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The Fatalist [PB,2003]
A book-length, syntactically surprising poem divided into many sections, it is interspersed with delightful descriptions of daily experience with references to illustrious writers and thinkers of the past and their systems of philosophical inquiry. It offers humorous reflection upon our species' endless attempts to transmit insight regarding our human condition.
- GenresPoetry
Paperback
First published October 1, 2003
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About the author
Lyn Hejinian
94 books105 followersLyn Hejinian (born May 17, 1941) is an American poet, essayist, translator and publisher. She is often associated with the Language poets and is well known for her landmark work My Life (Sun & Moon, 1987, original version Burning Deck, 1980), as well as her book of essays, The Language of Inquiry (University of California Press, 2000).
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Displaying 1 - 12 of 12 reviews
April 30, 2018
F-F-F-F-F-FUCK YEAH!
I’m back, baby! I know a lot of you must be thinking, “Googa made his name writing poetry reviews. Now he’s doing theater? nyrb’s? What going on with the G?”
Well you’re right. You see, I had a bit of a poetry incident with my last book Hum I won’t go into here. Suffice today, I mean, to say, that it kept me out of the game for a cold sec.
But I’m back! And this fatalist thing, it took me a hot minute. You can either read it in a sitting or slowly and I chose the latter. It was hopping between stanzas, out on a lurch. (I’ve been lurch friendly as-a-late) truculent as a succulent trunk. But this poem was a long wrap I tumbled toward mummy-like, and for windy hours, I hung like an uvula, world-spun. But when I was out again BAM, this poem, like a kerchief to sandpaper away the crumbs. A chucked rock that becomes a tiny moon, only-seen special-goggles. Like, the amount of flapps you can get from one semicolon?, forest about it!
I did lot of frightful and applaud-tastic things with this poem. I recited its girthy parts to garden grenadiers to much aplomb rain. I chiseled my favorite parts into mountains I loathed. Then the airplane banner I raced to see which sentences were quickest. Not one was remiss to get assigned a word of the poem and to say it aloud at lunch, tons said.
At moments, the poem slunked out of itself and crawled around. I heard of such things happening and couldn’t believe my luck. The poem read me a bit, wasn’t too interest, then tranquiggled lopidasically. Fruttering it slangwick tuppance. Crowly upon it githered to’anon.
I saw the poem a few days ago, an umbrella vortex that pretended not to notice me, it was splashing square stones in a cone, I said, “I see you doing well.” And it said “I hope you won’t bring up that you use to read me…and we head about what you did with Hum and everyday thinks it’s wack as slack.” (Cut me some, do not) “ooo” I siphoned, “No, your secret is safe with me.”
Not! That’s why I’m writing this review. Haha! I hope the Poem gets me! I hope it takes me away from this waylaid live.
I’m back, baby! I know a lot of you must be thinking, “Googa made his name writing poetry reviews. Now he’s doing theater? nyrb’s? What going on with the G?”
Well you’re right. You see, I had a bit of a poetry incident with my last book Hum I won’t go into here. Suffice today, I mean, to say, that it kept me out of the game for a cold sec.
But I’m back! And this fatalist thing, it took me a hot minute. You can either read it in a sitting or slowly and I chose the latter. It was hopping between stanzas, out on a lurch. (I’ve been lurch friendly as-a-late) truculent as a succulent trunk. But this poem was a long wrap I tumbled toward mummy-like, and for windy hours, I hung like an uvula, world-spun. But when I was out again BAM, this poem, like a kerchief to sandpaper away the crumbs. A chucked rock that becomes a tiny moon, only-seen special-goggles. Like, the amount of flapps you can get from one semicolon?, forest about it!
I did lot of frightful and applaud-tastic things with this poem. I recited its girthy parts to garden grenadiers to much aplomb rain. I chiseled my favorite parts into mountains I loathed. Then the airplane banner I raced to see which sentences were quickest. Not one was remiss to get assigned a word of the poem and to say it aloud at lunch, tons said.
At moments, the poem slunked out of itself and crawled around. I heard of such things happening and couldn’t believe my luck. The poem read me a bit, wasn’t too interest, then tranquiggled lopidasically. Fruttering it slangwick tuppance. Crowly upon it githered to’anon.
I saw the poem a few days ago, an umbrella vortex that pretended not to notice me, it was splashing square stones in a cone, I said, “I see you doing well.” And it said “I hope you won’t bring up that you use to read me…and we head about what you did with Hum and everyday thinks it’s wack as slack.” (Cut me some, do not) “ooo” I siphoned, “No, your secret is safe with me.”
Not! That’s why I’m writing this review. Haha! I hope the Poem gets me! I hope it takes me away from this waylaid live.
October 7, 2020
This is not for me and it is all kinds of frustrating. I could not get into it. Took me forever to read and just when I thought I could understand what was going on, it swerved and I was lost again.
July 12, 2017
Another bold work by Hejinian that drives at fate and time deeper and deeper. You can really feel the importance of problems of time and fate for the work and the poet.
This work seems to be a genre blender and seems to have been fashioned out of partial autobiography, poetic images, stream of consciousness associations, and a deep concern with philosophical problems.
I admire Hejinian and appreciate this work that she does. Maybe too much: I find it overwhelming and I even felt my writing cramp up as I worked through this book.
This work seems to be a genre blender and seems to have been fashioned out of partial autobiography, poetic images, stream of consciousness associations, and a deep concern with philosophical problems.
I admire Hejinian and appreciate this work that she does. Maybe too much: I find it overwhelming and I even felt my writing cramp up as I worked through this book.
August 13, 2021
I tried to read this in 2016 but was too distracted, or young. This poem is like a library with a thousand objects in it, and they all demand your attention.
February 23, 2008
The Fatalist is a terrific instance of Hejinian’s work in recent years: a lush re-purposing of sinuous, elegant syntactic constructions to hoover up just about anything that happens in the mind in time. Everything from childhood Victoriana to John Zorn ensembles get gathered up into the poem, which becomes a field of surprise and play in every sense: play of signifiers, mind at play, the play’s the thing, play that funky music, you name it. Because her lines push clauses through time with the variety and complexity usually attributed to “fine” writing, the poems slip easily past the centurions of craft—there’s no doubt among the doubting that this counts as poetry. But beneath the surface shine, The Fatalist in fact functions as “a site of resistance to resolution” that refuses any logic (of mortality, of fate) that insists things have to end.
December 28, 2007
Here, more than in any of her other books (or in any book of poetry by anyone as far as I know), Hejinian makes poetry into a way of doing philosophy. This isn't just poetry with philosophical references and themes thrown in--it's emphatic thought in the form of brilliant sentences constructed from the juxtaposition of phrases--concrete observation converging perfectly with an undogmatic yet rigorous philosophy of temporal experience. Funny and odd and breathtaking, it's my favorite work of hers.
May 30, 2008
Hejinian makes an optical illusion with the reality in her poems. By taking one simple perception out, and then shifting her reader's observation, it fans out into something much larger. It's almost like working a jigsaw puzzle, taking a piece out, and then suddenly having it change into a holograph. Hejinian's real skill comes in the way she can make that new piece fit so neatly into the place where it belongs.
March 1, 2011
Having had the privilege to meet her in person, I became more enamoured with this work by her and her philosophy of fate being the past that shapes us into who we are. There are many moments of cynicism, but it never really fades into defeatist sentimentality--which I appreciate.
Also, the form it is written in is a lot more approachable than other more "standard" format poems, I think. It's more prose-like.
Also, the form it is written in is a lot more approachable than other more "standard" format poems, I think. It's more prose-like.
July 5, 2011
Cleaned out some books, and came across this, which I never really read. I'm setting it by the bedside for regular bracing dips. Good stuff, if poetically oblique.
PS I will never actually finish this book.
PS I will never actually finish this book.
July 26, 2008
'Each person is an experience for others.'
&
'reality provides the materials/
from which the imagination concocts what it cares about'
&
'reality provides the materials/
from which the imagination concocts what it cares about'
May 20, 2009
It took me a long time to read this book, and I'll need to read it again, if not several times, before I can say anything useful about it. I liked it, though.
March 1, 2024
She’s one of the greatest language poets for a reason. This collection is brilliant and the source material more-so
Displaying 1 - 12 of 12 reviews