for priestly elites. Modernist myth-making could easily amount to ideology in the service of somebody’s politics. Anglo-American Modernists seem to know this, and yet they find it necessary to offer us a religion of art. Yeats is a man of dilemmas—he’s all for universal myths, yet remains an Irish nationalist; he’s deeply personal and subjective, yet breaks down the barriers of selfhood. And above all, the phrase applied to Tennyson in the nineteenth century—“Lord of Language”—is just as appropriate to Yeats among his twentieth-century peers.
“The Lake Isle of Innisfree”
An early poem, symbolist. The speaker will remove himself from the everyday world and hear what the “deep heart’s core” has to say; this alternative reality will have an order and a peace all its own. The poem has the force of a decision: “I will go to the place that’s calling to me.” He hasn’t done it yet, and the chant itself is part of the process whereby he will convince himself to go. There’s some genuine pastoral imagery, a touch of romanticism’s descriptions of beautiful things in nature. Innisfree is symbolic—it is at least as much a state of mind as a real place, perhaps more so. The poem speaks the reality that calls the poet forth, so language participates in the making of something real, whether a state of mind or an actual place.
“Easter 1916”
Yeats here treats an act of Irish nationalism and martyrdom as a work of art, something that transfigures even those participants he didn’t get along with. But in the final stanza, doesn’t Yeats also bring up the dangers of nationalism? See his line, “Too long a sacrifice…” Nationalism is a temporary tactic; Yeats never supported violent revolution, and shows a preference for art and myth as shaping and continuity-providing influences in collective life.
“The Second Coming”
The Russian Revolution occurred in 1917; a new world is being born, and it seems neither rational nor predictable. The Sphinx Riddle, at its core, concerns human nature, and the Oedipus myth turns on a series of outrages against a civic order taken as natural or in alliance with nature. Oedipus commits the scandal of incest (incest is both a universal taboo and yet a local violation, so it is scandalously natural and cultural—see Claude Lévi-Strauss). Will this new world be like the one ruled by Shelley’s cruel Pharaoh Ozymandias, whose image remains to glare at us as a recurring possibility even though the artist mocked him? An Egyptian tyranny? Yeats is drawing upon his own and on the collective European symbolic system to describe the birth throes of a new age. In uttering his prophecy, he rejects optimistic C19 narratives about progress and the upward march of the spirit. Change is inevitable, but not necessarily change for the better. The “rough beast” stalks obscenely into the world, its crude sexuality reminding us that we haven’t left behind the worst in ourselves or in history. History has been called “the pain of our ancestors,” and here is some new monstrosity shaping up. Yeats’ imagery comes from ancient myth and religion; history is disjunctive. It proceeds by terrible leaps and thunderclaps. So we need the artist as a wielder of myths new and old to make the world intelligible again, to whatever degree possible. This is a claim that High Modernists have adapted from romantic poet-prophets like Wordsworth, Shelley, and Blake.
What is intelligible may not comfort us, but we are responsible for confronting it in any case. Yeats had read Nietzsche on eternal recurrence—can one face all but unbearable realizations, yet remain willing to do it all again? Here we are confronted with our own recurrent power to tyrannize, setting up fear and dread abstraction as our gods (recall Blake’s “hapless soldier’s sigh” that “runs in blood down palace walls” in the poem “London”). And his ideas resemble Jung’s notion that there’s a collective unconscious—Jung was going beyond Freud’s psychology, which was centered on the bourgeois individual. Yeats’ accomplishment is to wield Jung-like collective myths with the fiery individualism of Blake: “I must create my own system or be enslaved by another’s!” Not that his is a narrowly self-based poetics; Yeats isn’t a romantic creator pure and simple—notice that he often writes as if he were being dictated to by a medium, an automatic writing that wells up from the collective unconscious, an archetypal image bank that comes from the Spiritus Mundi. Neither does he try to play the stage father with the meaning of his poems—he respects their status as words to be interpreted. His emphasis on the subjective side of existence is characteristically Modernist: they privilege impressions, subjective responses.
“Sailing to Byzantium”
How to cross over into what lasts? Yeats’ speaker explains why he has come to Byzantium, abandoning the boundaries of his ego and traveling to a region where he hopes to metamorphose into an eternal life in artistic form. This is truly a religion of art. Yeats refashions ancient symbols, grants us a vision of the Holy City, which is not Jerusalem in this poem but rather a decadent-phase Byzantium, the capital of the Eastern Roman Empire. The poem alludes to the poetic process itself, the magical hammering out of a world of eternal aesthetic artifacts. Like a Byzantine goldsmith’s handiwork, the poet’s sacred chant and symbolic system spanning many texts would fashion this world by what Shelley calls “the incantation of this verse.” But I’m not sure such claims for an eternal unchanging state of things suits Yeats’ theosophy in A Vision, as it emerges later. It seems to me that everything is dynamic in that explanation—Yeats, after all, borrows from the Pre-Socratics who are always talking about change as the only constant.
Stanza One: A personal poem about growing old and facing up to what one’s art has meant to oneself. The claim is that art transcends the “mire” of the material realm and human desire without simply rejecting them. Well, the first stanza rules out remaining in the world of natural generation, void of subjectivity. This kind of harmony and music don’t satisfy the self-conscious speaker about to pass on. Nature is “careful of the type, careless of the individual life,” as Tennyson writes in In Memoriam A.H.H.
Stanza Two: Notice the incantatory power here, the ordering power of rhythm: song of a different sort overcomes the mortal decay implied by first stanza. Byzantium is in its decadent phase, a self-referential city wrapped up in artistic processiveness, in aestheticism. But Yeats is drawn to this beautiful solipsism, a place for intense concentration on what is eternal. This is not irresponsibility, I believe, but honesty—the speaker is old. Therefore, not having found his answer in physical nature, he has crossed waters, symbolizing creative power and life, and has come to this holy city. An old man must escape his dying self and enter into a different creative process—art.
Stanza Three: This stanza shows a turning away from the body and towards the forms of the sages on the Ravenna frieze mentioned in the Norton Anthology note. He prays to the sages, who have themselves been transformed into a work of art. He wants to be in the phase of existence they have reached, not remain where he is. His prayer is itself an outflowing of the phase in which he now finds himself.
Stanza Four: Once he has made the transition to a new world free of dying nature and the body, the artist will be wrought into his own artifice and become eternal. This poem confronts mortality, but not by reaffirming selfhood—instead, he confronts it on the grounds of his symbols and artifice, measuring his own endurance by their lasting power. A wish to merge with them. But will that be granted?
“Leda and the Swan”
Here the speaker handles poetic insight into history as a violent and dangerous gift. The rape of Leda engendered Helen, the Trojan War, and European history. What price insight? Many of the ancient prophets—Tiresias, Cassandra, Orpheus, gained their powers as compensation for terrible loss, or suffered for what they had been granted. Poetry is not merely pretty words. It is allied with prophecy and divination, and has been at the heart of civilization as a human task and process. The Modernists often describe poetry as an inseminative, male power. But is Zeus the only poet here, or is Leda also inspired? Does myth or poetic insight allow us to control such a process, or only describe it and face up to it spiritually? Coming to terms with the violent but necessary transitions from one epoch to the next seems to be the current poem’s task. This demands that we not dismiss the violent past, but try to make our knowledge of it worth something in the present—if that’s possible. Nietzsche says in “Homer’s Contest” that if we understood the Greeks “in Greek,” we would shudder—certainly Yeats’ choice of myths here doesn’t place him among the calm C19 Hellenizers. He says that the politics went out of the poem when he began to write it, but it still asks about the relationship between art and a given political order, indeed any political order.
To what extent is poetic insight and language complicit in the violent events and transitions it presents? Leda and other myths, after all, were how the Greeks understood their own history and culture—at least early in their history, until C6-5 BCE, they lived within the framework of their myths. It is only with the pre-Socratic that they begin trying to explain natural phenomena in scientific terms. Different cultures will read the same myth differently; the myths recur but are subject to reinterpretation.
“Among School Children”
Here “the child is father of the man,” as Wordsworth wrote. But Yeats may not draw as much consolation as Wordsworth did in his “Immortality Ode.” The romantic poem cheered up the speaker, but Yeats’ speaker tries to reassure children that he’s not such a frightening schoolmaster or old scarecrow. His smile is a mask, like a Gno-mask, a conventional role. Hollow, he wants to fulfill his public office, which entails one generation’s responsibility towards another.
Stanza 5: Refers to the ancient myth of metempsychosis, as in Wordsworth’s line “our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting.” See also Plato’s Symposium and Phaedrus. Is the pain worth it?
Stanza 6: What is real? Philosophers sought abstract wisdom, and can’t tell. They propagate Bacon’s “Idols of the Theater”—the strange errors that come with the territory of philosophers bent upon explaining the world with the help of huge thought-systems. Yeats’ autobiography A Vision shows his dissatisfaction with traditional philosophy. Much philosophy is an attempt to capture the relationship between self and world, to build up a vast framework for arriving at what is ultimately intelligible and enduring. It comes to seem a vain and self-isolating endeavor. I think Yeats is making the traditional complaint that philosophical explanations don’t move us, don’t make us able to act in the world and bear up under its stresses as they occur.
Stanza 7: Here a different relationship between thought and object emerges: images that move us.
Stanza 8: The reference to the chestnut tree is pure romantic organic metaphor—you can’t dissect a living thing without killing it. The whole is more than the sum of the parts, and you can’t divide up a person easily into the Seven Ages of Man. Neither can we “know the dancer from the dance.” This is a complex metaphor—the point in reference to Yeats’ theories in A Vision that states of mind, acts of will, etc., are not separable from the particular phase in which a person currently is. So the Yeats-like speaker is an older man, still somewhat wrapped up in his own subjectivity. He does not see the huge and luminous world of the more objective-phase child. So his poem is a product of where he is in terms of spiritual phase. His final words may seem like romantic poetry in the optative mode, as in “if winter comes, can spring be far behind?”
But the trouble is that he isn’t dancing, that he cannot reenter the thoughts and dreams of childhood. He can only reflect upon his past, but the activity is not necessarily a comfort or a useful thing to him—he’s trying to come full circle, reflect back on his childhood and draw sustenance for his old age, wrap his mind around his life as a whole. But that kind of reflection is in itself Hamlet-like, and leads to further alienation, not to recuperation of the past. And so he remains distant from the children even in the midst of them.
“Byzantium”
What’s happening in Byzantium once the pilgrim arrives? We find spiritual transcendence being wrought from matter, from Roman “mire” and centuries of more vital history. Art and death have come together productively. Byzantium, in Yeats’ description, has become a place of transcendence, not the practical, political world of the Roman Empire.
Stanza 1: What has been made by human hands withdraws, disdains its makers and their mixture of mud and spirit. The domes and cathedrals are pure, illumined with celestial, not human, light.
Stanza 2: Mummy-cloth… is the winding path death? Is that the way out of mire?
Final Stanzas: Yeats was never satisfied with nature as an answer to the problems of self-conscious humans. You can see from “The Wilde Swans of Coole” that he aspires to a higher vision than nature could ever afford us. So here we find images begetting images, generating an alternative world, or a state that differs greatly from the unhappy one in which the speaker apparently finds himself.
