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Sordello
A book-length poem that caused great consternation when it first appeared in 1840, 'Sordello' became a byword for poetic difficulty, both because of its unfamiliar subject-matter (as now, few people had a grasp of the arcana of Italian medieval politics), but also because of Browning's verse style. His language is here impacted, with the reader needing to be alert to follow the twists and turns of the narrative. 'Sordello' is an important work, and crucial in Browning's development. It is also an astonishing work to come from the pen of a 28-year-old, and one can see why Ezra Pound treated it so seriously when he was about to embark upon 'The Cantos'.
208 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1840
About the author
Robert Browning
2,765 books460 followersRobert Browning (1812-1889) was a British poet and playwright whose mastery of dramatic verse, especially dramatic monologues, made him one of the foremost Victorian poets.
Browning began writing poetry at age 13. These poems were eventually collected, but were later destroyed by Browning himself. In 1833, Browning's "Pauline" was published and received a cool reception. Harold Bloom believes that John Stuart Mill's review of the poem pointed Browning in the direction of the dramatic monologue.
In 1845, Browning wrote a letter to the poet Elizabeth Barrett Browning, professing that he loved her poetry and her. In 1846, the couple eloped to Europe, eventually settling in Florence in 1847. They had a son Pen.
Upon Elizabeth Barrett Browning's death in 1861, Browning returned to London with his son. While in London, he published Dramatis Personae (1864) and The Ring and the Book (1869), both of which gained him critical priase and respect. His last book Asolando was published in 1889 when the poet was 77.
In 1889, Browning traveled to Italy to visit friends. He died in Venice on December 12 while visiting his sister.
Browning began writing poetry at age 13. These poems were eventually collected, but were later destroyed by Browning himself. In 1833, Browning's "Pauline" was published and received a cool reception. Harold Bloom believes that John Stuart Mill's review of the poem pointed Browning in the direction of the dramatic monologue.
In 1845, Browning wrote a letter to the poet Elizabeth Barrett Browning, professing that he loved her poetry and her. In 1846, the couple eloped to Europe, eventually settling in Florence in 1847. They had a son Pen.
Upon Elizabeth Barrett Browning's death in 1861, Browning returned to London with his son. While in London, he published Dramatis Personae (1864) and The Ring and the Book (1869), both of which gained him critical priase and respect. His last book Asolando was published in 1889 when the poet was 77.
In 1889, Browning traveled to Italy to visit friends. He died in Venice on December 12 while visiting his sister.
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Displaying 1 - 5 of 5 reviews
August 27, 2019
You're probably never going to read this poem. In fact, most of the things that we labor at will suffer the fate of this book or worse. People will wonder why we did it at all, or why we did it for so long, what in God's name inspired us about it, and why we didn't see that it wasn't going to be interesting or clear to many people, even the people who like that sort of thing--in the case of Sordello, "that sort of thing" being "really REALLY long poems about people from the distant past," but it could be a memoir of your life or a biography of your grandmother or that apocalyptic fantasy novel with a Games of Throne-y edge. You love it the way you love twilight in the town where you were once young. It seems to you that if you just kept tinkering, you could write it, capture it, explain it, and that thing you made/wrote/sang/carved would make plain to everyone all the deepest and most plangent truths. Tinker, tinker, tinker. Try, try, try. Remind yourself that all the geniuses were misunderstood. Keep the faith, Dude. And all the while, the people around you, they believe in you or they pretend to believe in you or they pity you for not seeing what they see, and maybe, like Robert Browning's sister, they copy out your work for you, all 7,000 lines, by hand, and say not a word, ever, about their doubts.
Most of us, sadly, are not Robert Browning. Despite the fact that this poem, the product of seven years of labor, was published at Robert's father's expense, and despite the fact that it earned nothing, as in zilch, and that it made Robert's publisher, Edward Moxon, super-extra wary of publishing anything by Robert Browning again, so much so that the next cycle of poems, the one that shone out with the glimmer of greatness that still illuminates Browning's name as a poet, was published not in book form but as a series of tacky pamphlets, and despite the fact that "Sordello" is best known for the catty things that other writers said about it (I'm not going to quote them but they're easy to find), there are gorgeous moments here that deserve to be experienced, lyrical lines that hint at the poems to come and that also, in themselves, ought to have some kind of immortality. I'll quote a passage here in that spirit, but without knowing precisely where the line breaks come because this edition of the book has smooshed all the lines together willy nilly on some pages, possibly because it was scanned by a robot, a depressing thing and yet probably the only reason I could read the book at all, contemporary interest in 13th-century troubadors and long-form poetry being what it is.
So here it is, a bit of perfection, a place on the long hike that is "Sordello" where a traveller should stop, look all around him, and take in the peerless view:
The castle at its toils the lapwings love
To gleam among at grape-time.
Pass within: a maze of corridors contrived for sin.
Dusk-winding stairs,
Dim galleries got past,
You gain the inmost chambers,
Gain at last the maple-paneled room:
That haze which seems floating about the panel,
If there gleams
A sunbeam over it will turn to gold
And in light-graven characters unfold
The Arab's wisdom everywhere; what shade
Marred them a moment, those slim pillars made,
Cut like a company of palms to prop
The roof, each kissing top entwined with top,
Leaping together . . .
At the end of his life, Browning described this poem as "incidents in the development of a soul," and though he feared and mistrusted autobiographical poetry, it seems fair to say that these lines about a character in the poem called Eglamor apply to Browning and all the seekers who find the right words, however transient their existence:
in such songs you find alone
Completeness, judge the song and singer
One
And either's purpose answered,
his in it,
Or it's in him.
Most of us, sadly, are not Robert Browning. Despite the fact that this poem, the product of seven years of labor, was published at Robert's father's expense, and despite the fact that it earned nothing, as in zilch, and that it made Robert's publisher, Edward Moxon, super-extra wary of publishing anything by Robert Browning again, so much so that the next cycle of poems, the one that shone out with the glimmer of greatness that still illuminates Browning's name as a poet, was published not in book form but as a series of tacky pamphlets, and despite the fact that "Sordello" is best known for the catty things that other writers said about it (I'm not going to quote them but they're easy to find), there are gorgeous moments here that deserve to be experienced, lyrical lines that hint at the poems to come and that also, in themselves, ought to have some kind of immortality. I'll quote a passage here in that spirit, but without knowing precisely where the line breaks come because this edition of the book has smooshed all the lines together willy nilly on some pages, possibly because it was scanned by a robot, a depressing thing and yet probably the only reason I could read the book at all, contemporary interest in 13th-century troubadors and long-form poetry being what it is.
So here it is, a bit of perfection, a place on the long hike that is "Sordello" where a traveller should stop, look all around him, and take in the peerless view:
The castle at its toils the lapwings love
To gleam among at grape-time.
Pass within: a maze of corridors contrived for sin.
Dusk-winding stairs,
Dim galleries got past,
You gain the inmost chambers,
Gain at last the maple-paneled room:
That haze which seems floating about the panel,
If there gleams
A sunbeam over it will turn to gold
And in light-graven characters unfold
The Arab's wisdom everywhere; what shade
Marred them a moment, those slim pillars made,
Cut like a company of palms to prop
The roof, each kissing top entwined with top,
Leaping together . . .
At the end of his life, Browning described this poem as "incidents in the development of a soul," and though he feared and mistrusted autobiographical poetry, it seems fair to say that these lines about a character in the poem called Eglamor apply to Browning and all the seekers who find the right words, however transient their existence:
in such songs you find alone
Completeness, judge the song and singer
One
And either's purpose answered,
his in it,
Or it's in him.
December 12, 2024
Considered by some to be the hardest poem in the English language, this exhausting work of metaphysical verse-narrative about a 13th century troubadour is nearly incomprehensible, at least without a very helpful critical apparatus. Longman, who does a nice edition of Browning, includes Sordello in their first volume of his collected works. I knew I was in for something tricky, so I found a copy of the Longman at my library, and I settled in for a looong month of reading.
With time,—and plenty of help—these lines are not completely impossible. But to have the stamina to repeatedly consult two full pages of notes for every hundred lines makes this an even more difficult venture. Ultimately, it’s quite sad: Browning spent seven years on this poem, only to have it sink his literary reputation for the considerable future. He didn’t think he was being elusive, and the poem is obviously not stupid or pretentious or slapdash. The lyricism, though tampered by knotted syntax and the occasionally poor enjambment, is quite beautiful.
The real tragedy does not take place in Sordello—and has nothing to do with its titular character’s eventual suicide. The tragedy is one of genius misapplied, and it belongs entirely to Browning.
With time,—and plenty of help—these lines are not completely impossible. But to have the stamina to repeatedly consult two full pages of notes for every hundred lines makes this an even more difficult venture. Ultimately, it’s quite sad: Browning spent seven years on this poem, only to have it sink his literary reputation for the considerable future. He didn’t think he was being elusive, and the poem is obviously not stupid or pretentious or slapdash. The lyricism, though tampered by knotted syntax and the occasionally poor enjambment, is quite beautiful.
The real tragedy does not take place in Sordello—and has nothing to do with its titular character’s eventual suicide. The tragedy is one of genius misapplied, and it belongs entirely to Browning.
September 9, 2022
One of the most bewildering reading experiences of my life.
September 10, 2014
I started this having finished and enjoyed 'The Ring and the Book'. But Sordello's reputation for obscurity and tortured syntax is justly deserved and unless you're a Browning fan, I can't imagine why anyone would bother with it. If you are a fan of Mr. B's, then this is interesting as apprentice work. But it's a hard slog to get through.
On the other hand, Shearsman should be applauded for their excellent 'Classics" series. This is the third one I've read. The editorial baggage is pared down to what is necessary. The poem or poems are there on the page without the clutter of foot notes. They are a pleasure to read.
On the other hand, Shearsman should be applauded for their excellent 'Classics" series. This is the third one I've read. The editorial baggage is pared down to what is necessary. The poem or poems are there on the page without the clutter of foot notes. They are a pleasure to read.
May 7, 2024
Oh man. You thought Ulysses was difficult, but I assure you it has NOTHING on Robert Browning’s knotty narrative poem about 13th Century Italian politics and troubadouring. I used Arthur J. Whyte’s 1913 annotated edition - very helpful it was and very grateful I was for the help. But still, a tough go, lightened by beautiful lines and passages, but the difficulties always remain in view: Like, what is going on, what IS he talking about? Nonetheless, for true hardcore littérateurs, I unhesitatingly recommend.
Displaying 1 - 5 of 5 reviews