Arthur Machen's "N"

 I recently reread the Arthur Machen story, “N,” and have been thinking about its place in the canon of writings that have influenced the modern psychogeography movement, as well as the underlying mystical concepts that Machen employed in writing it. I find it easy to connect those ideas to Novalis’ Magical Idealism, as well as his theories about poetry and the Golden Age.

     The first time that I read “N,” I was initially troubled by what seemed its lack of a central message or point, beyond being a celebration of the streets of London and the pleasures of exploring urban life in general. Lin Carter, the fiction writer and historian of the fantasy genre in literature, praised Machen’s ability to make the streets of London and the stories that he found there into a veritable Arabian Nights. Carter described the world of Machen’s episodic novel, The Three Impostors, as “Bagdad on the Thames.”

    It took me several readings to see beyond the sumptuous urban landscape that Machen describes in “N”, and also, his characters as more than just former or current practitioners of dérive, the term that Guy DeBord and the Situationists used to describe an activity where “one or more persons during a certain period drop their usual motives for movement and action, their relations, their work and leisure activities, and let themselves be drawn by the attractions of the terrain and the encounters they find there.” [Guy Debord, "Theory of the Dérive," Internationale Situationniste #2 1956] Psychogeography was the name that the Situationists gave to the study of this type of activity, but the term is now commonly used to refer to its practice as well, having superseded dérive, at least in the English-speaking world.

    Machen’s “N” begins with a social gathering of old men who share their glorious memories of the streets of London during the bygone era of their youth. These nostalgic reveries lead to a discussion of a magical park in the (fictional) neighborhood of Canon’s Park, in Stoke Newington, part of an inner London borough. One of the old men mentions that a cousin once visited Canon’s Park and found a place there that possessed unearthly beauty. Another of the participants in the discussion, who grew up in Stoke Newington, insists that no such park exists. A short time later, one of the participants in the discussion, who has been curious about this mysterious park, encounters a mention of it in a book. The author of the book puts forth several strange theories related to the park, which he glimpsed for a moment with his own eyes. At one point, the author of the book writes, “Some have declared that it lies within our own choice to gaze continually upon a world of equal or even greater wonder and beauty…This method, or art, or science, or whatever we choose to call it is simply concerned to restore the delights of the primal Paradise…” An acquaintance of the author, who shows him the mystical park, suggests, based on ideas that he attributes to William Law and Jacob Böhme, that matter itself was, before the Fall, “a soft and ductile substance, which could be moulded by the imagination of uncorrupted man into whatever form he chose it to assume.” I want to remark that this is an idea which somewhat resembles Novalis’ Magical Idealism with its belief in the power of the imagination to mold reality itself, as well as his thoughts on the Golden Age as a state of the individual’s oneness with all things, physical and spiritual, that he derived from Hemsterhuis. It is also important to note that Novalis equated the Golden Age with the innocence of childhood, and to recall that the old men at the beginning of the story reminiscence about the London of their youth as a kind of lost paradise which has passed away forever.

     This may be a moment to comment on something that I noticed about the structure of the story. Aside from my struggling with the unfolding theme, which I came to comprehend only with difficulty, I realized that Machen’s method of piecing together the story by having a character compile its elements from random conversations, careful enquiries, and books, was something that I had encountered before. The slow buildup of evidence of the impossible, or at least the supernatural, leading to an incredible conclusion, reminded me—on a purely literary level—of certain stories of Jorge Luis Borges, “La otra muerte,” for instance. It’s interesting to note that Borges was a huge fan of Machen, and also of Novalis.

    But to get back to the story and its theme: eventually, more reports of the park, which appears to be a veritable Garden of Eden, convince the old man who was part of the original group at the beginning of the story that the place actually exists. He meets a young man one day on the streets of Stoke Newington who verifies its existence as well. The story ends rather abruptly, which I think was partially responsible for my initial feeling that it seemed to end up somewhere, but personally, I couldn’t tell where that was. However, several re-readings finally led me to the conclusion that those who experienced the Edenic park were true psychogeographers. They were all people who experienced and accepted the park as a magical place because they came to it without agendas, certainties, or calculations. As in childhood, they were able to see the world and its wonders with innocent eyes and imagination, in the “ambience of play,” [Debord], and without needing or desiring to commodify or rationalize their experience. The old men who had only their memories of a lost Eden, and who were “now sitting among desolate rocks, by bitter steams,” having lost their way (like the young apostate in Hesse’s Die Morgenlandfahrt [«Er hat es sich schwergemacht, den Glauben wiederzufinden…»]), could not return to innocence. But those who saw and encountered the prelapsarian park were still living the experience of wonder, and the city and the world were still places of “magical habitations, supernal dwellings, more desirable to the eye than the fabled pleasure dome of the Eastern potentate, or the bejewelled hall built by the Genie for Aladdin in the Arabian tale.”

Submitting

 

I want to talk for a bit about the strange ritual of submitting work to literary journals. There is so much about it that remains utterly arbitrary. I ask myself: why do I enter my work into these literary beauty pageants that feature work from writers who are more educated, talented, and inspired than me? Why, too, is the work that ends up being accepted so often the stuff that I feel is not the best or most exciting and is certainly not the work that I expected to be popular or trendy. I sometimes feel like the writer in one of Akutagawa’s stories who is asked to write an eulogy for a person that he was barely acquainted with, and he slaps together a trite, mawkish, flippant, and affected piece, only to find that it gets a sincere and powerful emotional response when it is read at the funeral. On the other hand, a short story that he has just published is torn to shreds and cruelly mocked by a prominent literary critic, leaving him to wonder how a piece of writing that he put together with no real effort or dedication has succeeded so well with its audience while a work that he poured his heart and soul into did not.

     Every writer who submits work must decide when a piece is ready to be reviewed by editors and be able to fly on its own. I suspect that this moment comes for most of us when we feel that everything “works” in a piece of writing, the language, the story, the pacing, and the ending. But I know there are works I have written and carefully edited that I immediately wanted to improve upon as soon as they were published.  A word here, a comma there, a bit of added color. I am constantly making little changes even after a piece has been published, perhaps because I’m secretly hoping for the opportunity to one day publish a “canonical” version, perhaps in a book. One of my children is a filmmaker, and he says that he always sees small details in his films that he would like to change, “mistakes” that probably nobody else ever even notices, once his work is in the public eye. But where does the perfecting of a piece end? I think of the painter Apelles in John Lyly’s Elizabethan drama, Campaspe, who, when asked by Alexander the Great when his portrait of Campaspe will be finished, answers, “I’ll never finish: for always in absolute beauty there is something above art.”*

     I think that anyone who does a lot of submitting has probably made mistakes in carrying out the submission process, which is almost always done these days by email or through a submission manager. Some mistakes are the types of things that would have been easier to catch in the days of paper submissions (something that I was briefly familiar with at the beginning of my writing and submitting endeavors, before submission managers became the thing). But maybe submission managers and email are really not to blame for my mistakes. I’ve sent cover letters with the wrong story name, and I have even sent the same story or poem or essay—I can’t remember which—to the same journal twice, and I’ve done a host of other things which probably cause editors to question not only my professionalism but also my sanity. On every occasion it’s been accidental, but it still speaks volumes about my ability to carry out simple tasks. And I know that editors are busy people trying to do their best while being snowed under by endless submissions from people like me. Submissions are always a gamble, but I’ve probably not helped my odds on more than one occasion by—again, accidently—not following a journal's guidelines to the letter. I continue to submit, and maybe make an occasional mistake in the process of doing so, but it’s a necessary step in getting my work out into the sprawling literary world.

 *I converted this quote into “modern” English for clarity

Dreams

In wunderliche Träume flossen die Gedanken seiner Seele zusammen. Ein tiefer blauer Strom schimmerte aus der grünen Ebene heraus. Auf der glatten Fläche schwamm ein Kahn. Mathilde saß und ruderte. Sie war mit Kränzen geschmückt, sang ein einfaches Lied, und sah nach ihm mit süßer Wehmut herüber. Seine Brust war beklommen. Er wußte nicht warum. Der Himmel war heiter, die Flut ruhig. Ihr himmlisches Gesicht spiegelte sich in den Wellen. Auf einmal fing der Kahn an sich umzudrehen. Er rief ihr ängstlich zu. Sie lächelte und legte das Ruder in den Kahn, der sich immerwährend drehte. Eine ungeheure Bangigkeit ergriff ihn. Er stürzte sich in den Strom; aber er konnte nicht fort, das Wasser trug ihn. Sie winkte, sie schien ihm etwas sagen zu wollen, der Kahn schöpfte schon Wasser; doch lächelte sie mit einer unsäglichen Innigkeit, und sah heiter in den Wirbel hinein. Auf einmal zog es sie hinunter. Eine leise Luft strich über den Strom, der ebenso ruhig und glänzend floß, wie vorher. Die entsetzliche Angst raubte ihm das Bewußtsein. Das Herz schlug nicht mehr. Er kam erst zu sich, als er sich auf trockenem Boden fühlte. Er mochte weit geschwommen sein. Es war eine fremde Gegend. Er wußte nicht wie ihm geschehen war. Sein Gemüt war verschwunden. Gedankenlos ging er tiefer ins Land. Entsetzlich matt fühlte er sich. Eine kleine Quelle kam aus einem Hügel, sie tönte wie lauter Glocken. Mit der Hand schöpfte er einige Tropfen und netzte seine dürren Lippen. Wie ein banger Traum lag die schreckliche Begebenheit hinter ihm. Immer weiter und weiter ging er, Blumen und Bäume redeten ihn an. Ihm wurde so wohl und heimatlich zu Sinne. Da hörte er jenes einfache Lied wieder. Er lief den Tönen nach. Auf einmal hielt ihn jemand am Gewande zurück. »Lieber Heinrich«, rief eine bekannte Stimme. Er sah sich um, und Mathilde schloß ihn in ihre Arme. »Warum liefst du vor mir, liebes Herz?« sagte sie tiefatmend. »Kaum konnte ich dich einholen.« Heinrich weinte. Er drückte sie an sich. »Wo ist der Strom?« rief er mit Tränen. »Siehst du nicht seinen blauen Wellen über uns?« Er sah hinauf, und der blaue Strom floß leise über ihrem Haupte. »Wo sind wir, liebe Mathilde?« »Bei unsern Eltern.« »Bleiben wir zusammen?« »Ewig«, versetzte sie, indem sie ihre Lippen an die seinigen drückte, und ihn so umschloß, daß sie nicht wieder von ihm konnte. Sie sagte ihm ein wunderbares geheimes Wort in den Mund, was sein ganzes Wesen durchklang. Er wollte es wiederholen, als sein Großvater rief, und er aufwachte. Er hätte sein Leben darum geben mögen, das Wort noch zu wissen.

 

The thoughts of his soul flowed together in strange dreams. A deep blue stream shimmered from the green plain. A boat floated on the smooth surface. Mathilde sat and rowed. She was adorned with wreaths, sang a simple song, and gazed at him with sweet melancholy. His chest was heavy. He didn't know why. The sky was serene, the tide calm. Her heavenly face was reflected in the waves. Suddenly, the boat began to turn. He called to her anxiously. She smiled and put the oar into the boat, which continued to turn. A tremendous fear seized him. He threw himself into the stream; but he couldn't get away; the water carried him. She beckoned; she seemed to want to say something to him; the boat was already filling with water; yet she smiled with indescribable sincerity and gazed serenely into the whirlpool. Suddenly, they were drawn downwards. A gentle breeze swept over the stream, which flowed just as calmly and brilliantly as before. The terrible fear robbed him of consciousness. His heart had stopped beating. He only came to when he felt himself on dry ground. He must have swum far. It was a strange region. He didn't know what had happened to him. His mind was gone. Thoughtlessly, he walked deeper into the land. He felt terribly weak. A small spring flowed from a hill, sonorous as chimes. He scooped a few drops with his hand and wet his dry lips. Like an anxious dream, the terrible event lay behind him. On and on he walked; flowers and trees spoke to him. He felt so comfortable and at home. Then he heard the simple song again. He ran after the music. Suddenly, someone held him back by his robe. "Dear Heinrich," called a familiar voice. He looked around, and Mathilde caught him in her arms. "Why did you run from me, dear heart?" she said, breathing deeply. "I could barely catch up with you." Heinrich wept. He pressed her to him. "Where is the river?" he cried with tears. "Don't you see its blue waves above us?" He looked up, and the blue river flowed softly over their heads. "Where are we, dear Mathilde?" "With our parents." "Will we stay together?" "Forever," she replied, pressing her lips to his and clasping him tightly, so that she could not tear herself away from him. She spoke a wonderful, secret word into his mouth, which resonated through his entire being. He was about to repeat it when his grandfather called, and he awoke. He would have given his life to remember that word.

                                                                                     -- Novalis, Heinrich von Ofterdingen

 

How much of my work has been inspired by dreams! Yet where do dreams come from? Last night I dreamt of something that I knew could only happen in a dream. And yet, at the time of the dream, I was certain that it wasn’t a dream. I am one of those people who could not ride a bike until I dreamed that I was riding one. (This is not an uncommon phenomenon.) People often speak of finding solutions to their problems in dreams. I have never received the “solution” to a problematic story in that manner, but I have received true inspiration for some of my stories. A satisfying dream always has a good story at its core. Not to mention new experiences, plenty of exciting action, interesting settings, and sometimes even a lesson. But in the end, our dreams fade, and so often upon waking we forget—and know we have forgotten—some pivotal insight that was given to us in a dream.

New Poem

A new poem of mine that I am very proud of was just published over at Packingtown Review, a very attractive journal out of Chicago. I’m really honored to be in their pages. I also had a poem published in a print journal recently, but the publisher asked that contributors hold off announcing that their work was featured there until the official release this fall. Although it’s their Spring Issue and has already been printed, they are going to officially release it this fall with their online Fall Edition as part of a launch celebrating their journal’s 20th anniversary. Seeing these poems get published has been a nice break in the midst of spending so much time—like so many other people—working with the anti-Trump resistance. But for now, the struggle continues, and hopefully my writing will, too.

"The poet's sayings have a magical power"

 

Wir haben uns freilich nie um die Geheimnisse der Dichter bekümmert, wenn wir gleich mit Vergnügen ihrem Gesange zugehört. Es mag wohl wahr sein, daß eine besondere Gestirnung dazu gehört, wenn ein Dichter zur Welt kommen soll; denn es ist gewiß eine recht wunderbare Sache mit dieser Kunst. Auch sind die andern Künste gar sehr davon unterschieden, und lassen sich weit eher begreifen. Bei den Malern und Tonkünstlern kann man leicht einsehn, wie es zugeht, und mit Fleiß und Geduld läßt sich beides lernen. Die Töne liegen schon in den Saiten, und es gehört nur eine Fertigkeit dazu, diese zu bewegen, um jene in einer reizenden Folge aufzuwecken. Bei den Bildern ist die Natur die herrlichste Lehrmeisterin. Sie erzeugt unzählige schöne und wunderliche Figuren, gibt die Farben, das Licht und den Schatten, und so kann eine geübte Hand, ein richtiges Auge, und die Kenntnis von der Bereitung und Vermischung der Farben, die Natur auf das vollkommenste nachahmen. Wie natürlich ist daher auch die Wirkung dieser Künste, das Wohlgefallen an ihren Werken, zu begreifen. Der Gesang der Nachtigall, das Sausen des Windes, und die herrlichen Lichter, Farben und Gestalten gefallen uns, weil sie unsere Sinne angenehm beschäftigen; und da unsere Sinne dazu von der Natur, die auch jenes hervorbringt, so eingerichtet sind, so muß uns auch die künstliche Nachahmung der Natur gefallen. Die Natur will selbst auch einen Genuß von ihrer großen Künstlichkeit haben, und darum hat sie sich in Menschen verwandelt, wo sie nun selber sich über ihre Herrlichkeit freut, das Angenehme und Liebliche von den Dingen absondert, und es auf solche Art allein hervorbringt, daß sie es auf mannigfaltigere Weise, und zu allen Zeiten und allen Orten haben und genießen kann. Dagegen ist von der Dichtkunst sonst nirgends äußerlich etwas anzutreffen. Auch schafft sie nichts mit Werkzeugen und Händen; das Auge und das Ohr vernehmen nichts davon: denn das bloße Hören der Worte ist nicht die eigentliche Wirkung dieser geheimen Kunst. Es ist alles innerlich, und wie jene Künstler die äußern Sinne mit angenehmen Empfindungen erfüllen, so erfüllt der Dichter das inwendige Heiligtum des Gemüts mit neuen, wunderbaren und gefälligen Gedanken. Er weiß jene geheimen Kräfte in uns nach Belieben zu erregen, und gibt uns durch Worte eine unbekannte herrliche Welt zu vernehmen. Wie aus tiefen Höhlen steigen alte und künftige Zeiten, unzählige Menschen, wunderbare Gegenden, und die seltsamsten Begebenheiten in uns herauf, und entreißen uns der bekannten Gegenwart. Man hört fremde Worte und weiß doch, was sie bedeuten sollen. Eine magische Gewalt üben die Sprüche des Dichters aus; auch die gewöhnlichen Worte kommen in reizenden Klängen vor, und berauschen die festgebannten Zuhörer.

We have certainly never troubled ourselves about the secrets of poets, although we have listened to their songs with pleasure. It may well be true that a special constellation is required for a poet to be born; for this art is certainly a truly wonderful thing. The other arts are very different from it and are much easier to understand. With painters and musicians one can easily understand their faculties, and with diligence and patience one can learn both. The notes are already in the strings, and only skill is required to move the latter and awaken them in a charming sequence. When it comes to pictures, nature is the most wonderful teacher. She creates innumerable beautiful and strange forms, provides the colors, the light and the shadow, and so, a practiced hand, a good eye, and knowledge of the preparation and mixing of colors is necessary to imitate nature most perfectly. How easy, then, are the effects of these arts and the pleasure they impart, to understand. The song of the nightingale, the rushing of the wind, and the magnificent lights, colors, and shapes please us because they pleasantly occupy our senses; and since our senses are so equipped for this by nature, which produces these things, we must also like the artificial imitation of nature. Nature itself wants to enjoy its great artificiality, and therefore it has transformed itself into human beings, where it now rejoices in its own glory, separates the pleasant and lovely from all things, and produces it in such a way that we can have and enjoy it in more diverse ways, and at all times and in all places. On the other hand, nothing of poetry can be found externally anywhere else. Nor does it create anything with tools or hands; the eye and ear perceive nothing of it, for merely hearing the words is not the real effect of this secret art. It is all internal, and just as those other artists fill the external senses with pleasant sensations, so the poet fills the inner sanctuary of the mind with new, wonderful, and pleasant thoughts. He knows how to arouse those secret powers in us at will and allows us to perceive an unknown, magnificent world through words. As if emanating from deep caves, ancient and future times, countless people, wonderful regions, and the strangest events rise up within us and tear us away from the familiar present. One hears strange language and yet grasps what it means. The poet's sayings have a magical power; even the ordinary words appear as charming sounds and intoxicate the spellbound listeners.

                                                                                         --Novalis, Heinrich von Ofterdingen

 

Poetry is able to accomplish the “magical” in the way Novalis describes because of the almost infinite elasticity of language. Words can summon up the unknown and make it manifest because of their ability to bridge the outside world and inner consciousness. And words are easily understood (at least their superficial meanings) and instantly comprehended, drawing forth a response from the reader or listener that needs no background understanding (such background understanding can enrich--but can also obscure--the reader’s experience of a poem). On the other hand, the impalpability of poetry means that it lacks the full visual impact of painting, sculpture, or architecture, and the full auditory impression of music (even though, in the art of song, poetry and music are combined). I remember that a prominent poet once said to me he had taken up jewelry-making as a hobby, “. . . because words are so intangible.” The lapidary arts allowed him to express himself in a more material way than words and ideas would allow. But he didn’t give up on poetry, and he continues to write hundreds of poems on every subject, real or ideal, under the sun.  

Inspiration

Dichter und Priester waren im Anfang Eins. Und nur spätere Zeiten haben sie getrennt. Der echte Dichter ist aber immer Priester, so wie der echte Priester immer Dichter geblieben. Und sollte nicht die Zukunft den alten Zustand der Dinge wieder herbeiführen?

 Poet and priest were one in the beginning. Only later times separated them. But the true poet is always a priest, just as the true priest has always remained a poet. And should not the future bring about the old state of things again?

                                                                                                           --Novalis, Fragmente I

Whether or not Novalis is correct in his assertion, there is an element of mystery in all true poetry. The poet not only asserts what he or she knows, but also what the act of creating poetry itself reveals. The poet not only predicates what is known, but also what is not known and yet can still be expressed. This is one of the great powers of poetry. The poem itself influences the way that the poet creates. Novalis states that:

 Es gibt gewisse Dichtungen in uns, die einen ganz andern Charakter als die übrigen zu haben scheinen, denn sie sind vom Gefühle der Notwendigkeit begleitet, und doch ist schlechterdings kein äußrer Grund zu ihnen vorhanden. Es dünkt dem Menschen, als sei er in einem Gespräch begriffen, und irgendein unbekanntes, geistiges Wesen veranlasse ihn auf eine wunderbare Weise zur Entwicklung der evidentesten Gedanken. Dieses Wesen muß ein höheres Wesen sein, weil es sich mit ihm auf eine Art in Beziehung setzt, die keinem an Erscheinungen gebundenen Wesen möglich ist. Es muß ein homogenes Wesen sein, weil es ihn wie ein geistiges Wesen behandelt und ihn nur zur seltensten Selbsttätigkeit auffordert. Dieses Ich höherer Art verhält sich zum Menschen wie der Mensch zur Natur oder der Weise zum Kinde.

There are certain poems within us that seem to have a completely different character from the others, for they are accompanied by a feeling of necessity, and yet there is absolutely no external reason for them. It seems to the human being that he is engaged in a conversation, and that some unknown spiritual being is causing him in a wonderful way to develop the most obvious thoughts. This must be a higher being, because it relates to one in a way that is not possible for any being bound to appearances. It must be a homogeneous being, because it treats him like a spiritual being and only rarely asks him to be self-active. This ego of a higher kind relates to humanity as a human does to nature or a wise person to a child. (Novalis, Fragmente I)

Call it intuition or inspiration, poetry can be a means of revealing much more than the poet knows or intends—the expression of a wisdom that transcends even the poet’s own limited personal experience or knowledge.

Poetry

 Poetry is an attempt to convey a reality that the poet has in some way experienced by attempting to capture its totality through metaphor. In such an endeavor, metaphorical language demonstrates superiority over mere descriptive language by incorporating both meaning and ambiguity (allowing for the poet to communicate the perceived and the intuited, the “seen” and “unseen” of reality). Novalis said, "Poetry heals the wounds inflicted by reason." The holistic experience of reality that metaphor engenders gives a poem its special texture, sometimes referred to as “mood,” that unique combination of sign and feeling. But feeling in this case refers to more than what is ordinarily understood as “feelings”; it is a kind of intuitional intersubjectivity and remains on the boundary of the expressed and the inexpressible by its very nature. That is why a poem will be understood in a number of different ways, depending on the mindset of the reader. The poet and the reader will inevitably have distinct experiences of the poem as well. But this does not mean that either experience is invalid. This “tension between congruence and incongruence” (Paul Ricoeur, The Metaphorical Process as Cognition, Imagination, and Feeling) is at the heart of metaphor, as it is at the heart of our conscious perception of totality. All art entails perceptual distortion by both artist and aesthete. But the metaphor, by its allusiveness and ambiguity, goes beyond this distortion to create in the reader a combination of experience and insight. All this has been expressed better and more clearly by others, but it is very much at the heart of my interest in poetry.

Typos

A poem of mine that recently appeared in an online journal contained a rather glaring typo—for some reason the editors misspelled my name in both the table of contents and on the page where the piece appeared. Oddly enough, my name was spelled correctly in the accompanying bio. I went back and checked all the documents I had submitted through their submission system, as well as an electronic contract that they had asked me to fill out and sign.  My name was spelled correctly on everything.

     I have had several pieces published both on-line and in print over the years that contained typos, but this seems to be occurring with increasing frequency of late. In a couple of cases, I actually submitted something with a typo in it and it was accepted without the editor noticing the typo before it was published. On another occasion, I discovered a typo in the original manuscript after it was submitted and accepted. I notified the editor who was working on the piece, and she thanked me for bringing it to her attention and assured me that it would be corrected before publication. It wasn’t.

     Recently, what I have found to be even more common are typos introduced by the editors themselves during editing (things like substituting a homophone for a word that I used properly, changing punctuation or italics but not taking out the original ones, improper capitalization or removal of diacritics [especially in Spanish phrases], and simply leaving out a word or line). Typos in a piece of writing are hardly something to get upset about, considering the many other things that I deal with in daily life, and especially bearing in mind the state of the world at large. As my mother used to say, “What does it matter in the light of eternity?” I only wish to comment on the proliferation of typos in published work (especially on-line) in the hope that editors might be more aware of it—not to say that most aren’t already aware—and to consider always taking the extra step of giving contributors an opportunity to proofread their work before it is published. This isn’t a perfect solution, but it is a good tool to catch those minor errors that can slip past a busy editor’s eyes, especially things like having one’s name misspelled.

(Update: After a little back and forth with the editors, the misspelling of my name that originally occasioned this post was eventually—and fully—corrected by them, which I am sincerely grateful for.)

Wonder

 

Yesterday, a group of burrowing owls who have made their home in a large hole near a seldom-used path flew off just as we walked by at dusk. One bird stood watching like a sentry until we passed, and then returned to the hole. The sky was filled with the indescribable colors of dusk. Bird, sky, and hole in the earth.

     A little farther along, the footprints of a mountain lion driven out of the mountains by drought. Resilient nature. Unless someone with a gun comes along.

     Meanwhile, I spend hours scribbling a few words and afterwards revise them repeatedly. Occasionally, my words occupy space in some literary journal. And I wonder: am I taking a place on the page that should go to someone more deserving?

Poem

I have a poem in Amethyst Review, the second one that has appeared there recently. Although I don’t usually comment on what I have written, I do sometimes like to provide a little background. This poem is inspired by my love of bees, but its symbolism also comes from the words found in the second advent sermon of St. Bernard of Clairvaux concerning Jesus: “Our bee feeds among lilies, and dwells in the flowery country of the angels. This bee flew down to the city of Nazareth, the meaning of which may be interpreted as ‘a blossom;’ He came to the sweet-smelling flower of perpetual virginity; He settled upon it, remained with it.” I was also thinking of St. Ambrose of Milan, who compared the beehive to the church and the bee to the individual Christian, because of the bees’ reputation for diligence, vigilance, modesty, zeal, and dedication to the hive. Interestingly, the beehive is a symbol of both St. Bernard and St. Ambrose, as their eloquence was compared to the sweetness of honey.

Creation

 

Let everything in creation draw you to God. Refresh your mind with some innocent recreation and needful rest, if it were only to saunter through the garden or the fields, listening to the sermon preached by the flowers, the trees, the meadows, the sun, the sky, and the whole universe. You will find that they exhort you to love and praise God; that they excite you to extol the greatness of the Sovereign Architect Who has given them their being.

                                                                                                        --St. Paul of the Cross

 

Nature is truly a great refuge and temple. But nature also makes me inarticulate (which is not necessarily a bad thing, considering my tendency to babble on in both speech and writing). How to capture with words the moment when the crab apple trees become covered in frothy pink and red blossoms, or that hour when the distant mountains turn sharp as etchings and are silhouetted in silver-blue, or the short span of time when the naked desert adopts every shade of luxuriant green after heavy summer rains. What value or truth can anything that I say (or write) have for myself or anyone else, especially when compared with the wholeness and balance that nature displays as a continuous reminder of the “original source of beauty” (Wisdom 13:3) who fashioned it?

Poetry

Unsere Sprache ist entweder mechanisch, atomistisch, oder dynamisch. Die echt poetische Sprache soll aber organisch, lebendig sein. Wie oft fühlt man die Armut an Worten, um mehre Ideen mit Einem Schlage zu treffen.                                                                 

Our language is either mechanical, atomistic, or dynamic. But truly poetic language should be organic, alive. How often does one feel the poverty of a words’ ability to express several ideas at once.

                                                                                              --Novalis, Blütenstaub

 

Here lies the difference between nature and everyday language. Nature is all simultaneity. But everyday language uses lists, plots, beginnings and endings. Poetry must express itself in the manner of nature, implying the interconnectedness of all things, all stories, the visible and the invisible. Things are often metaphors for other things, ideas often metaphors for other ideas, the visible for the invisible, but the connection may not be obvious until it is revealed by poetic language, which (as in the Song of Songs, for example) can even express the transcendent.

Two stories

I just want to mention that I have had two stories published recently in wonderful literary magazines with exceptional editorial teams, here and here. I am so pleased to actually see these stories appear on-line (and, in the case of MASKS Literary Magazine, in print as well), and not only because they are in such great venues. These stories are also part of a series of stories that I have written about our neighborhood--its people, places, and mysteries. I love sharing the world of our neighborhood, and I hope you enjoy them as well.

A quote from Georges Bernanos

 A nous entendre on croirait trop souvent que nous prêchons le Dieu des spiritualistes, l’Être suprême, je ne sais quoi, rien qui ressemble, en tout cas, à ce Seigneur que nous avons appris à connaître comme un merveilleux ami vivant, qui souffre de nos peines, s’émeut de nos joies, partagera notre agonie, nous recevra dans ses bras, sur son cœur.

To hear us, one would too often think that we are preaching the God of the spiritualists, the supreme Being, I don't know what, nothing resembling, in any case, this Lord whom we have come to know as a marvelous and living friend, who suffers our sorrows, is moved by our joys, will share our agony, and finally, receive us into his arms, on his heart.

                                                                                   --Georges Bernanos, Journal d'un curé de campagne

Tortillas

 

The house that was home for so many years, the house not far from where we live today, the house that was also a fair trade store, where our children grew up and where we experienced so much joy and heartache over their chronic health problems, was located across the street from a tortilleria.  We needed only cross the street to obtain fresh tortillas, and, at Christmastime, tamales.  I will never forget the smell of tortillas being produced—the timeless smell of white corn soaked in lime, of masa being gently toasted into planets of natural sweetness.  It makes me think of Hermann Hesse’s famous essay, “Über das Wort Brot” (“On the Word Bread”), where he says:

 Man braucht es nur auszusprechen und das in sich einzulassen, was es enthält, so sind schon alle unsere Lebenskräfte, die des Leibes wie die der Seele angerufen und in Tätigkeit versetzt. Magen, Gaumen, Nase, Zunge, Zähne, Hände sprechen mit. Es fällt uns der Eßtisch im Vaterhause ein. Rundum sitzen die lieben vertrauten Gestalten der Kindheit. Vater oder Mutter schneidet vom großen Leib die Stücke und bemißt ihre Größe und Dicke, je nach dem Alter oder Hunger des Empfängers. In den Tassen duftet die warme Morgenmilch. Oder es fällt uns ein, wie es ganz früh am Morgen, noch bei halber Nacht, vom Haus des Bäckers her gerochen hat, warm und nahrhaft, anregend und begütigend, hungerweckend und ihn halb auch schon stillend. Und weiter erinnern wir uns durch die ganze Weltgeschichte hindurch alle Szenen und Bilder in denen das Brot eine Rolle spielt.

 One only needs to utter it, to admit the word’s content into oneself, and already all our vital forces, those of both the body and the soul, are invoked and stirred into action. Stomach, palate, nose, tongue, teeth, hands, also utter the word. We are put in mind of the dining room table in our father’s house. Around it are seated the dear familiar figures of childhood. Father or mother are cutting slices from the large loaf, appraising their size and thickness, according to the age and hunger of the recipient. From the cups comes the smell of the hot morning milk. Or we recall, very early in the morning, when it was still half night, the aroma wafting from the direction of the baker’s house, warm and nourishing, stimulating and soothing, arousing, and also half-sating, a feeling of hunger. And, thinking on, we recall all the scenes and images in which, down through the entire history of the world, bread has played a role.

 Today, this is all I wish to invoke in my writing.  I won’t disown the language games that I’ve already played, some of which have yet to see the light of day, but I want to speak with simplicity and faithfulness of the humble bread that belongs to the world into which I was born and the neighborhood where I have spent most of my life—the fresh tortilla—and of those neighbors of mine who feast on it every day.

A Philosopher's Viewpoint

The best writer is one who writes from a wide background of experience.  Plotinus didn't start until he was 50.

                                                        --Robert J. Kreyche, Love is a Therapy

Another George MacDonald Quote

Then first I knew the delight of being lowly; of saying to myself, “I am what I am, nothing more.” “I have failed,” I said, “I have lost myself—would it had been my shadow.” I looked round: the shadow was nowhere to be seen. Ere long, I learned that it was not myself, but only my shadow, that I had lost. I learned that it is better, a thousand-fold, for a proud man to fall and be humbled, than to hold up his head in his pride and fancied innocence. I learned that he that will be a hero, will barely be a man; that he that will be nothing but a doer of his work, is sure of his manhood. In nothing was my ideal lowered, or dimmed, or grown less precious; I only saw it too plainly, to set myself for a moment beside it. Indeed, my ideal soon became my life; whereas, formerly, my life had consisted in a vain attempt to behold, if not my ideal in myself, at least myself in my ideal. Now, however, I took, at first, what perhaps was a mistaken pleasure, in despising and degrading myself. Another self seemed to arise, like a white spirit from a dead man, from the dumb and trampled self of the past. Doubtless, this self must again die and be buried, and again, from its tomb, spring a winged child; but of this my history as yet bears not the record.

     Self will come to life even in the slaying of self; but there is ever something deeper and stronger than it, which will emerge at last from the unknown abysses of the soul: will it be as a solemn gloom, burning with eyes? or a clear morning after the rain? or a smiling child, that finds itself nowhere, and everywhere?

                                                                                             —George MacDonald, Phantastes

Light Escapes the Street

I have a story—another novel excerpt—in the latest issue of El Portal Literary Journal, a publication produced graduate students and faculty at Eastern New Mexico University.  El Portal includes writing and art from Eastern New Mexico students as well as other writers far and near.  The quality of the writing in El Portal is consistently excellent, and that includes the student writers.  I am honored to be published with them.  I have a recollection of El Portal being one of the mainstays of the Southwest literary scene back in the days of my youth, alongside journals like Arizona Quarterly and (the now defunct) New Mexico Quarterly—a place that published many important writers with southwestern roots along with others who taught and lived in the Southwest.  It certainly has a long history and is still in the hands of exceedingly discerning and capable editors.

New Story

I wanted to mention that I have a new story in Sublunary Review.  It's the latest (and probably the last) of the "Zoë stories." Sublunary Review is a fabulous journal, and the editors do a beautiful job with the layout and illustrations for the work they publish.  I feel so honored—it's like my work is being presented in a palace or a splendid museum.  And this story allows me to pay tribute to Chesterton’s The Man Who Was Thursday and Goethe’s Marchen, amid all sorts of fun and whimsy and playfulness, with a serious message underlying it all.

Dog Paddling

 

Die meisten Menschen wollen nicht eher schwimmen, als bis sie es können.

Most people will not try to swim before they are able to.

This is probably the most famous line of Novalis, thanks to Harry Haller quoting it approvingly in Hermann Hesse’s Steppenwolf. The irony is that it is contradicted by the behavior of most would-be writers, who tend to write before they are actually able to do it properly. (Perhaps this is true with all the arts.) I know that, in my own case, I have written for years (grant proposals, articles, reports, newsletters, verse, and finally, after many years, fiction) without ever having the basics of English grammar fully in my grasp. I hated the subject of grammar in school (although I thought that the phrase “vowel diphthong” was funny, and I was glad that some verbs were finally getting the help they needed), but I do have to confess that in the end I found more useful writing tools in the study of linguistics (on my own) and music theory than anywhere else. I’ve picked up a few grammar tips here and there, though I can’t think of a more interesting use of words from a creative standpoint than the reversing of homophones in a sentence: “Nothing compliments a meal like a nice complement on the cooking.” “Of coarse, it’s important not to make it course.” Language play is so important to me! When I write, I find that allusiveness, polysemy, tropes, in-jokes, idioms, and innuendos—as well as the musicality of language—matter more to me than plot and characterization, although they are useful props to hang those other things on. To be honest, I do care about plot and characterization, although I tend to think of the whole more in terms of mood and message than anything else. And those things can best be expressed with the tools of metaphor, intimation, sound play, allegory, and the like. Sometimes, when I’m stuck, especially while editing, I go to composing software (like MuseScore 3) and use my minimal piano skills to compose a little something. It makes it so much easier to return to editing or writing—to find the right word or phrase. As James Joyce wrote in Finnegans Wake, “Bite my laughters, drink my tears. Pore into me, volumes, spell me stark and spill me swooning, I just don’t care what my thwarters think.”

    I’ve always rebelled against certain orthographic conventions (mostly in the realm of punctuation). But as much as one might like to throw out all convention, there are rules that must be followed in order to be able to communicate with the reader. On the other hand, an author like Joyce continually overrode linguistic conventions and gave us something completely amazing and unique. It’s interesting to note, however, that the line from Finnegans Wake, “—Three quarks for Muster Mark!” uses traditional sentence structure, which helps us penetrate its opaqueness. Suppose it had been written as “—Muster three Mark quarks for!” Its meaning would be completely obscured. (Generative grammar theory attempts to give us some good explanations as to why this is the case.) But the truth is that a somewhat more unusual sentence structure could have been employed by Joyce that would still have given us a sense of its meaning, something like, “For Muster Mark—three quarks!” This is not to say that Joyce didn’t break down normal sentence structure in Finnegans Wake—but he did so at a cost to intelligibility, and very few authors can dance on the terrifying knife edge between incoherence and ambiguity as Joyce did. It is usually safer to stay with “Three quarks for Muster Mark!” though I personally prefer “For Muster Mark—three quarks!” because it adds a sense of immediacy to the words.

     Sometimes it’s better to jump right in rather than stand at the side of the pool—but one has to be ready for a little discomfort and a lot of dog paddling.