"...when there are so many big truths left to be said."
Leo Tolstoy
-1-
In the beginning, as we all know, there was doubt. As soon as Adam and
Eve tasted from the Tree of Knowledge, they were overcome with
disillusionment. They hardly suspected that their glorious surroundings
and the miracle-sower himself would disappoint them so bitterly. If
before the ultimate seduction they resorted to boredom as the most
acute feeling of dissatisfaction, now, having been exposed to
knowledge, they started to engage in rebellion. And that is why they
were exiled into our world.
Five thousand plus years later, this incident continues to raise a
question, which, I believe, has yet not been given the attention that
it deserves. Who, after all, is a sinner: Adam and Eve or their Creator
who sentenced them to the bliss of ignorance? And: is ignorance really
bliss as the convenient clich suggests? The answers to these questions
matter less than the very fact of asking them itself. In other words,
the answers lie within the questions themselves which, like the act of
tasting the forbidden fruit, are nothing but examples of the ultimate
form of rebellion.
I would have
done what Eve did: succumbed to the seduction, for I am convinced that
ignorance of or subservience to the existing order is not what bliss is
all about. Any noteworthy development throughout the history of
civilization was a result of an intellectual uprising against the
status-quo. Anyone who believes that wisdom consists of being in the
dark about the nature of things or oneself is a superfluous being. One
that can be of no help to another.
Today, this axiom, alas, still requires just as bloody proofs as
twenty one centuries ago, when we were informed that we are saved and
all thats required of us from now is to stay on the righteous path.
Despite the monumental progress in the realm of knowledge, mankind had
hardly experienced any moral growth from the day when Cain calculated
that he is not his brothers keeper. Christ, Abels true follower, it
turns out, spilled his blood in vain: the world in which we live is the
same as in the days of Cain. And just as in Cains days, those who have
acquired redemption for free are too busy to be keepers of their
brothers.
The latter circumstance is of utmost importance to those of us who
allocate themselves to the ranks of poets. Because modern poetry must
take as its starting point the realization of ethical-metaphysical
disaster which has befallen upon mankind in the beginning of its
days. Incidentally, this the attempt to decipher the drama of
existence confined to any space and time is what occupied poets
since... the beginning of days.
So, what is it then that makes modern poetry modern?
The above question is just as old: time or space always, everywhere and
only manifests itself in a concrete facet; and people are always and
everywhere convinced that only the current one is modern, i.e. -
different from any other facet. People have the right to be convinced
of this, even though the Bible does state that it is not from wisdom
that questions about the difference between the present and the past
(the eternal), usually arise. Incidentally, the phrase eternal
question has itself corroded with time and, often sounds like -
trivial question. Therefore, having reminded that eternal question
is a question that is... eternal, and not just obnoxious, a question
that doesnt disappear from any time or space, I am returning to the
above-mentioned: what is, then, modern poetry?
-2-
Let me begin with a digression, where, as in the main text,
convictions and doubts are often interchangeable.
In my understanding, just as schematic as anyone elses, the history of
human thought is constantly being renovated along two main roads. The
first road leads to the jungle where salvation is seen in returning to
the original state of ignorant bliss, while the second leads to a
region where the Tree of Knowledge stands in the middle. And where
people who know what they do are filled with doubts about the fruits
of their labor and constantly urge themselves to seek out better
alternatives. In these searches they just as constantly look back at
the above mentioned tree, since knowledge, reason , is to them not only
a means of settling any dilemma but also its integral part. In other
words, a part of the solution. Mozart and Dostoevsky, Rousseau and
Pushkin, for instance, labored upon the first road. Goethe and
Nietszche, Tolstoy and Brodsky, also for instance, hustled upon the
second.
Due to the ironic twist of notions, the first are regarded as the more
innocent and less categorical than the second. But I think that if we
were attempt the impossible, i.e. forget the genius of the first and
overcome the brilliance of the world that they created, we can
conclude the following: they, the first ones, lead us into the dark
and dense caves, the likes of which are found in the mountains of
Kandahar. I believe that Dostoevskys philosophical choice - the return
to the purity and simplicity of faith as the ultimate solace - is not
too much unlike a despotic command to obey that something the nature of
which no one is familiar with. If Dostoevsky were not a writer but,
lets say, a ruler of a country, I, for one, would emigrate.
I would feel much more comfortable in a Tolstoyan, universe, the
clarity of which is promised by the freedom to think and doubt.
Holland, with its Spinoza, the studious polisher of spectacles, is much
more pleasant to my taste than Afghanistan with its Omar, the one-eyed
mulla. My favorite character of Dostoevskys novels, Ivan Karamazov,
argued for an intellectual kind of faith, one that doesnt require a
single drop of innocent blood. Until humanity comes up, with such a
religion, I prefer to be an atheist. The kind that doesnt forget that
words and thoughts, like spectacles, blur everything which they do not
make clear and distinct.
Recently, in one of the regions upon the map of the brain, scientists
discovered cells that periodically feel hunger. Apparently, that
hunger is satiated by things that are not held responsible before
reason. Their favorite food is blind faith, religion. Thats how, the
scientists, argue, faith came to be in the world: something akin to
that which is the pride of ants - blind faith in the Leader and -
through him - in the Almighty.
Many were delighted by this finding, for, they figured, blind faith is
just as inevitable as, for example, vision. I, nevertheless, believe
those scientists who insist that there could be cancerous cells in
any region. Arthur Koestler, a philosopher, a writer, and a scientist,
who was very well versed in all sorts of regions, said that it is
impossible to comprehend the ever-bloody, tragic history of man without
knowing his schizo-physiology. And this knowledge can be acquired
only through the study of our brain. Or, to be more precise - its
structure. Unlike animals, with whom we have a reptile brain in
common, weve been given a chance to cover it with a layer of a
cerebral brain. Reason. Throughout history, the first layer draws us
in the very same direction as the animals. There where all kinds of
instincts, like blind faith, are to be found. The second layer, a
more recent and more evolved one, draws us in an opposite direction.
Towards which Spinoza was drawn.
-3-
I am returning to the statement that if Dostoevsky were a ruler, I
would run away from his empire. Such statements are, usually, ridiculed
by means of an argument, which is believed to be a sort of an apparent
truth: poetry and everyday life are two different things with
different principles and goals.
This truth is
false for two reasons, simultaneously.
One: art is created only by human beings and only for human beings. I
am not too keen on pseudo-mystical theories according to which
artistic revelations are whispered by the heavens and that a poet is
simply a blissful messenger from the above.
Two: since art
is a man-made phenomenon, it must ask and attempt to answer clear
questions which concern the direction and the fate of men. Since this
notion is as simple as mooing, any artists attempt, even if he
happens to be blessed with a genius-like skill, to suggest the opposite
is, at best copping out, and, at worst, betrayal of the idea of art
itself.
In this vain, Pushkins announcement that poetry must be empty
(stikhi dolzhni bitpustimi) strikes me as irresponsible. Had Einstein
expressed complete indifference when he learned that his theory enabled
the creation of the atomic bomb, he would have added yet another
disappointment to the list of disappointments. Just as he would have
included his name in the list of those, indubitably great names that,
nevertheless, fall short of evoking respect, had he said the following:
My task is to deal with great discoveries; as for the results that
they might entail, well, that is entirely the business of the
not-so-great of this world! Einstein, of course, did not say this not
only out of humility: in his case the intellectual genius was
equivalent to that of the moral. In other words, he did not hold that
genius gives a man the right to be anything more or less than he is: a
man.
As for Pushkins formula of a poet versus the crowd, it is a badly
thought-out one and can hardly be considered great. It was Pushkins
duty to surmise that if the poet is misunderstood by the lowly
members of the crowd, those members of the crowd misunderstand not
only him but each other as well. Everyone, in fact. In other words, he
should have understood, as Einstein and Tolstoy did, that even he,
Pushkin is, first and foremost, just another man. Just another member
of that very crowd. And the only thing that makes him stand apart from
that crowd in the eyes of Time is his skill of composing verse.
If,
however, he meant the rivalry of the poetic and the base within each
and every one of us, then, why is it that poetry should be empty? On
the contrary, it should be filled to the rim with questions, doubts and
suggestions that would make the baseness and the ugliness within us so
obviously base and ugly, that even the basest and the ugliest among us
will doubt our ways.
To reiterate then: upon the first of the two main roads of the
development of thought, we find thinkers who have grown weary of
thinking. Just as one grows weary of sitting in one position for a long
time. Even if the original position seemed as comfortable as the one
assumed by Rodins Thinker, who, even though made out of marble, seems
ridiculous to those weary of thinking precisely because he sits, as
they say it in Russia, in the same old position upon the stone. And
as for the sensitive and un-stone-like, well, they have long grown
tired of voicing and hearing the same old un-answered - abstract and
metaphysical - questions. They, unlike the statue, do move around: they
urge all of us, the still moving, to either join their ranks and revert
back to the soothing and blind faith, or to simply relax and imitating
the cool, summer breeze, let out a laugh at everything under the sun.
They call, so to speak, for the union with the innocent nature. Which,
incidentally, knows no doubts.
-4-
Far more innocent than the thirty-some year Pushkin is Tolstoy - the
eighty-some year-old man who constantly doubted everything. Far more
brave and despairing than Pushkins duel is Tolstoys escape from his
own life, his much more complex self. Tolstoys last act of exodus is
the unthinkably courageous admission of failure in the attempt to
comprehend reality, but also a much more unthinkably courageous
announcement that the search for answers to the eternal questions must
go on.
Tolstoys Confession deals with more important and less easily resolved
dilemmas then Puskins Eugene Onegin who resolved his with a single
bullet. Tolstoys impasse is huge compared to the petty tribulations of
Onegin. The latters tribulations might seem refined to many, but I
would avoid arguments over the essence of this or similar epithets
until the following Tolstoyan saying still holds weight: "Why utter the
refined trivialities when there are so many big truths left to be said?"
Indeed, there is no reason.
Hardly anyone in the 21-st century would take Tatyanas and Eugenes
tragedy as tragedy. Both of these characters, could be of relevance
only to each other. Today, their behavior as well as the words that
they use would, first and foremost, cause embarrassment. At least, in
that spatial-temporal part of the universe which is called the Western
Civilization. The hero of the Confession, on the other hand, is as
timely and relevant today as when he was alive. At any spatial point of
the universe which is occupied by civilized two-legged animals. As much
as before, he evokes either compassion or rejection (depending on who
the reader is), respect or fear, insult or praise. His problems are our
problems and the problems of those that will follow us or preceded him.
He is the ever-modern phenomenon. He is ageless and timeless. In other
words -inexhaustibly modern.
Everything that resembles him under the sun is what I mean by modern.
Including poetry.
-5-
Modern poetry, is not necessarily that poetry which is created today,
that point in time which happens to coincide with mine and your
existence, dear reader.
For, you and I, are merely tiny specks upon the vast canvass of space.
Mere passing dots on the spectrum of Time, which, indeed, does stay
still. And has no intention of moving. So, the term modern, dear
reader, as it is applied to poetry has nothing to do with chronological
time or stylistic fancy and fashion of a given generation. To me,
Marcus Aurelius is as modern as Dylan Thomas, Rembrandt is a
contemporary of Chagall, and Beethoven is a spiritual comrade of Bob
Dylan. All of the above are timeless and ever-relevant in my
believe-system because all of the above take as their starting point
the existential trials and tribulations of humanity and, until the
latter exists, all of the above will continue to matter.
Any stylistic or epochal differences between poets are of secondary
importance. They have to do more with an individual poets biography or
taste. There is, however, one common motto which the adherents of the
metaphysical (the eternally questioning) school of poetry follow: to be
as clear and understandable as possible in ones verse. This is a
corollary of the fact that each one of those adherents writes in order
to be heard or read by a reader here and now, and not one of them
wishes to impress upon the reader that the verses which the latter has
just read or heard were first uttered by the Almighty.
The banal
becomes banal only after it has turned into something indubitable:
poetic style is a means to express a thought, a notion, a feeling. It
is not the end in itself. There are plenty of critics and poets, and
there always were (we just no longer remember their names), who assert
that what makes poetry modern is its style, the outer package so to
speak. More often than not, when you break open that very outer package
which such heads construct, you end up with emptiness inside.
As one philosopher noted people lose their minds quickly and in herds,
whereas they regain it slowly and in solitude. Each one in his/her own
way. Poets, no matter how much they try to ring in their own way, are
also just bells on top of Gods nightcap. They are also just people:
they regain their minds if not always slowly, then always - each in
his/her own way. But the fact of this regaining, the fact that they
enter into their minds each in his/her own way is hardly the only
condition required for the overall entry. It is hardly enough to sing
in your own way, even as a toad in order to make a song. As Esenin
pointed out, one must first have the words to put to the melody.
Otherwise, the sing-song might fall into quacking and the one that
quacks - into a swamp.
-6-
Thats precisely what the above-mentioned Tolstoy meant: if you can
help it not to write, then dont write! Even in your very own way. So,
for example, when a younger poet accuses Bella Akhmadulina of being
stylistically an old-fashioned poet and instead offers verse that is
drenched in provincial arrogance and cheap self-derogatory cynicism, he
should be reminded, that if he makes a bit more effort he will be able
not to write at all. And therefore regain some free time necessary to
go over the eternal wisdom which he seems to have overlooked. The
eternal wisdom according to which the beautiful strives not towards the
cynical but towards the exalted, no matter how old-fashioned the latter
might be mistaken for. The banal, on the other hand, usually takes
pleasure in its own mediocrity. And no matter how significant that
mediocrity might seem to itself, it is still not a good reason for
writing poetry.
The truly modern poets, or poets who serve all stretches of time, are
more preoccupied with the question of what then of how on that one
condition that each of the two is the indelible part of the other. As a
ranking member of the poets workshop, which is the only truly
democratic realm so far encountered, I would urge the above-mentioned,
unnamed colleague and those that share similar views to abstain from
open manifestation of their own complexes which camouflage intellectual
impotence. So, if they find themselves unable to follow Tolstoys
precept not to write, if they must scribble down their petty
grievances, why humiliate themselves further and like that fly, climb
on the backs of old-fashioned elephants and helplessly flutter their
tiny wings in protest? Why not simply march into that bliss called
"ignorance" without making a nuisance of themselves?
It is my firm believe that these stylistic dandies realize very well
that they are not looking for a fresh way to look at our world. What
they are looking for is a way to forget their main thought which
terrifies them with the implication that they do not have a main
thought whatsoever. In the best scenario, what they might have is
information about it. And, therefore, they are simply terrified of
repeating someone else simply because they fear that their rendition of
the theme is not going to be as eloquent. Thus they limit poetry to
solely linguistic functions and operate from the cheap intention to
temporarily shock the reader who, nevertheless, ultimately is not
fooled.
In any age, wrote Derek Walcott, a common genius almost
indistinguishably will show itself, and the perpetuity of this genius
is the only valid tradition, not the tradition which categorizes poetry
by epochs and by schools. We know that the great poets have no wish to
be different, no time to be original, that their originality emerges
only when they have absorbed all, that it is only the academicians and
the frightened poets who talk of Beckets debt to Joyce. (The Muse
of History)
-7-
There are different kinds of fear.
When Socrates declared at the end of his life that he knows nothing, he
was confessing his metaphysical despair against the background of
existence. Existence that frightens us both with its indifference
towards us and the damned questions which it evokes.
Plato, his student, nevertheless, decided that the philosophically,
i.e. ethically and esthetically, right thing for him to do is not to
simply repeat the conclusions of his intellectual mentor but tackle the
very same problem once again. Plato did not decide that the best course
of action from now on is to delve into his own universe, ignoring the
vastness outside it. The very same questions that tortured the teacher,
were posed by the student as well. All over again. That is why he chose
intellectual giants like Parmenides and Heraclites as his imaginary
conversation partners. Even if he had to conclude by repeating the
words of Socrates, the only reason that we believe him is because Plato
chose to take the hard road. He decided to relive the agony of brooding
over the same old, eternal questions.
The history of
art, the history of human thought, is the labor of Sisyphus. But
according to Camus correct axiom, even though we know that our labors
are futile and senseless, we have the moral obligation to keep pushing
the rock to the top of the mountain. In this way all great artists are
helpless. Poets, in fact, are unified by the feeling of existential
despair. Just knowing about the existence of such a state is not
enough. The state must be suffered through. And the work of the truly
metaphysical poets, even if it is futile, is muteness trying to
overcome its own condition with the aid of words.
Poetry, as any form of art, is an attempt to modernize the
metaphysical; to decipher the irrational reality and make some order
out of it. To offer an alternative. And this is precisely what makes
art a form of rebellion. Not some cheap trick meant to sound original
and shock a handful of contemporaries but to shock and rattle the
origins and foundations of our indifferently silent existence itself.
It is the only revolution worth fighting for because it is the only
revolution that, like that dream of Ivan Karamazov, does not require
your life as payment for justice and beauty. The only sacrifice that
art requires is giving up existential pettiness and selfishness.
Poetry is a civilized leap towards the impossible harmony and its
nobility lies in the violence and rebelliousness of that inward leap
which is the only thing that could protect us from the violence from
without. It is the imaginary and the wishful pressing back against the
flattening pressure of reality. And this imaginary pressure could only
come as a result of thorough and entirely painful, surgical examination
of the objective reality. Only then is it effective and only then it
becomes memorable.
-8-
That is why it is important not to grow weary of the marble pose, to
ask the very same existential questions and push on the rock with all
ones might. The general instinctive desire of reality and its
fanatical servants is simplification. It is enough to think of the vast
majority of politicians and religious leaders of any epoch. Poetry adds
subtlety and complexity to the everyday blandness; its domain is not
the despotic black and white, it recognizes multiplicity of colors and
hues and exposes the impotence or tyranny of mediocre thought. That is
why the very same Plato recognized the dangers that poetry or music
might pose for political leaders who usually demand obedience to their
laws.
Poetry, metaphysical poetry, is the opposite of prayer which requires
shutting down of thinking faculties and therefore makes less of a man
than he really is. Perhaps, both religion and the state are right:
human beings are dumb and lowly and the less of themselves they retain,
the better off they are. Perhaps that is so, but poetry uplifts the
individuals rights to reach for things higher, kinder, better. It does
not tolerate ignorance or blind subordination to any authority because
poetry is a keen and critical tool that is not driven by blurry,
unexplained emotions. The freedom to challenge the existing order,
including the petrified order within the soul of mankind itself, and
the freedom to deny the unanimity in thought and action is precisely
the freedom that poetry, infused with genuine intellectual and
spiritual suffering, offers.
And now, dear reader, in light of everything said above, I would like
to conclude with the following question: what seems to be a weightier
sin to you - obedience to the force of gravity or taking a big bite
from the forbidden fruit of Knowledge? |
