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230 pages, Kindle Edition
Published July 18, 2023
‘Have you ever seen someone with a “Because I could not stop for Death” tattoo?’
‘Does reading require talent? No, reading requires stamina and time—two things that may yield the same fruit as talent. Reading poetry is an especially refined kind of telepathy, says a poetry enthusiast—Every reader is a potential writer. I don’t say every good or bad reader is a good or bad writer. Such judgments don’t matter when the act of reading is, like the act of writing, mostly a matter of keeping an eye on your thinking, of bearing witness, of keeping record. Drawing, which, for me, is close to the act of writing, is also a way to watch your language.’
‘Any book that matters to a reader is literature. Any book that matters to a reader is permanently housed in their mental, emotional, psychic library. It is the sort of library Italo Calvino describes in The Uses of Literature. He imagines a culture’s most significant books at the centre of an ever-expanding, borderless library: “Literature is a search for the book hidden in the distance that alters the value and meaning of the known books; it is the pull toward the new apocryphal text still to be rediscovered or invented.” I hope any reader convinced of this constructs the appropriate fluid, personal genealogy of reading; a creative shelter, a psychic data bank, a resource for living.’
‘I reflected very specifically on a century of American poetry. I said American poetry was born essentially of two streams: Emily Dickinson, the shy, private weirdo, and Walt Whitman, the public, social weirdo.’
‘—Guan Guan buy peaches from a street vendor before we entered the Hot Pot to dine after the event. In the Hot Pot pots of boiling water sat on a hot plate at the center of the table, full of strips of beef. The poet translator translated the multi-language but mostly Mandarin conversation—I fell in love once or twice along each of the dozen or so blocks I walked from Shanghai Times Square to Xintiandi, to the Huaihai Middle Road residential district, to the crowded labyrinths and enclaves of Tianzifang. It was my last day in Shanghai. I did not have my camera—Guan Guan told us that after the man who invented language gained God’s favour, ghosts began to appear. I won’t be sure of anything, even if I live to be eighty-eight. Four in five poets believe ghosts communicate telepathically. Therefore you may never prove their existence—“Man, you too old to be so joyful,” I said to Guan Guan when I realised he understood me. The poet need not write poems if the poet becomes a poem—’
‘Susan Sontag waving her ass in Brooks’s face during a writer’s panel in Russia. “Ass-stounding,” says Ms. Brooks, according to her second autobiography. Do you know this story? She’s in Russia with Robert Bly, Susan Sontag, and some other important American writers when a Russian journalist asks her what it’s like to be Black in America. Sontag proceeds to answer. Brooks interrupts for obvious reasons, and then an angered Sontag stands up and shakes her big white ass in the face of the calmly seated Gwendolyn Brooks(!). Gwendolyn Brooks, the neighbourly, Pulitzer Prize–winning Black lady from the South Side of Chicago. Brooks doesn’t reveal her answer to the question, only the audacity of Sontag. I can’t tell whether Brooks is enraged, embarrassed, or flattered by Sontag’s antics.’
‘Were my poems poetic because I’d played basketball? She moved her arms back and forth in a running motion as she asked it. She was trying to be kind; she was trying to draw connections. The smell of cliché almost overpowered the smell of racism beneath it. Racists, when they are passive, don’t bother me too much. Ignorant racists (not the same as passive racists) concern me only when they are in power. The poems I’d read that evening were maybe, if it can be reduced, exploring a poetics (a practice) of kinds and kindness: kinds of sonnets, kinds of Americans, kinds of time, kinds of assassins; the power of love versus the power of unkindness. Unkindness is a bit more nuanced than hate. Unkindness suggests the opposite of generosity, which is a bit sadder than mere hate. Unkindness suggests the opposite of consideration, which is a poverty of thoughtfulness. One who does not “consider before acting” is inconsiderate. One who does not treat others as he would like to be treated is inconsiderate. At the root of selfish, the noun self suggests a consideration for little more than the self. At the root of kindness, the noun kind self suggests a consideration for little more than the self. At the root of kindness, the noun kind suggests groups, types, character. The nice white woman’s stupid, racist, cliché question essentially suggested I was a certain kind of poet because I appeared to be a certain kind of Black man. Obviously, she was wrong.’
‘I take Gwendolyn Brooks as a model in this approach to writing and living—We are still listening. To the notion of inherent poetic Blackness, she adds a notion of kindness. It is not niceness. Niceness is superficial, civil, cosmetic. Kindness is closer to the bone; truth is in the marrow of kindness. Even a vulgar kindness, a selfish kindness; one can offer a cruel kindness—truth can be a kind of cruel kindness. I didn’t embarrass the woman. I gave a slanted nod and asked what she meant.’
‘Who, if not Emily Dickinson, is mother of the modern and contemporary American lyric poem, a poem that can sound like a letter from and to the self, a measure of consciousness?—She’s not mentioned in the letters or poems of Gertrude Stein or Edna St. Vincent Millay or Marianne Moore, is she?—Is there no real sense of Dickinson’s influence until after the poems her editor, Thomas Wentworth Higginson, manhandled and published after her death were replaced with a complete and reportedly less manhandled version sixty-five years later, in 1955?’