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Is it only a Borgesian or amiable fiction to say that Shakespeare is at once everyone and no one? Shake- speare thought enough of his friend Ben Jonson to satirize him as Malvolio, and was haunted enough by his acquain- tance Christopher Marlowe to portray him, with marvelous ambivalence, as Edmund.
Did Shakespeare not feel concern enough, interest and esteem enough, for himself, to put that self on stage? He acted old men, or kings, or ghosts. Is the survivor Edgar in some sense a representa- tion of the survivor Shakespeare? Oscar Wilde might have been interested in questions like these; no living scholar- critic of Shakespeare would allow them.
James Joyce, like some others before and since, identified Hamlet with Hamnet Shakespeare, the dramatist's only son, dead at eleven.
More than any other play by Shakespeare or by anyone else , Hamlet is an endless provocation to the world, because the world has found an unsolved mystery in it. A writer boundless to our meditation, Shakespeare never- theless seems not to have cared to direct that meditation. I know of only one strong clue to Shakespeare's track- lessness: his long harboring of the image of Marlowe. If Marlowe, to Shakespeare, primarily was an image of the poet's dangerous freedom and of the playwright's dan- gerous power over an audience, then the image would have sufficed, and Shakespeare might have been content to re- peat himself, once he had emancipated himself with Fal- staff, Hamlet, and Rosalind.
Some scholars argue that Shakespeare moved from tragedy to what we call "ro- mance" because of commercial pressure from rival drama- tists. Shakespeare would take from anyone and everywhere, with both fists, but his daemon or genius drove him, after he had triumphed over Marlowe.
Change, the only law observed by his protagonists, was also the law of Shake- speare's inwardness. All fictions aside, I cannot see any- one representing an infinitely growing inner self, without knowing it in all immediacy. There is very little change in Marlowe: all his vaunters are one vaunter, his victims one victim, his Machiavels one Nick.
Tamburlaine, Barabas, the Guise, even Faustus share the same rhetoric, and are dizzy with the same desires. Shakespeare, swerving from Marlowe, created distincts. Poetic influence has no greater triumph. He did remember, but found he was silent, and could not tell the others. He wanted to tell them that she leapt farthest for- ward and fell into a passion apart from his embrace. She was in great agony, and would have been swal- lowed up by the sweetness, had she not reached a limit, and stopped.
But the passion went on without her, and passed be- yond the limit. Sometimes he thought he was about to speak, but the silence continued. He wanted to say: "strengthless and female fruit.
A more severe, More harassing master would extemporize Subtler. As it is. One aim of this theory is corrective: to de- idealize our accepted accounts of how one poet helps to form another. Another aim, also corrective, is to try to provide a poetics that will foster a more adequate practi- cal criticism. Poetic history, in this book's argument, is held to be in- distinguishable from poetic influence, since strong poets make that history by misreading one another, so as to clear imaginative space for themselves.
My concern is only with strong poets, major figures with the persistence to wrestle with their strong precur- sors, even to the death. Weaker talents idealize; figures of capable imagination appropriate for themselves. But noth- ing is got for nothing, and self-appropriation involves the immense anxieties of indebtedness, for what strong maker desires the realization that he has failed to create himself?
The Ballad of Reading Gaol becomes an embarrassment to read, directly one recognizes that every lustre it exhibits is reflected from The Rime of the Ancient Mariner; and Wilde's lyr- ics anthologize the whole of English High Romanticism. Knowing this, and armed with his customary intelligence, Wilde bitterly remarks in The Portrait of Mr. Every disciple takes away something from his mas- ter. Two years later, Wilde refined this bitterness in one of Lord Henry Wotton's elegant ob- servations in The Picture of Dorian Gray, where he tells Dorian that all influence is immoral: Because to influence a person is to give him one's own soul.
He does not think his natural thoughts, or burn with his natural passions. His virtues are not real to him. His sins, if there are such things as sins, are borrowed. He be- comes an echo of someone else's music, an actor of a part that has not been written for him. To apply Lord Henry's insight to Wilde, we need only read Wilde's review of Pater's Appreciations, with its splendidly self-deceptive closing observation that Pater "has escaped disciples.
I know of no one who has been particularly important to me. My reality-imagination complex is entirely my own even though I see it in others. He might have said: "particularly because I see it in others," but poetic influence was hardly a subject where Stevens' insights could center.
Towards the end, his deni- als became rather violent, and oddly humored. Writing to the poet Richard Eberhart, he extends a sympathy all the stronger for being self-sympathy: I sympathize with your denial of any influence on my part.
This sort of thing always jars me because, in my own case, I am not conscious of having been influenced by any- body and have purposely held off from reading highly man- nered people like Eliot and Pound so that I should not ab- sorb anything, even unconsciously.
But there is a kind of critic who spends his time dissecting what he reads for echoes, imitations, influences, as if no one was ever simply himself but is always compounded of a lot of other people. As for W. Blake, I think that this means Wilhelm Blake. This view, that poetic influence scarcely exists, except in furiously active pedants, is itself an illustration of one way in which poetic influence is a variety of melancholy or an anxiety-principle.
Stevens was, as he insisted, a highly individual poet, as much an American original as Whitman or Dickinson, or his own contemporaries: Pound, Williams, Moore. But poetic influence need not make poets less original; as often it makes them more orig- inal, though not therefore necessarily better.
The pro- fundities of poetic influence cannot be reduced to source- study, to the history of ideas, to the patterning of images. Poetic influence, or as I shall more frequently term it, po- etic misprision, is necessarily the study of the life-cycle of the poet-as-poet. The modern poet, as W. Bate shows in The Burden of the Past and the En- glish Poet, is the inheritor of a melancholy engendered in the mind of the Enlightenment by its skepticism of its own double heritage of imaginative wealth, from the an- cients and from the Renaissance masters.
In this book I largely neglect the area Bate has explored with great skill, in order to center upon intra-poetic relationships as paral- lels of family romance. Though I employ these parallels, I do so as a deliberate revisionist of some of the Freudian emphases. Nietzsche and Freud are, so far as I can tell, the prime influences upon the theory of influence presented in this book.
Nietzsche is the prophet of the antithetical, and his Genealogy of Morals is the profoundest study available to me of the revisionary and ascetic strains in the aesthetic temperament. Freud's investigations of the mechanisms of defense and their ambivalent functionings provide the clearest analogues I have found for the revisionary ratios that govern intra-poetic relations.
Yet, the theory of influ- ence expounded here is un- Nietzschean in its deliberate literalism, and in its Viconian insistence that priority in divination is crucial for every strong poet, lest he dwindle merely into a latecomer. My theory rejects also the quali- fied Freudian optimism that happy substitution is possi- ble, that a second chance can save us from the repetitive quest for our earliest attachments.
Poets as poets cannot accept substitutions, and fight to the end to have their ini- tial chance alone. Both Nietzsche and Freud underesti- mated poets and poetry, yet each yielded more power to phantasmagoria than it truly possesses. Nietzsche's disciple, Yeats, and Freud's disciple, Otto Rank, show a greater awareness of the artist's fight against art, and of the relation of this struggle to the artist's an- tithetical battle against nature.
Freud recognized sublimation as the highest human achievement, a recognition that allies him to Plato and to the entire moral traditions of both Judaism and Christianity. Freudian sublimation involves the yielding-up of more primordial for more refined modes of pleasure, which is to exalt the second chance above the first. Freud's poem, in the view of this book, is not severe enough, unlike the severe poems written by the creative lives of the strong poets.
To equate emotional maturation with the discovery of acceptable substitutes may be pragmatic wisdom, particularly in the realm of Eros, but this is not the wisdom of the strong poets. The surrendered dream is not merely a phantasmagoria of endless gratification, but is the greatest of all human illusions, the vision of immortality. But the ode plangently also awakens into failure, and into the creative mind's protest against time's tyranny.
A Wordsworthian critic, even one as loyal to Wordsworth as Geoffrey Hartman, can insist upon clearly distin- guishing between priority, as a concept from the natural order, and authority, from the spiritual order, but Wordsworth's ode declines to make this distinction.
That dream, in Wordsworth's ode, is shadowed by the anxiety of influence, due to the greatness of the precursor-poem, Milton's Lycidas, where the human refusal wholly to sub- limate is even more rugged, despite the ostensible yielding to Christian teachings of sublimation. For every poet begins however "unconsciously" by re- belling more strongly against the consciousness of death's necessity than all other men and women do.
The young citizen of poetry, or ephebe as Athens would have called him, is already the anti-natural or antithetical man, and from his start as a poet he quests for an impossible object, as his precursor quested before him.
That this quest en- compasses necessarily the diminishment of poetry seems to me an inevitable realization, one that accurate literary his- tory must sustain. The great poets of the English Renais- sance are not matched by their Enlightened descendants, and the whole tradition of the post-Enlightenment, which is Romanticism, shows a further decline in its Modernist and post- Modernist heirs.
The death of poetry will not be hastened by any reader's broodings, yet it seems just to as- sume that poetry in our tradition, when it dies, will be self-slain, murdered by its own past strength. An implied anguish throughout this book is that Romanticism, for all its glories, may have been a vast visionary tragedy, the self-baffled enterprise not of Prometheus but of blinded Oedipus, who did not know that the Sphinx was his Muse.
Oedipus, blind, was on the path to oracular godhood, and the strong poets have followed him by transforming their blindness towards their precursors into the revision- ary insights of their own work. I have kept them to six, be- cause these seem to be minimal and essential to my under- standing of how one poet deviates from another. The names, though arbitrary, carryon from various traditions that have been central in Western imaginative life, and I hope can be useful.
The greatest poet in our language is excluded from the argument of this book for several reasons. One is neces- sarily historical; Shakespeare belongs to the giant age be- fore the flood, before the anxiety of influence became cen- tral to poetic consciousness. Another has to do with the contrast between dramatic and lyric form. As poetry has become more subjective, the shadow cast by the precur- sors has become more dominant. The main cause, though, is that Shakespeare's prime precursor was Marlowe, a poet very much smaller than his inheritor.
Milton, with all his strength, yet had to struggle, subtly and crucially, with a major precursor in Spenser, and this struggle both formed and malformed Milton.
Coleridge, ephebe of Milton and later of Wordsworth, would have been glad to find his Marlowe in Cowper or in the much weaker Bowles , but influence cannot be willed. Shakespeare is the largest in- stance in the language of a phenomenon that stands out- side the concern of this book: the absolute absorption of the precursor.
Battle between strong equals, father and son as mighty opposites, Laius and Oedipus at the cross- roads; only this is my subject here, though some of the fa- thers, as will be seen, are composite figures. That even the strongest poets are subject to influences not poetical is ob- vious even to me, but again my concern is only with the poet in a poet, or the aboriginal poetic self.
A change like the one I propose in our ideas of inft u- ence should help us read more accurately any group of past poets who were contemporary with one another. That Tennyson triumphed in his long, hidden contest with Keats, no one can assert absolutely, but his clear superior- ity over Arnold, Hopkins, and Rossetti is due to his rela- tive victory or at least holding of his own in contrast to their partial defeats. Arnold's elegiac poetry uneasily blends Keatsian style with anti-Romantic sentiment, while Hopkins' strained intensities and convolutions of diction and Rossetti's densely inlaid art are also at variance with the burdens they seek to alleviate in their own poetic selves.
Similarly, in our time we need to look again at Pound's unending match with Browning, as at Stevens' long and largely hidden civil war with the major poets of English and American Romanticism-Wordsworth, Keats, Shelley, Emerson, and Whitman.
As with the Vic- torian Keatsians, these are instances among many, if a more accurate story is to be told about poetic history. This book's main purpose is necessarily to present one reader's critical vision, in the context both of the criticism and poetry of his own generation, where their current crises most touch him, and in the context of his own anxi- eties of influence.
In the contemporary poems that most move me, like the Corsons Inlet and Saliences of A. Ammons and the Fragment and Soonest Mended of John Ashbery, I can recognize a strength that battles against the death of poetry, yet also the exhaustions of being a late- comer.
My Interchapter, proposing a more antithetical practical criticism than any we now have. A theory of poetry that presents itself as a severe poem, reliant upon aphorism. Every- thing that makes up this book-parables. Vico, who read all creation as a severe poem.
Vico reduced both natural priority and spiritual authority to property, a Hermetic reduction that I recognize as the Ananke, the dreadful necessity still governing the Western imagination. Valentinus, second-century Gnostic speculator, came out of Alexandria to teach the Pleroma, the Fullness of thirty Aeons.
Each strong poet's Muse. Valentinus posited a Limit, at which quest ends. The Sophia of Valentinus recovered. If he emerges from it, however crippled and blinded, he will be among the strong poets. A poet swerves away from his precursor, by so reading his precursor's poem as to execute a clinamen in relation to it.
This appears as a corrective movement in his own poem, which implies that the precursor poem went accurately up to a certain point, but then should have swerved, precisely in the direction that the new poem moves. Tessera, which is completion and antithesis; I take 2. A poet antithetically "completes" his precursor, by so reading the parent-poem as to retain its terms but to mean them in another sense, as though the precursor had failed to go far enough.
Kenosis, which is a breaking-device similar to the de- fense mechanisms our psyches employ against repetition compulsions; kenosis then is a movement towards discon- tinuity with the precursor. I take the word from St. Paul, where it means the humbling or emptying-out of Jesus by himself, when he accepts reduction from divine to human status.
Daemonization, or a movement towards a personal- ized Counter-Sublime, in reaction to the precursor's Sub- lime; I take the term from general Neo-Platonic usage, where an intermediary being, neither divine nor human, enters into the adept to aid him. The later poet opens himself to what he believes to be a power in the parent- poem that does not belong to the parent proper, but to a range of being just beyond that precursor.
He does this, in his poem, by so stationing its relation to the parent- poem as to generalize away the uniqueness of the earlier work. Askesis, or a movement of self-purgation which in- tends the attainment of a state of solitude; I take the term, general as it is, particularly from the practice of pre-Socra- tic shamans like Empedocles. The later poet does not, as in kenosis, undergo a revisionary movement of emptying, but of curtailing; he yields up part of his own human and imaginative endowment, so as to separate himself from others, including the precursor, and he does this in his poem by so stationing it in regard to the parent-poem as to make that poem undergo an askesis too; the precursor's endowment is also truncated.
Apophrades, or the return of the dead; I take the word from the Athenian dismal or unlucky days upon which the dead returned to reinhabit the houses in which they had lived. But the poem is now held open to the precursor, where once it was open, and the uncanny effect is that the new poem's achievement makes it seem to us, not as though the precursor were writing it, but as though the later poet himself had written the pre- cursor's characteristic work.
Borges remarks that poets create their precursors. If the dead poets, as Eliot insisted, constituted their successors' particular ad- vance in knowledge, that knowledge is still their succes- sors' creation, made by the living for the needs of the liv- ing. But poets, or at least the strongest among them, do not read necessarily as even the strongest of critics read.
Poets are neither ideal nor common readers, neither Arnoldian nor ]ohnsonian. They tend not to think, as they read: "This is dead, this is living, in the poetry of X. For them, to be judicious is to be weak, and to compare, ex- actly and fairly, is to be not elect. Let us attempt the experiment apparently frivolous of reading Paradise Lost as an allegory of the dilemma of the modern poet, at his strongest.
Satan is that modern poet, while God is his dead but still embarrassingly potent and present ancestor, or rather, ancestral poet. How to Meet and Work with Spirit Guides. The purpose of spirit communication is to help us rediscover the wonder, the awe, and the power that is available within our life. The Nature of Magic. This book examines how and why practitioners of nature religion - Western witches, druids, shamans - seek to relate spiritually with nature through 'magical consciousness'.
Greenwood develops a new theory of magical consciousness by arguing that. Elizabeth Murray encourages and nurtures each person to explore four personality attributes Gardener, Artist, Lover, and Spirit Weaver , or pathways, that create a framework for practicing mindfulness, unleashing potential, and reviving communities. As Gardeners, readers will learn to observe and grow; as Artists, they'll discover creativity and new possibilities; as Lovers, they'll lead with the heart and commit to things they're passionate about; and as Spirit Weavers, they'll create rituals and express gratitude.
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Burnt, Torn and in Full Bloom is a collection of poems about how it feels to be in love and experience its various forms; thorns and all. Uncertainty, anger, doubt and fear are just a few thorns, but the flower of love is beautiful despite them. The poems provide a vulnerable take on emotions felt by every heart at one point of time or another. Love is a constant state of emotional contradiction. Love is a beautiful yet cruel thing but to not experience it might just be crueler.
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