Author Archive


Sometimes a Young Poet is Just Another Young Man Snared in the Agony of Love

December 27, 2012
"The Single Hound" Bruce Floyd

“The Single Hound” Bruce Floyd

Last night I read a short essay on the poet John Keats. The essayist begins by stating the obvious–that is, something anyone reading the essay would know: that “Keats did not finish his career.”He adds that “No issue is more significant, in closing the book on Keats’ life as poet, than choosing a poem to conclude.” Really? Nothing about Keats is more significant about Keats that a “final poem”? I wonder.

After what I interpret as some factitious equivocation, the essayist chooses “This Living Hand”  to be the “final poem.” It is, granted, a mysterious poem, “a fragment without a name.” The lines were jotted down in the manuscript of another poem. The question seems to be–the right one it seems to me–what the poem meant to Keats? What was its genesis? To whom was the poem written–or was it, as some say, words out of the mouth of some character Keats planned in another work, a play, some scholars suggest? Nobody  knows for sure, but I, like the essayist, can guess, and my guess is different from his. Here’s the poem:

This living hand, now warm and capable
Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold
And in the icy silence of the tomb,
So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights
That thou would wish thine own heart dry of blood
So in my veins red life might stream again,
And thou be conscience-calm’d–see here it is–
I hold it toward you–

The writer of the essay says the poem “fails” if it is read through Fanny Brawne’s eyes: “its tone becomes bullying and painful, its mixture of horror and pathos appears too selfish to carry a message of love.” The poem read this way is repellent: we “draw away” from it. The essayist prefers to think of the poem as a “gift” to the reader: And insofar as it is qualifies as such a poem, it offers only the dimmest hope for poetic survival. By investing his hope in the reader’s conscience, not in his own imperishable work. . . Keats resigns his fate to strangers. At best he must trust our ‘wish.'”

In other words, the poem is written by a death-doomed Keats, a dying young man aware, too aware, of his fleeting mortality, and he cries out to the reader to remember him.

Well, in the words of the sardonic Jake Barnes in The Sun Also Rises: “Isn’t it pretty to think so.” If one, for example, looks at some of Keats’s letters to Fanny Brawne, one doesn’t find a bright young poet, his sails plumped with sweet winds of restraint and beauty: one finds a petulant and jealous young man, one who wonders painfully if “his girl” is bestowing intimacies on some other man. Why would we resist the notion of Keats being a young man in love, torn with all the vexations a star-crossed affair can bring? After all, he was dying, and he knew he was dying–and he was heartsick about it. On his death bed, he asked that his friends not speak of Fanny. Any mention of her, he said, went through him like a spear. I don’t know why the critic would deny to the young man Keats that which he, the critic, would freely admit about himself when young. Poets, no matter how great, can be foolish about women, foolish about many things. Didn’t Auden forgive Yeats for the dead poet’s silliness? Can’t we forgive Keats for crying to Fanny, “You’ll be sorry when I’m gone”? It could be, too, that if by some miracle Keats had lived, worn into old age, he would have, later in his life, dismissed the poem in question, smiled at his youthful effusions.

I don’t know for sure. Who does? The essayist may be right about Keats. I, however, don’t think any less of Keats if this poem was written about Fanny Brawne, don’t find it hectoring in the extreme, bullying, repellent; and I can’t believe–every sinew and fiber of my imagination, everything I know from experience–the lines, just these few written in a manuscript, are from some play Keats planned to write. Mind you, they might have been. No one knows for sure, but my heart tells me the lines were self-indulgent. I don’t mean necessarily in a pejorative way, only in that Keats wrote the poem in response to the emotional turmoil stirred within him by his relationship with Fanny Brawne. And, contra the essayist, I believe that did Fanny read the poem she would have immediately seen the love in the poem. She would have, I think, understood the poem. I can’t imagine her thinking, “How selfish he is.” She would have discerned the passion in the poem, one born out of confusion and despair and yearning–but not a passion burdened and fettered by selfishness.



October 27, 2012

“The Single Hound” Bruce Floyd

This article neglects to understand one of the basic tenets of Becker: increasing the longevity of life will do nothing to ameliorate the terror of the human predicament; in fact, it will exacerbate it, take anxiety to new heights, paralyze the will, make an early death even more “absurd” that one is now. This clamor, all this hue and cry, for the extension of life confirms Becker’s insights. The length of life means nothing to the self-conscious creature. All it knows it that he or she will die. What difference does it make whether it’s seventy years of one-hundred and fifty?

The problems that plague humanity, the existential ones, are not to be solved by insuring people they will live longer. No, what will console the mortal is some way of accepting the limitations of life, of coming to terms with life and its limitations. We must give in, even embrace, our fate. It’s hard to do. Of course it is, and that’s why we swim in an ocean of illusions.

The coming age of longevity will not change everything; it will just make the time-immemorial paradox more acute and baffling.




August 14, 2012

“The Single Hound” Bruce Floyd

This morning I ran across something Walker Percy had to say about how, as a price of adapting to the world, we must accept the notion of habit. It’s a way of making the world less threatening. It’s hard to believe a self-conscious creature could live without accepting some habits. We like to believe the world more predictable than it is. Percy notes, however, that habit distances us from the world, obscures our “seeing.” Habit cuts us off from a primary response to the world. Our vision becomes like our speech: overloaded and meaningless with clichés. We experience the world through a hazy veil. Percy gives a clever and perceptive anecdote:

A man in Boston decides to spend his vacation at the Grand Canyon. He visits his travel bureau, looks at
the folder, signs up for a two-week tour. He and his family see the tour, see the Grand Canyon, and return
to Boston. May we say that this man has seen the Grand Canyon? Possibly he has. But it is more likely what
he has done is the one sure way not to see the canyon.

Percy explains why the man has not seen the Grand Canyon, not really: “the Grand Canyon, the things as it is, has been appropriated by the symbolic complex which has already been formed in the sightseer’s mind.” A lady with whom I once worked, in telling of her trip out West, told me not to waste my time on seeing the Grand Canyon, for it “was nothing but a big damn hole in the ground,” a comment that told me much more about the woman than about the Grand Canyon.  A man who toured Europe for three weeks told me all he saw was a “lot of old buildings.” About all he had gleaned from his trip is that London is expensive, Rome is dirty, and the female performers at a show he saw in Paris went topless. Henceforth, all Paris will mean to him is a bare tit.

William Blake said pretty much the same thing Percy does. Blake said we must learn to see through the eye, not with the eye. To see with the eye is to see with habit; to see through the eye is to see anew, with imagination. I think this is what Emily Dickinson means when she tells the skeptic that the song of the bird is not in the bird, but “in thee.” Habit obliterates the world of Awe, before which we ought to stand with fear and trembling, the mysterium tremendum of seething creation. It’s a scary business; habit helps us assuage the fear, good old habits and the usual illusions.

Wallace Stevens proves to me, though, that one need not go in search of Grand Canyons; the world outside of one’s window is full of revelation for one who will see, a revelation that Stevens calls “the angel of reality,” an angel with “neither ashen wing nor wear of ore,” one “without a tepid aureole, /

Or stars that follow me, not to attend, / But, of my being and its knowing, part.”

I am one of you and being one of you
Is being and knowing what I am and know.

Yet I am the necessary angel of earth,
Since, in my sight, you see the earth again,

Cleared of its stiff and stubborn man-locked set,
And, in my hearing, you hear its tragic drone . . . .

But habits can be good things. When I ran an errand this morning, both going there and returning home, I stopped or went as the traffic light told me. Routine is not inherently wrong. It is the thing, in fact, that saves us from chaos and terror.



June 29, 2012

“The Single Hound” Bruce Floyd

This afternoon, a gorgeous fall one, as I lay in the hammock–I was home alone, my wife’s having gone shopping with her sister–the dogs barked, which meant somebody had come onto the porch. I got up, walked around the corner of the house, saw a man I used to work with. In town on some matter, he told me, he thought he’d come by. He lives forty of fifty miles away, and I had not seen him in a few years. I told him, though it was not exactly true, that I was about to put on the coffee, would he like some. He said he would. After the coffee brewed, we each poured a cup and sat by the pool. The talk was the usual banalities, comfortable talk, exactly what talk should be on a bright afternoon by the pool between men who really don’t know each other all that well. He did tell me that Mr. Randolph Mouzon (not his real name) had died, apparently of old age. “He was the richest man in the county,” he told me. “He must have owned several thousands of acres of land. Money can’t buy everything in this world.” He gravely uttered this cliché, as if he were the first person to come to such a conclusion. Oh, it’s true: money can’t buy everything in the world, but nothing, whether it be money or sterling virtue or supernal knowledge can acquire everything in this world.

I had heard of Mr. Mouzon. On my way to and from college, years ago, I passed his big house in the country. Yes,  Mr. Mouzon was rich, as rich as some kings I guess, as wealthy as Midas and Croesus and all the rest of the fabled rich we drag out to make comparison. He was a rich man for a very long time. And then he died.

So now he’s just another dead man, but, no, I didn’t express such sentiments to my guest. As is the wont of men, we quickly forgot Mr. Mouzon, his wealth and his death, and talked of other matters, gentle, placid talk, easy conversation, devoid of ambiguity or depth, of anything likely to spark argument, so scripted to be courteous and polite that it could be called a social rite, one filled with bromides and clichés. In other words, it was just the right kind of talk for my guest and me to have. It wasn’t the time to unriddle the mystery of existence, the anxiety eating at the human heart. My guest did not stay long. He drank his coffee, and not long afterwards he left. He and I are not good friends, so we talked just long enough, both of us having the good sense to end the session before either of us became uncomfortable. He and I played by the rules. It made the episode pleasant.

When he left, I got back into my hammock, content to lie alone in the afternoon, just look at a few thin cirrostratus clouds scratched, as if by a cat, in the blue sky. Noticing the sun lower in the sky, I thought that the days are much shorter now. Thinking about Mr. Mouzon’s death, the impotence of his wealth to keep him out of his grave, I remembered a poem from the Greek Anthology:

       I am the tomb of Crethon; here you read
His name; himself is number’d with the dead;
Who once had wealth not less than Gyges’ gold;
Who once was rich in stable, stall, and fold;
Who once was blest above all living men–
With lands, how narrow now, how ample then!

Regardless of how “big” a man is in life, the size of his grave is the same as that of the “little” man. ( I fail to see, though, how this observation brings relief to the little man: a grave is a grave.) It’s true that the paths of glory (so says Thomas Gray in his famous poem about his stroll through country churchyard, it’s small cemetery) lead but to the grave, but, then, all paths lead to the grave. Emily Dickinson saw death as democratic, the beggar and the queen equal, and of course we know that poor Bartleby in Melville’s story about him now sleeps with kings and counsellors. I can’t see, however, how this fact—and it’s irrefutable—makes up for the wretchedness of Bartleby’s life.

For me, at least, the most profound and most poignant comment on this “theme” is Prince Harry’s address to the just-slain Hotspur, slain in battle by the Prince himself (Henry IV, Part 1):

Ill-weaved ambition, how much thou art shrunk!
When that this body contained a spirit,
A kingdom for it was too small a bound;
But now two paces of the vilest earth
is room enough. .  . .

Such epitaphs make for good poetry, and if we aren’t careful, we catch ourselves nodding sadly at such revelations, but, my goodness, what is revealed? that we all die? that in the end we all end up the same? food for worms? Well, if death is such, then life takes on paramount importance. If the rich man and the beggar end up the same, then it seems to me it’s better to be the rich man, the happy man rather than the sad man, the wise man rather than the fool. The tragedy of Hotspur is not that he has become carrion for blind creatures burrowing in the earth but rather that his jaundiced and absurd pride cost him his life, scores of years in the happy bright sun, the caresses of that beautiful and witty woman who loves him.

Only schoolboys find Hotspur admirable. We might all be the same in death, but we aren’t the same in life–and if we have no control of death: it will come–we do have a certain amount of control over our lives. How much and to what degree? Well, that’s why some of us study our Becker, none of us knowing whether we will find a definitive answer or not, probably suspecting we won’t, but Becker, odd to say about a man who warns us not to look too long at the sun, offers us hope. It’s reductive, I know, but Becker says that knowledge is not as curative as hope.

“Hope is an illusion,” I have heard bright men say, educated men, and it’s true: hope might be an illusion. These same men declare that all is illusion. The statement can’t bear the scan of logic, the statement itself being an illusion, but never mind. Shakespeare says that we are but the “stuff dreams are made of” and “our little life is rounded with a sleep.” Life as illusion, life as a dream—how is one to make sense of things?

Dr. Neil Elgee would say, however, as he has said to me on more than on occasion: “If we cannot live without illusions then it’s best we choose the most life-enhancing ones.”



June 1, 2012

“The Single Hound” Bruce Floyd

Another hot day here, a bronze sun sits blazing in a cloudless sky. A warm wind stirs the leaf-laden trees. The ripeness build and builds, growing fatter and fatter, slowly aiming for its apex. It’s early June. I hear no voices prophesying the fall from fecundity, the inexorable rottenness to come, this green and vibrant world heat-blasted and withered by the time August comes. How weary, finally, summer will become, how tiresome, how ragged and worn, its vitality leached out by the relentless heat, the long, scalding days, heartbreaking days.

After my workout, I came out of the large room out back, looked at the profusion of green washing the fig tree. Then I saw at my feet, lying there in the green grass, a dead mole, a little fellow not as big as my little finger. How tiny it was. He hadn’t been dead long because his grey fur (I wish I knew the names for the gradations of colors) still looked glossy in the June sunlight. Dead lay the creature. I did not see a mark on it, but dead lay the creature. I went inside the storeroom and got my shovel. I came back out, gently scooped up the dead mole, and walked over to the ground cover about the house and tossed the creature into it.

When I first saw the little mole lying dead in the sunlight, I thought, “How still death is.” Even in a world bursting with green, gone mad with it, death lies still in the sheets of light spilling from the sky.


Not to laugh, not to lament, not to curse, but to understand

May 17, 2012

“The Single Hound” Bruce Floyd

I read today some comments by a doctor who has spent a lot of time with dying cancer patients. He says he has noticed two methods the dying use to allay their fears of death, two delusions, if you will. One is the belief in one’s specialness, the notion that one is somehow invulnerable, beyond the stain that soils others, beyond the cold hand of death. At some point in life, though, most of us will face a crisis, a major crisis, one which leads on to say, “I never thought it would happen to me.”  Well, why not?

The second method the dying use to deny death is to put their faith in a rescuer. No matter how bad things are, we suspect some thing or some person is watching over us, that we will, ah, always find reprieve, always pulling the game out in the bottom of the ninth. I think right until the end a friend of mine, who had it all at one time, thought that once again he, because of who he was, would beat the odds. Until death glared in his eye, bearded him, the sick man could not believe a virulent and unappeasable cancer had chosen him upon whom to batten. He was a man who always won: the game, the prettiest girl, the most money. When he finally knew the truth, though, knew beyond all doubt, knew in his gut, that he had only a few weeks to live, when at long last, after a valiant battle, he understood he was going to die, he took to his bed, turned his face to the wall, and, retreating into silence, there he died.

Events in my life have taught me that he worst can, and often does, happen. And even though we joke about gaining another reprieve, we are not foolish enough to think cruel words and ugly prognosis are somehow forbidden ever to fall upon our ears. When Oedipus cries, “It has all come true,” I want to say, “Yes, it always does.” Queens have died young and fair, and dust hath closed Helen’s eyes.

I am not sure–perhaps some existential sage could tell me–but I’d hazard that knowing a few truths about life contribute to the living of it, and these truths are dark ones; for example, all those we love and we ourselves are going to die. Another truth, I’d think, is that each of us is on his own. Each of us is what each of us is, which means we have such a thing as will. A concatenation of decisions brought us to where we are today. We make choices in life. Sartre says that each of us is condemned to be free. I’d say, too–might as well go whole hog–that we have to understand that not only are we not special but that the universe has no obvious meaning and that life has, perhaps, no purpose beyond the living of it–or no purpose beyond what we attribute to it. I think Hardy meant what he said when he wrote: “If a way to the Better there be, it exacts a look at the worse.” A “look,” not a prolonged studying and brooding, a quick look, an understanding, and then the moving on with life. Perhaps when one determines that the purpose of life is incomprehensible, the whole damn thing inscrutable, that we come and we go, going probably into oblivion, yes, perhaps knowing these things is liberating to one. It could be, too, that not accepting the dark truth about human existence can lead to a stunting of life, an embrace of illusions. I have no idea which path a person should take. I wouldn’t presume to advise anyone.

I read what I have written, think that I don’t know jack squat about anything, assuring myself, of course, that nobody else does either. We all “see through a glass darkly.” I spend half my time lying to myself and the other half trying to unravel the lies. It is hard to turn one’s back on the heroics culture provides. I’d never mock the need we all have to belong, to fit into a group where we feel warm and cozy. It’s the goddamndest thing when a fellow figures out he’s been booted out the club, not so much by the other club members but by himself, when he determines that he can tolerate his loneliness easier than he can the sensibilities of the club members. It’s all a mystery to me where these different sensibilities come from. It’s a hard lesson when a man finds he no longer fits in. He’s never sure how the rupture happened. All he knows is that it happened, and it’s irremediable. He’d be a fool to brag about his situation.


The Arts

April 17, 2012

"The Single Hound" Bruce Floyd

The arts won’t make you virtuous and they won’t make you smart, but they are nevertheless my faith, firmly installed in the part of me where some people put religion.
What, then, does it guarantee? Those who give it their time and love are offered the chance to live more expansive, more enjoyable and deeper lives. They can learn to care intimately about music, painting and books that have lasted for centuries or millennia. They can reach around the globe for the music, the images and the stories they want to make their own. At its best, art dissolves time; only through art can we catch a glimpse of what life was like in ancient Greece or medieval Spain or pre-modern Japan.

Some months ago I copied down the above, failing to note who wrote it. I came across it today. I agree with what the writer says, but how would I convince the fellow down the street that he’d be better off with the arts than with his golf game with his pals? It seems to me that those who talk about the wonder of the arts are those who involve themselves in the arts. If someone comes to my door–and he or she has–and seeks to proselytize me for some religion, I politely send the person on his or her way. I am not interested in the offer of information this person says will transform my life. “Jesus,” this person at my door will tell me, “is superior to any book.” Although I’d sent this person from my door, I’d never add as the person leaves that art is my religion. Keats put this argument to bed long ago. If, as Kierkegaard or Rank or somebody said, psychology must ultimately be laid at the door of theology, so must art. In short, art cannot provide what the illusion of religion can. Art at its best is a friend, and it will have to do, perhaps, if one cannot sustain the illusion of theology. I don’t know whether God exists or not, but I do know that art is not God. We’ve read our Becker. We know aesthetics cannot answer the fundamental questions of humankind.  I’m not saying religion gives the right answers, but it gives answers.

When I was a young professor of English, I tended to be a little dogmatic about the salutary and restorative and redemptive power of literature. I used, in one form or another, the arguments used above. I don’t think my dogmatism, my insistence, drew many of my students into my camp. It did not take me long to realize the futility of preaching the power of art. It my case the art was, of course, literature. Hectoring students, braying about the beauty of literature, implying books and poems could usher one into regal realms reflected no more than my passion–and, if the truth be told, an attempt to stifle my own doubts about the worth of literature. I sometimes wondered, “To whom are you really talking?”

I had no real facts to support my position. I decided that I could do no more really than let literature speak for itself. It didn’t need me as zealous advocate, a position that, no matter how tactful one wants to be, always smacks of snobbism, a looking-down on. Though I had no idea how to do it, I figured out that all I could do was, somehow, embody literature, not in any grand or exaggerated way. I just quietly stood up for literature. My students, because for the most part they liked me, listened to me, many of them pleased that I thought them worthy of literature–but they never understood what the fuss was about. They understood–and maybe I did too–that even though literature meant much to me, it would never mean much to them. As I grew older I accepted this realization with sanguine resignation.

Saturday afternoon, in the huge ball and dining room of the Hilton Hotel, I sat with approximately two-hundred others at a wedding reception. An orchestra played charming music, a chanteuse, a lovely young woman, sang the old standards (Gershwin, Porter, and others), and people drank wine and champagne. For the most part the people in that room were successful people by any standard. This was a collection of professional people, many of them wealthy, most of them educated.

I’d venture to say, though, that practically all of these people care no more for the joys and splendors of literature than did my students when I taught. For sure, they don’t think they have somehow missed out on one of the lovely things about life. I don’t know for sure but I’d wager than nobody in the room, save yours truly, ever reads poetry for simple enjoyment. Am I supposed to feel superior because I do? I told Dr. Elgee once that in all my years of trying to encourage others to read Becker’s Denial of Death, I cannot count one convert. I decided it was time to quit trying.

I am grateful I have a love for poetry and literature (and for Ernest Becker), but I have it simply because I have it. I have no idea why I have it. When one man who has recently retired, complained to me and a small group of others that he, now that he was retired, was pretty much forgotten, his opinion no longer sought, that he had become a “nobody,” I found myself talking about King Lear, but it took only a moment for me to understand that nobody in the group of men with whom I found myself knew anything about Lear and its relevance to the conversation. For me to persevere in dragging poor old King Lear into the discussion would have been pretentious on my part, a pompous display. It was neither the time nor the place to talk about Shakespeare. I shut up, hoping I done so before I made a complete ass of myself.

I’d be lying, though, did I not confess to the members of the EBF that I felt “luckier” than this small group of men with whom I talked, most of them about my age, most of them retired, most of them possessing more money and financial savvy than I.  Yes, it’s true I feel “luckier” than they because I do have literature, but I doubt whether I could convince them that I am more fortunate than they are. It’s true, too, that I am hardly objective, a disinterested judge in this evaluation of who is lucky. In fact, push these men and they might admit that they think I have wasted my life fooling around with books. They probably say just this to each other when I am not present. These men, some with whom I grew up, might say that my choice of how to live my adult life created a gulf between them and me, subtle, but nonetheless a rift. It’s how it is, but, still, it’s a little sad for both sides in this case. I do understand that neither they nor I think about rifts and gulfs to any large degree, but we all know our choices in life lead to an incongruence of sensibilities.

I have come to believe that those who prate of the joy of art to the general public are tedious. I find it tiresome that the man above can say that art is his religion. It’s annoying for a man to keep telling others how cultured he is, how sensitive. Life is messy for all of us. We see through a glass darkly, whether we spend our time counting our money or counting our books. When Emily Dickinson says that ” There is no frigate like a book / To take us lands away,” I believe her. Most people, however, wouldn’t. Perhaps it’s best that we sail away in our books quietly, without shouting out to the world that we are embarking.