A Masterful Collection of Essays on Contemporary Poetry from an Acclaimed Author
In A Way of Happening, Fred Chappell, one of our most acclaimed and versatile authors, showcases his prowess as a literary critic. Comfortably at home in fiction, poetry, and criticism, Chappell offers insightful essays and reviews of contemporary poetry, considering both new and established authors.
From Alfred Corn and William Matthews to A. R. Ammons, Linda Pastan, Julia Randall, Cornelius Eady, and Alan Shapiro, Chappell's keen eye and thoughtful analysis illuminate the works of these remarkable poets. He also delves into the plight of the critic in "Thanks but No Thanks" and the delicate role of the writing teacher in "First Night Come Round Again."
This collection is a must-read for lovers of contemporary poetry, offering a unique perspective from an author who has mastered multiple literary forms. Chappell's engaging and accessible style makes this a delightful read for both casual readers and serious students of poetry.
A Masterful Collection of Essays on Contemporary Poetry from an Acclaimed Author
In A Way of Happening, Fred Chappell, one of our most acclaimed and versatile authors, showcases his prowess as a literary critic. Comfortably at home in fiction, poetry, and criticism, Chappell offers insightful essays and reviews of contemporary poetry, considering both new and established authors.
From Alfred Corn and William Matthews to A. R. Ammons, Linda Pastan, Julia Randall, Cornelius Eady, and Alan Shapiro, Chappell's keen eye and thoughtful analysis illuminate the works of these remarkable poets. He also delves into the plight of the critic in "Thanks but No Thanks" and the delicate role of the writing teacher in "First Night Come Round Again."
This collection is a must-read for lovers of contemporary poetry, offering a unique perspective from an author who has mastered multiple literary forms. Chappell's engaging and accessible style makes this a delightful read for both casual readers and serious students of poetry.
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Overview
A Masterful Collection of Essays on Contemporary Poetry from an Acclaimed Author
In A Way of Happening, Fred Chappell, one of our most acclaimed and versatile authors, showcases his prowess as a literary critic. Comfortably at home in fiction, poetry, and criticism, Chappell offers insightful essays and reviews of contemporary poetry, considering both new and established authors.
From Alfred Corn and William Matthews to A. R. Ammons, Linda Pastan, Julia Randall, Cornelius Eady, and Alan Shapiro, Chappell's keen eye and thoughtful analysis illuminate the works of these remarkable poets. He also delves into the plight of the critic in "Thanks but No Thanks" and the delicate role of the writing teacher in "First Night Come Round Again."
This collection is a must-read for lovers of contemporary poetry, offering a unique perspective from an author who has mastered multiple literary forms. Chappell's engaging and accessible style makes this a delightful read for both casual readers and serious students of poetry.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781466860513 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Picador |
| Publication date: | 12/17/2013 |
| Sold by: | Macmillan |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 320 |
| File size: | 435 KB |
About the Author
Fred Chappell is the author of more than twenty books of poetry and fiction. His most recent books are the novel Farewell, I'm Bound to Leave you (Picador USA) and Spring Garden: New and Selected Poems (Louisiana State University Press). He was a judge for the 1997 National Book Award for Poetry and his writing has received many major prizes, including the Bollingen Prize in Poetry from Yale University (shared with John Ashbery), the Ingersoll Foundation's T.S. Eliot Award, the Aiken/Taylor Award from the University of the South, and the Award in Literature from the National Institute of Arts and Letters. He teaches at the University of North Carolina in Greensboro, where he lives with his wife, Susan.
Read an Excerpt
A Way of Happening
Observations of Contemporary Poetry
By Fred Chappell
Picador
Copyright © 1998 Fred ChappellAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4668-6051-3
CHAPTER 1
Thanks but No Thanks: An Introduction
Poets, the adage claims, are born, not made. And while it does not then follow in course of logic that critics are made, not born, there is a noticeable aura of "made" about the critic. Poetry, we might propose, arises from the spirit; criticism is committed by an intellect which has had to will itself to perpetrate the act.
But if that is true, why is the world so flooded with criticism over which the least breath of intellect seems never to have passed? I would submit three reasons:
1. Criticism is a more difficult art than most readers suppose, than many critics have recognized;
2. Much of it — especially the output of the breed known as "reviewers" — is produced under pressure of deadline constraint and subject to the selective claims of editors;
3. The influence of literary politics is so pervasive as to be inescapable, even in the most conscientious and least partisan of writers.
To these reasons I would add a fourth not unique to the situation of literature: It is difficult to train oneself to listen to what someone else has to say, in print or in person, without interposing the force of one's own personality and permitting the tinctures of one's own prejudices to color responses that ought to be spontaneous though gravely considered, genuine though well-informed, unique but rarely cranky.
The poet's responsibilities are large and the critic's correspondingly are almost as large, and this is true even if the versifier is only a maker of graceful trifles and the critic is only an infrequent reviewer, a friend whom the local newspaper's book editor has cajoled into doing a job of work. For what is said in print can never be unsaid, no matter how thoroughly it may later be altered, regretted, deplored, or retracted. An unfavorable review stings the poet, but an unjust review smirches, however temporarily, the work itself and mars the fair face of truth. It is a happiness that such injustice is its own avenger. The victim of an unjust review may suffer diminished sales and the desultory sneers of passing strangers who will never trouble to investigate the volume for themselves. But the author of the unjust or obtuse review is shown over time to be a fool or a knave, a toady or a cynic — and this is true even when the hapless man or woman has undertaken comment in the best possible faith.
So why do some writers consign themselves to this hopeless, confused, and sometimes dangerous task? Why do not all of them always say, as I have often said when presented the opportunity to review a book or stack of books, "Thanks but no thanks"?
* * *
Even the obvious motives are suspect.
"If I don't do it, then it will be done by those whose opinions I cannot respect." This reason would be legitimate, except that the result will obtain anyhow. No reviewer can write broadly enough, or vehemently enough, to muffle disagreeing voices. Until they are all assassinated, rival critics will continue to criticize.
Or perhaps our reviewer has urgent axes to grind, perhaps he or she is a Neo-Objectivist, or an Anti-Authoritarian or a Radical Nonfeminist or a Neo-Marxist Miscegenarian and feels that the purposes and principles of a certain school of critical philosophy need to be brought to bear upon the contemporary scene, to reward the poets who adhere barnacle-like to the received system of thought and to chastise severely those who attempt to swim on their own the uncharted seas of inspiration. This motive seems legitimate, though circumscribed, since the critic believes that the truth is on his side and makes him mighty. Its drawback is its procrustean tendency, its inability to judge fairly works that do not belong to its school of influence.
Another licit motive for criticism might be protest. A faithful reader of poetry looks about her and finds that, according to her lights, the state of poetry criticism is abysmal. The reviews she reads are mere logrolling or personal feuding, the critical pages are couched in jaw-breaking jargon or are mincing in style and pallid in content. Or they are vitiated by political prejudices of various colors. Firmness, levelheadedness, and even attentiveness seem lacking — and so this faithful reader decides to become a faithful reviewer. She is trying to make up, she believes, some part of a large critical deficit.
Though there may be a tinge of messianism in her decision, it is an honorable one. Perhaps she is mistaken; maybe her standards of fairness and her attempts to reach it are no stronger or purer or better informed than those of the critics she so despises. But she has discovered a vision for her criticism and thus has taken the first step toward producing judgments that are well meant, however erroneous they may prove in the long run.
* * *
But a critic needs a strong motive, for the troubles are many and the pleasures are few. The critic makes no friends among poets, not even among those he or she praises. Poets are famously a vain race, though perhaps their skins are not measurably thinner than those of most other human beings. Yet the number is legion for whom a mountain of praise will not suffice and the slightest hint of censure will wound like an assegai. The slimmest passing adverb in a review may serve to make its author a blood enemy of that poet until Gibraltar melts. Even graceful praise can make the critic an anathema to a rival of the poet being praised.
And if the critics happen also to write poetry, then they can bid a glum farewell to the possibility of calm judgment of their own work. The literary world is a sensitive web, and when one strand trembles others tremble in sympathy. Poet-critic Robin is bent on avenging the injuries poet-critic Sparrow visited upon his friend poet-critic Waxwing, and Sparrow's new book, A Diet of Worms, gives him plenteous opportunity for close analysis with scalpel, drawknife, electric drill, chain saw, and jackhammer.
The reviewer or critic desiring to acquire a reputation for the excellence of his prose and the steadiness of his judgments had better be a canny animal, for these two virtues are among those least likely to be remarked in his pages. It is more useful to know, if you are trying to make a name, which poets to review and which to overlook. The brightest and most articulate critic practicing will gain little credit by comprehending the work of Marilyn Nelson or Al Young or John Morris and writing brilliantly about it. No, he must go to the familiar names and rack his brains for something fresh to say about John Ashbery, Anthony Hecht, Jorie Graham, or even — Lord forgive us! — Allen Ginsberg. He must choose publishing houses as meticulously: Ecco, Knopf, Random House — okay; Coffee House, BOA, Copper Canyon — maybe; Asahti, Crosshairs, Singing Horse — dubious.
There is one excepting factor in this game of Who's Hot & Who's Not: the pet. Critics are usually allowed to have one or two poets to favor against general opinion. But here too a rule is in force. If you decide upon a pet, a poet unfashionable or out of fashion, you are supposed to choose one whose work is difficult — obscure in subject matter, eccentric in format, abrasive or wispy in tone. Your pet is one of your credentials, living proof that you do not always make safe choices, that you support the vanguard of the art, even at the cost of being suspected of a blind spot. But if you have more than two or three pets you are known as a crank and will not be consulted in the production of textbooks and popular anthologies or invited to international conferences on Postmodernism in the Post-Saussurean Universe.
Perhaps that is not such a bad thing. If a poet too habitually in the company of other poets may run the danger of making her work derivative, then may not a critic too often surrounded by other critics risk being faddish? I would count the peril a genuine one and might even point toward the alarming amount of consensus among critics as evidence. People, even critics, like to hop onto a bandwagon and if the vehicle is flashy enough may well be convinced it is taking them in the right direction.
We all know better, of course we do. Critics are required to be aware of literary history, and many pages remind them of the sorry figures they are likely to cut in course of time. If it was not a critical article that doused the fiery particle that was John Keats, it may as well have been, for that became the poetic truth. Even the most celebrated critics turned out to be weak soothsayers; few of the authors who drew Sainte-Beuve's perspicacious comment attract modern notice. Edmund Wilson is known — or ought to be known — for his entertaining book reviews and his brilliant intellectual history, To the Finland Station, but he is also known for his curmudgeonly blindness toward genre fiction and the silliness of much of Axel's Castle.
Wilson also produced two novels, I Thought of Daisy and Memoirs of Hecate County; they are worthy efforts, though probably less well thought of now than when they first appeared. Most critics whose reputations have endured were also poets or fiction writers or historians or familiar essayists; their pages were informed by their knowledge of the inner parts of writing. Dr. Johnson and Coleridge, John Dryden and William Hazlitt, Victor Hugo and Ezra Pound, Malcolm Cowley and Kenneth Burke, and a bibulous host of others sit at the winestained table in the convivial Poets' Pub. In the hushed formal saloon upstairs Aristotle and John Dennis and Helen Vendler — they who never published poetry — are taking a sober tea.
I think it is important for a critic or reviewer to understand writing on its day-labor side. The poet may or may not be an artist, but if she is worth the ink she expends she had better be an artisan, concerned not only with what she says and how she says it, but also with what kind of object she is making, the probable uses it can be put to, its cost to her in terms of economics, emotional tear, social status, and personal dignity. You cannot give your all to poetry unless you know what your all is — and then you must decide if you want to risk it. The chances of a poet enduring in this day and time a life as disheartening as that of John Clare or Gérard de Nerval are very good indeed. Amon Liner and Winfield Townley Scott lived obscure lives and died almost unremarked, and I will be surprised if proper critical recognition overtakes the work of either of them.
These are some of the reasons that I have mostly restricted my critical writing to the area of practical criticism, to the nuts-and-bolts of poems. I have nothing against theoretical writing. Let every dogma have its day. Except in academic circumstances a literary dogma can do little harm, and the harm it does in universities affects only pedagogy and the personal careers of teachers. Literature itself is hardly affected, for though it welcomes the patronage of the university it does not depend upon it.
Criticism is direly affected by academic fashion, however. The academic critic must at least pretend to a knowledge of prevalent intellectual fashions. It was once necessary for an academic critic to claim to know the ideas of Suzanne Langer, Maud Bodkin, and John Crowe Ransom. Now he had better bow toward Derrida, Lacan, and Anna Freud. All these thinkers are heavyladen with merit and all of them are worth the time it requires to become acquainted. But when the critic decides that any one of these philosophers — or any other — holds the single key to the comprehension and insightful explication of literature, then he or she has struck an eye out, so to speak. The programmatic point of view is very attractive; neo-Marxist or neoconservative or Derridean ideology gives one something to say that is likely to sound valuable whether it is much to the point or not.
And the temptation to ideology is not only in the eased access it promises to offer to new works of art but also in the cachet it confers upon the critic herself. If you have adopted a point of view — if, say, you have decided you are a Lacanian critic — then you have gained importance in the eyes of an academic audience. It can be taken for granted that you have points to make and if what you say is rather predictable, so much the better. For that means that you can be invited to attend symposia, to contribute to critical anthologies and special issues of journals, to address learned conferences, in full confidence that your one message can be squeezed to fit under almost any rubric and that it will complement the other single messages that can be called forth in Pavlovian fashion. A professor saddled with the task of gathering members for a panel on "Lesbian Subtexts in the Poetry of Emily Dickinson and George Herbert" will strategize in this manner: "Let's see now ... I've got two brands of feminists committed to show up, one poststructuralist, one neo-New Critic — what else do I need? Ah, a Lacanian! Why don't I invite Smith Smithson? He will pair off well with Joan Johnson, who hates everything he stands for. That will give us balance."
In a similar manner, perhaps, the Smoked Trout Salad with Bitter Chocolate Dressing was conceived.
Should the critic then subscribe to no beliefs? Should she strive to possess that famous sensibility so fine no idea can violate it?
Such a prize is devoutly to be desired, I'm sure, but it is unlikely that many critics now will closely resemble T. S. Eliot's description of Henry James. We had better recognize that fact, all we scribblers about poetry, and prepare for our jobs with frank self-examination, discovering our predilections and prejudices and admitting to them with whatever equanimity we can muster. After we have performed this difficult exercise, we may have some notion where each of us stands in relation to new poems, new books of poems, new schools of poetry, and what we know of contemporary literature as a whole.
* * *
I wish I could say I'd performed this duty which now presents itself so palpably before me. I did not, but I like to imagine that if I'd known beforehand how much critical comment of one sort or another I was going to produce I would have prepared myself in this obviously fitting manner.
But I came into the task of reviewing poetry so casually and gradually that I hardly remember how it happened. The sequence — as best I can now piece it together — was something like this: A poet myself, with one or two volumes in print, I was sometimes asked to give readings with other poets at universities, colleges, community colleges, civic societies, library groups, and other cultural conclaves. These were frightening but happy affairs for the most part, and they often ended with a shared nightcap between my comrade and me in the sullen dank basement lounges of Holiday Inns or with a private jug passed back and forth in room 321 of a Comfort Inn. In a while, the conversation would settle upon poetry and the situation of poetry and upon literary politics. I began to notice that a common complaint of the poets I encountered was the lack of critical reception their work received. They decried especially the fact that newspapers — sometimes even their hometown newspapers — declined to review their books.
I fancied that in a very small way I might do something in the way of a remedy. In those days I could count a couple of book-page editors as personal friends and I struck a deal with them: I would review any book they desired at whatever nominal fee they could pay if they would also allow me to review, at some later date, a book of poems. The latter would be their choice; I had no desire to infringe upon their prerogatives, only to add the luster of poetry to their verseless pages.
That was how I got into the avocation, and later on when the rules changed so that I was asked to review two and even three books of prose in order to earn my chance with a poetry book, I agreed. I was assured that this new wrinkle was not suggested by the helpless editors but by the publishers, who were themselves pressured by the managements of the huge business conglomerates that owned the newspapers. This explanation conjured the image of an expensively suited corporate board of Dutch and Swiss businessmen sitting around an immense mahogany table, relinquishing their Havanas to ashtrays for a moment in order to raise their fists and shout in thick, rich accents, "These poetry reviews in the Greensboro, North Carolina newspaper are ruining our whole international balance sheet!"
(Continues...)
Excerpted from A Way of Happening by Fred Chappell. Copyright © 1998 Fred Chappell. Excerpted by permission of Picador.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Table of Contents
Contents
ITL[Title Page]ITL,ITL[Copyright Notice]ITL,
ITL[Dedication]ITL,
ITL[Acknowledgments]ITL,
Thanks but No Thanks: An Introduction,
Purple Patches, Fuddle, and the Hard Noon Light,
Attempts upon Delight: Six Poetry Books,
Family Matters,
Every Poet in His Humor,
Brief Cases: Naked Enterprises,
Maiden Voyages and Their Pilots,
Five New Southern Women Poets,
An Idiom of Uncertainty: Southern Poetry Now,
First Night Come Round Again,
Taking Sides: Six Poetry Anthologies,
Figured Carpets: The Collected and the Selected,
Once upon a Time: Narrative Poetry Returns?,
Piecework: The Longer Poem Returns,
The Contemporary Long Poem: Minding the Kinds,
Let Me Count the Ways: Five Love Poets,
Wise Saws When Last Seen,
"A Million Million Suns": Poetry and Science,
Afterword,
ITL[List of Books Reviewed]ITL,
ITL[List of Authors and Editors Reviewed]ITL,
ITL[Books by Fred Chappell]ITL,
ITL[Copyright]ITL,