This isn’t a book of poems, what’s inside is more like “wisdom literature”, but of a very unconventional sort.
Michaux wrote this book late in life, in his 70's, and it is a distillation of the relentlessly open and searching intelligence characteristic of his entire writing life. Some grow more and more inflexible and rigid (however wise) as they grow older, but Michaux displays here his brave openness and looseness (and humor, just one of many tools or weapons to probe and confront the unknown) in the midst of the all-encompassing terrors of the void.
Tent Posts is Michaux’s record, during the process of writing itself, of how he maintains his extreme sensitivity and suppleness of mind, and the amazing ability to detect and put down in writing the most subtle and specific details as his mind probes the darkness and mystery surrounding it.
It is a record of the perpetually present tense of the act of writing. Of open writing; unpremeditated writing (however much the product of profound meditation).
One of the recurring themes of this book, which is a collection of small discrete sections, is the future, which he calls “life’s mystery”. While reading this one can feel his mind continually entering this mystery, while simultaneously getting down in writing how his mind enters this unknown future fully alert and ready; but it never ends of course, the future is always here and never here, so there is no place to finally stop and build a permanent mental house.
Which explains the title – Tent Posts. Each discrete section is like a temporary dwelling, tent posts thrust down but just as quickly yanked out and thrust down again further on, with no end. This takes a very brave writer indeed, which Michaux realizes, but instead of crowing about his bravery he prefers to focus on the danger, even the terror, of living and thinking in such a way, which is further evidence of his wisdom and humility; the wisdom and humility of a (dandyish) warrior.
A recurring image of my own that continually crops up while I read this book is of a disembodied intelligence (somehow connected to a writing instrument) that is nevertheless in possession of a specific body and a specific world. But though it’s in this world it’s profoundly not of it, and with this comes the realization that Truth is always solitary. This intelligence accepts its “imprisonment”, its being tethered to its body and other people and the world (all False in the profound sense), but it never stops searching for means of escape, because after all the “prison” is miniscule compared to the surrounding mystery, though proceeding into this mystery is always fraught with dangers, and the never ending series of escapes made possible by the supple and meandering mind whose unending penetration into the ever shifting free terrain is what wrote this book to begin with.