Category Archives: Big Loves

Big Loves: Lee Klein on Thomas Mann

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Today’s contributor to our Big Loves column is Lee Klein. Lee has two books out this year, The Shimmering Go-Between: A Novel (Atticus Books, 2014) and Thanks and Sorry and Good Luck: Rejections Letters from the Eyeshot Outbox (Barrelhouse Books, 2014).

 

Asked to contribute something about an under-read novel or writer I love, I thought about Ken Dahl’s Monsters, or Charles Wright’s The Messenger, or Steve Hely’s How I Became a Famous Novelist, or Torsten Krol’s The Dolphin People, or Helen DeWitt’s The Last Samurai, but when I sat down to write this I realized I preferred to write about how Thomas Mann loves to endanger his young male protagonists. Mann is among the better known dead white male German writers, of course. He has a reputation for novels stuffed with heady logorrhea, for a novella about an older man who dyes his hair and lusts after a young boy, for entries in a journal I’ve never read charting the consistency and quality of his bowel movements. New translations by John E. Woods have appeared that, compared to the apparently oft-archaic original translations, have been deemed masterpieces in terms of faithfully, smoothly, and accessibly conveying the geist of Mann’s German language masterpieces to readers of English. In the past three years, I’ve read three of these newly translated Mann novels: The Magic Mountain, Joseph and His Brothers, and Doctor Faustus. Next year, I’ll read Buddenbrooks, his first major novel, but for now, the approximate three-thousand pages of dense, insightful, descriptive, and often gently ironic prose in these three novels will suffice for a short post.

It’s not so much that Mann seems to get off on endangering his young male protagonists; more so, his writing takes off, unmistakably, when young Hans is lost in the snow while skiing in The Magic Mountain or when young Joseph is trapped in the bottom of a well in Joseph and His Brothers. For the entirety of Doctor Faustus but especially when young Adrian is trapped inside his obsession and ambition, just as the narrator declares that Germany—the land, its people, its culture, and its language—will forever be trapped inside the atrocities of the Second World War. But for Adrian, there’s beauty to it, expressed for example in descriptions relayed to the narrator about an experience in a diving bell. Adrian has only read about such submergence but pretends he’s lived it when he tells it. He describes the gorgeous monstrosities of the depths and then extrapolates to the infinite complexities of the cosmos. Quotations are called for but no sentence offers itself as an adequate representative of a sense while reading that Mann flicked a switch and his prose turned Technicolor. Out of context (in this case 284 pages into a 534-page novel with very small print, centimeter margins at most, and not much dialogue), a single sentence pulled from the four-page diving bell section excerpted for analysis won’t mean much. In general, as in so many classic foreign films, a certain amount of slogging is required to achieve sublimity. Lush descriptions of “ogres of the deep” with their phosphorescent snouts, emitting light as warning and lure, the luminosity and liquidy warmth of the prose Mann deploys for these pages, and the silent solitude of the experience in the diving bell corresponds to the reader’s immersion in the depths of a novel densely packed with squirming ideas and images, some monstrous, some not.

The same is true in the scenes of solitary endangerment in The Magic Mountain and Joseph and His Brothers. Both novels, weighing in at 706 and 1492 pages, respectively, have their share of slog. The first 330 pages of The Magic Mountain weren’t so magical for me, but now I most remember the chapter beginning on page 460 (“Snow”) in which Hans encounters a blizzard while skiing—a physical, literal dramatization of his confusion as a constant blizzard of intellectualizing storms around him thanks to the proto-fascist Naphta and the liberal humanist Settembrini.

Joseph and His Brothers may be my all-time favorite mega-novel. I can’t think of another indisputably major 20th century masterpiece so obscenely and yet understandably under-read. Published in German in five volumes between 1933 and 1943, it’s ambitious on every level, humanizing a few lines of Genesis, filling them out, describing the complexities of the lives of founding Jews long ago at a time when Mann’s countrymen were eradicating the most recent manifestation of the lineage. I can’t think of another novel that suggests such a monumental middle finger raised in the direction of an author’s homeland. But even if the historical, political, and cultural criticism failed to register with readers, as well as the audacity and heft of Mann’s aesthetic resistance, the story and its execution retain more than enough artistry and oomph to propel a reader through 1492 pages—a coincidentally significant number of pages since at its end many readers may feel, like Columbus, that they’ve discovered a new continent.

Early on in the mega-novel (essentially five novels published now in one “Everyman’s Library” hardcover, with bible-like rice-paper pages and one of those snazzy built-in cloth bookmarks) his brothers throw Joseph into a well. Again, what’s most remarkable about this section is how the prose takes off in a sprint of insightful, descriptive exposition. Maybe Mann realizes that when one’s main character is alone in the snow or in a hole there won’t be much dialogue or drama or conflict (other than between life and death) and so he must ramp the language all the way up. The same applies in Proust: stupefying scenes in salons involving Dreyfus Affair discussions give way to ecstatic moments when Marcel finds himself alone and the author pulls out the proverbial stops.

It’s possible that I’m associating and celebrating these solitary ecstatic moments because I’m so rarely alone these days, ecstatic or otherwise. At most on a run through the city in the morning before it wakes there’s some solitude. Or when writing in pre-dawn bursts. Or when reading while walking down empty streets during my commute. There’s therefore maybe something alluring about my memory of these scenes, the lure and the warning of the deep when experienced solo, without spouse, offspring, pets, family, friends, coworkers, acquaintances, neighbors, “followers,” “friends,” even one’s plants that require intermittent attention, the vital presences surrounding you synonymous with life. But these scenes wouldn’t jump off their pages if not for more populous ones that preceded and followed. As Mann teaches throughout Joseph and His Brothers, things are spherical, not oppositional. Solitude and society are one.

For original poetry, fiction, interviews, art, and art song, please visit our magazine at www.memorious.org.

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Big Loves: Tyler McMahon Discusses Russell Banks

other_headshotToday’s contributor to our Big Loves column is Tyler McMahon. Tyler has published two novels—How The K99_coverMistakes Were Made (St. Martin’s, 2011) and Kilometer 99, which releases today, June 17, 2014. Tyler is the editor of Hawaii Pacific Review and teaches in the English Department at Hawaii Pacific University.

I saw Russell Banks speak at a theater in Boise, Idaho. It must have been 2004. I seem to remember him talking mostly of Hemingway; he showed a certain giddiness at the fact that Papa had shot himself not so many miles up the road from where we sat. “Hemingway Country,” he called it.

I’d always liked Banks’ work, and had read several of his earlier novels. I thought I had him pegged as an author who wrote about working-class New Englanders, often with father and brother issues, sometimes caught up in misadventures that drew them towards the Caribbean. Hemingway’s influence seemed about right.

But that impression was cracked open once he read a passage from his new novel, The Darling. The story was narrated by a female protagonist—a decidedly un-Hemingway approach. And while it took place in Africa, it was not the Africa of wealthy mountain climbers or half-drunk safaris.

Indeed, Hannah Musgrave is an American expat narrator unlike the midcentury tropes. A sixties radical and member of the Weather Underground, she’s wanted by the FBI and hiding out in New Bedford, making small explosives and forging documents for other fugitives. On the run, she winds up in Liberia, marries a bureaucrat, and witnesses the country’s descent into civil war.

As the trophy wife of a low-level government minister, Hannah becomes the opposite of the independent woman she’d always aspired to be: “I was a different woman. You probably think of me as strong and independent, and I believe that I am—now. I was strong and independent when I was young, too, back before I came to Africa. But in the years between? No. Emphatically no. I was different then.”

In the novel’s most superb turn of plot, Hannah’s three young sons become boy-soldiers aligned with Prince Johnson’s guerilla force. Renamed Fly, Demonology, and Worse-Than-Death, they commit grotesque acts of torture. Even this move is treated sympathetically. The leap from privileged youngsters to violent killers is bridged by Banks’ careful detailing of tribal values regarding family a512JMEG3WVLnd the sons’ reaction to their father’s murder. In this novel, it is violence that begets more violence, and at the end of the chain is a colonial political structure, brutally and stupidly imposed in the first place.

Though it’s set not so many years ago, The Darling is first and foremost an historical novel. It is a long and unflinching immersion in a dark and nearly ignored chapter of the twentieth century. In that sense, the book demonstrates the enduring need for fiction in our time.

Toward the end of the novel, Hannah says: “Mine was merely the story of an American darling, and had been from the beginning.” This may be the fundamental epiphany available to Americans abroad, fictional or not: that their stories are small and occur among bigger, more terrible sweeps of history. Through Hannah, Banks allows us to imagine an America to whom the rest of the world is equally darling.

For original poetry, fiction, interviews, and art song, please visit our magazine at www.memorious.org.

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Big Loves: Andrew Ladd Discusses James Morrow

UnknownToday’s contributor to our Big Loves column is Andrew Ladd, the book reviews editor for the Ploughshares blog. His first novel, What Ends, won the AWP Prize in the Novel and is available now from New Issues Press.

For many years, I had an instant answer when people asked me about my favorite book. For many more since, I’ve mostly stopped giving it.

I fully admit that there are some silly, superficial reasons for my reticence. Like: a college friend whose literary chops I admire greatly read the book, on my recommendation, and was underwhelmed. Or: it’s generally shelved under Sci-Fi/Fantasy, and though I actually disagree with that classification, my years in an MFA program have made me wary of copping to this sort of thing. (Admit it: when I mentioned the dreaded genre you almost stopped reading.)

abaddonA slightly less silly reason for my reticence, perhaps, is that the book, James Morrow’s Blameless in Abaddon, doesn’t lend itself well to brief summary. In it, the comatose body of God is the main attraction of a Baptist-run Florida theme park, until a small-town justice of the peace named Martin Candle—distraught by a cancer diagnosis and the untimely death of his wife—decides to put the deity on trial, in the Hague, for crimes against humanity. What ensues is a satirical theology in which the prosecution’s discovery takes places on a riverboat inside God’s brain, and monks take the stand to discuss the difference between doughnuts and Heaven—among other things.

So yes, it sounds kind of hokey, rife with opportunities for clumsy didacticism. It sounds, to paraphrase someone I once described it to, like the sort of thing you would give to high school kids to get them interested in religion. And certainly, there’s a lot of exposition in it that, if I were in an MFA workshop and feeling less charitable, I would probably cut.

Yet considering the book in terms of its major plot points and/or theological content does it as much a disservice as dismissing it for being Sci-Fi/Fantasy. Better, I think, to call it Vonnegutesque, or better still to forgo such characterization altogether and appreciate more comprehensively all that James Morrow accomplishes, here and in his other books, as an author of good fiction. Because so many of those cliché things that happen to people when they really, truly, love a book? They happened to me for the first time—and in some cases the only time, even fifteen years later—when I read Blameless in Abaddon.

I re-read it, for one thing, which I never did. The only other book I can remember re-reading before that was a Hardy Boys mystery, and that was just because I was on holiday in Italy and hadn’t brought any others. Equally unusual for me, when I first read it, visiting my uncle’s house during my spring vacation, was the way I would wait impatiently for my cousin to come home from school, just so that I could re-read him whole passages, pages at a time, because I thought they were that good. And yet in grad school, by comparison, when it was basically my job to find noteworthy passages in books to share with my peers, I struggled to do so or to even see the merit in the exercise. Blameless just got to me in a way few others have.

More than anything, though, the book sticks with me because it was the first one to make me cry. Up until then, I think, I had always looked at books as light entertainment—witness The Hardy Boys. Reading about Martin Candle, though, a man so consumed with grief and rage, so desperately in search of a reason for his suffering that he ignores the real sources of solace in his life and instead hooks all his hopes, delusional, on a grand scheme that any rational person can see will end in disappointment: I was moved to tears. (And by the way, stripped away of all the Sci-Fi/Fantasy particulars, how’s that for a literary fiction plot?)

jamesmorrow

James Morrow

Nowadays, of course, Blameless is no longer the only book I’ve quoted or re-read; I returned to Invisible Man and Crying of Lot 49, and I know I pushed passages of Franzen on unsuspecting bystanders; I recommended The Corrections to so many people it became a running joke among my friends. I got a little choked up at The Moonflower Vine, too, even if I’ve never actually cried at another book since. And these are all reasons, too—good reasons, actually—why I’m no longer so quick to tell people Blameless is my favorite book. The more I’ve read, the more I’ve found the things I loved about it elsewhere.

But your first time is always your most memorable, right? So let me say it once more, for nostalgia’s sake: Trust me. You just have to read this book.

For original poetry, fiction, interviews, and art song, please visit our magazine at www.memorious.org.

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by | March 13, 2014 · 4:26 pm

Firsts for the New Year

Because the New Year brings about a lot of fresh starts and new beginnings, we would like to celebrate some “firsts.” We asked our Memorious 21 contributors and new fiction editors to offer up a toast to some opening lines that they admire. Here’s what they had to say.

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Memorious 21 contributor Joseph Wood chose these opening lines of “The Parachutist” by Jon Anderson:

 Then the air was perfect. And his descent

to the white earth slowed.

                                         Falling

became an ability to rest–as

 the released breath

believes in life.

Why I love it: So many reasons. First, I absolutely love how the reader is placed within the moment; it is done with the utmost efficiency. There’s no scaffolding, no introduction. Second, the ear is impeccable. The first line is purely trochaic, but done with such ease it doesn’t jump out. Anderson knew how to score a line, and particularly in this entire poem, where the line length underscores the tension between falling and stasis, life and death. But mostly, I adore the opening because the poet plays for keeps–it’s life and death at its most core and primal levels, the stuff which binds humanity together.  

*            *            *

From Memorious 21 Contributor Kevin Simmonds:

 The first stanza from “A Meeting of Minds” in All Sins Forgiven: Poems for my Parents (Leapfrog Press, 2013) by Charles Coe:

 One day, when my first-grade class was learning to write, Sister Edna took

the pencil from my left hand, put it in my right, and told me to keep it there.

I have to say I love this opening: straightforward, provocative, glinting. I grew up Catholic, went to Saturday catechism class and know that nuns will take your stuff. But a pencil? 

Like all the rest in this collection, this poem displays Coe’s brilliance in evoking his deceased parents’ foibles and loving ferocity. Where this poem ends up…you’d never believe. 

A tsunami of a poem set off by this one-sentence quake.   

*            *            *

 From Memorious 21 Contributor Maureen Alsop:

In the mail today I just received a book of poetry I’d ordered, Annie Lighthart’s Iron String. These are the first four lines from the first poem in the book, “The Second Music:”

Now I understand that there are two melodies playing,
one below the other, one easier to hear, the other

lower, steady, perhaps more faithful for being less heard
yet always present ….

The celebration of the under-sound, the under-story, the victory of years, the ghost trails of ghost comets… What a wonderful listening open into the new year.

*            *            *

From Memorious 21 Contributor Maya Pindyck:

Here are three opening lines of poems I’d love to celebrate. I’ve opted not to explain why; I think each line speaks for itself:

 “The stars had only one task: they taught me how to read.”

–Mahmoud Darwish, “Poetic Regulations,” Unfortunately, It was Paradise, 2003, translated by Munir Akash and Carolyn Forche.

 “It’s not that the octopus wouldn’t love you–“

–Mary Szybist, “The Lushness of It,” Incarnadine, 2013.

 “Between is a hard place to live.”

–Kamilah Aisha Moon, “No Room for Gray,” She Has a Name, 2013.

*            *            *

From Memorious 21 Contributor José Rodríguez:

 From the poem “Fists (for my father)” by Joe Weil, from the book Painting the Christmas Trees (Texas Review Press, 2008):

 It was the sense that your fists were worlds

And mine were not

That caused me to worship you;

All those thick rope veins,

And the deep inlaid grime of your life,

The permanent filth of your labors.

*            *            *

From Memorious 21 Contributor Jeff Alessandrelli, the opening of David Markson’s The Last Novel (Counterpoint, 2007):

Dante will always remain popular because nobody ever reads him.

Said Voltaire.

Thinking with someone else’s brain.

Schopenhauer called reading.

Markson’s last novel was, appropriately enough, entitled The Last Novel; in it he continued the idiosyncratic examination of artistic and cultural anecdote initially begun by him in his book Reader’s Block. The Last Novel almost wholly consists of largely unknown facts and curiosities about writers, artists and thinkers seminal to history. Although the book’s narrator very occasionally pokes his head through—“There are six floor in Novelist’s apartment building…And then the roof”— for the most part Markson’s last novel consists of  his saying goodbye to what he spent his entire life reading, studying, and living. As an obituary, it’s mesmerizing; as a novel it’s even better.   

 *            *            *

From Fiction Editor Ian Stansel:

“William Stoner entered the University of Missouri as a freshman in the year 1910, at the age of nineteen. Eight years later, during the height of World War I, he received his Doctor of Philosophy degree and accepted an instructorship at the same University, where he taught until his death in 1956. He did not rise above the rank of assistant professor, and few students remembered him with any sharpness after they had taken his courses.” -John Williams, Stoner

I love this opening because of how un-compelling it should be. It goes on to give away the entirety of the titular character’s life, telling us that, really, nothing significant ever happened to him. Yet we are about to spend 300-plus pages covering that uneventful life. And that’s part of the intrigue. It asks us to start to contemplate the difference between inner and outer lives. It even, in its own unassuming way, call into question the very nature of story. How can a man who “achieved” so little be the subject of a novel? What will fill the next 300 pages?

 *            *            *

From Fiction Editor Joanna Luloff:

“It was a bathroom in an unfinished house in Somalia in the year 2012. There was a hole in the wall where the water pipe was meant to come in and the floor sloped away to a drain where the suds were meant to flow from a shower along a trench to the dirt outside. In some future time, the shower might be fitted. In some future time, it might become an incidental place. But it was not so for him. For him it was a very dark and specific place.” – J.M. Ledgard

I love the precision of these opening lines from J.M. Ledgard’s novel Submergence. Against the matter-of-factness of the narrative delivery, there is already a hint of menace and mystery. All of those conditional “meant to’s” and “mights” and then the abrupt “but.” This opening moves through time (a stark present versus a possible future) and begins to prepare the reader for the movements between time and place that the novel will eventually travel. A English spy being held captive by jihadist fighters and a biomathematician exploring the ocean floor are the central characters who share a past and an uncertain present in this contemplative novel. 

For original poetry, fiction,art, and art song, please visit our magazine at www.memorious.org.

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Big Loves: Derrick Austin on James Merrill

Today’s contributor, Derrick Austin, was the winner of a Twitter Challenge to write for our Big Love column. Derrick Austin is a Colby Fellow and MFA candidate in poetry at the University of Michigan. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Knockout, Waccamaw, Crab Orchard Review, storySouth, and other journals.

James Merrill

I’m still in the first throes of love with James Merrill after two years. However, it wasn’t love at first sight. When I started writing and sought queer writers, like myself, Merrill’s name always came up. I couldn’t understand his work initially for many of the same reasons as his detractors: he’s too mannered or he’s too formal or too rarefied. Bullshit. Like others from Dickinson to Crane to Moore, writers with a powerful sense of style, Merrill’s poetry requires a period of adjustment. His lyric “The Mad Scene” provided a Rosetta Stone. This was work “Of a new fiber that never stains or wrinkles, never / Wears thin.” Here is a master whose work serves as a touchstone: the balanced, musical line, lush imagery, and an engagement with emotion in the service of truth. Of all our great poets of the last century, Merrill ranks among the highest in understanding desire, its gradations and degradations. He looks naked need in the mirror and, witnessing his own face, doesn’t shirk his responsibility as a poet.

Merrill’s lyric poems are wondrous, but what changed me was his ability to marry his lyric impulse to longer narrative forms. At first, I savored “Days of 1964,” “The Friend of the Fourth Decade,” “Strato in Plaster,” and “After the Fire” before moving on to “Lost in Translation,” “Yannina,” and “Clearing the Title.” How could I not be dazzled by those crystalline structures—sonnet sequences, villanelles, canzones, ballads, forms of his own invention, and even the epic in The Changing Light at Sandover—and his loose, conversational use of that old staple, the pentameter line? “Form’s what affirms,” he wrote in “The Thousand and Second Night,” yet his poems, besides being technically accomplished, are wonderfully witty. Here’s a poet unafraid of puns and wordplay. Here’s a poet who taught me that a lightness of touch does not denote a lightness of intention.

Yet, what I love Merrill for the most is his graciousness. Despite his varied gifts and deeply personal, sometimes plainly biographical, poems he never lost sight of the reader. In collections like The Inner Room and A Scattering of Salts, he engaged with politics and ecological degradation in work like “The Ring Cycle” and “Self-Portrait in Tyvek TM Windbreaker,” topics most don’t readily associate with Merrill; yet, he was so skilled an artist that large topics never feel less than intimate and pressing. Gracious poetry doesn’t require one to be devoid of complexities or to write in a narrow “plainspoken” way. His graciousness is in never condescending to readers, always challenging as well as delighting. His joyous spirit coupled with an unflinching eye on human failings and longings are always present—and, reading his poems, it always feels as if his eyes are on me. That intimate. That honest.

For original poetry, fiction, interviews, art, and art song, visit our website at www.memorious.org.

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Big Loves: Rebecca Hazelton on Marguerite Duras

Today’s Big Loves guest is Rebecca Hazelton, author of Fair Copy, forthcoming from Ohio State Press as winner of the 2011 Charles B. Wheeler Prize.

Marguerite Duras

When I was fifteen, during a layover in a sprawling airport, I picked up a book that changed me forever, as hyperbolic as that sounds. Marguerite Duras’s The Lover solidified my desire to become a writer, God help me. To try and emulate the protagonist, who was also fifteen, also traveling, crossing the Mekong river in Indochina. Crossing and re-crossing, because Duras is a writer of spirals; she dips toward and veers away from her subject, touches on pain then runs. How terrible for my parents that I found this book, that I began to harbor fantasies of wearing a man’s hat and taking lovers. How terrible for my future that I realized “writer” might be an occupation, that it might accompany a life of questionable romantic choices, drinking, and odd sartorial selections—ah, those gold lamé shoes she wears on the boat, those inappropriately adult clothes for a young girl.

Had I just picked up something else that day, I could have been respectable. Instead, I decided to follow the example of a French author who was at times in her life a severe alcoholic, who worked for the Vichy government, who aided the Resistance, whose husband was sent to a concentration camp, who claimed she tortured a French collaborator, and who played fast and loose with the truth. She didn’t exactly lie—one senses that Duras always believed herself, even as she told dramatically different versions of the same autobiographical stories. The events in The Lover are retold in The North China Lover and in various other books. The lover himself is sometimes ugly, sometimes handsome. She acknowledges past versions, disavows them, erases then reframes them to suit her often self-serving needs.

Much of The Lover concerns memory, how we fill in the pieces that are missing with bits that please us, how we know things we couldn’t possibly know, and how we invent the past in our minds. How we self-deceive. I reread The Lover every few years. Every time I do, I notice things I missed before. The book is a litmus test for me—I tell someone I love that it is my book, my most important book. I see if they read it. Only two men I’ve loved ever have, and I married each of them. The other ones? I suspect them of not really wanting to know me. I’m convinced in some way that the book is me, not because I am like the protagonist (though in some ways I am), not because the home life described was my childhood (though in some ways it was), nor because my experience of love is like that in the book (though it has been at times), but because I view the world as a constant negotiation between our present self and our past self. And just so, the book tells its story through a series of vignettes, pieces, and scraps assembled and reassembled in different orders. And oh, that language, the spare words, the unsaid. That girl on the cusp of adulthood, and that old woman looking back at her, rewriting the past self into something the present can live with.

For original poetry, fiction, interviews, and art song, visit our magazine at www.memorious.org.

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Big Loves: Jennifer Perrine on Whitman and Dickinson

Today’s Big Loves Contributor is Jennifer Perrine, author of In The Human Zoo (University of Utah Press, 2011).

My Love Is Large—My Love Contains Multitudes

          I’m sure I first encountered Walt Whitman in high school. Sure because I remember poring over “When Lilacs Last in the Door-yard Bloom’d” in a literature class, trying to make sense of it. Sure because, when I stood on my desk along with my senior-year classmates and shouted “O Captain! My Captain” to send off our beloved English teacher at the end of the year, I knew we weren’t just referencing Dead Poets Society—we were channeling the great sweaty-toothed madman himself.

         But it wasn’t until I was nineteen, when my friend Stacey Waite gave me a copy of Whitman’s Selected Poems, that I accepted Walt’s invitation: “Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems.” I stopped. I had spent days and nights searching for big love in romantic partners, in various religions, in dance clubs, in rambling wilderness—and I often found it. But it wasn’t until Walt came along, leaning and loafing, that I discovered the origin of all my poems: my big love for the world, in all of its grandeur, its blandness, its beauty, its cruelty.

I had always been an avid reader, but now, with Walt’s words in my hands, in my mouth, I felt compelled to read every poem aloud—no doubt my roommate grew weary of my ecstatic oratory. I had scribbled words in notebooks for years, but now I allowed my language to be more like my life—to be rangy, full of encounters with the world, to wander around on the page and not worry about where it would end up. To paraphrase Walt, poetry was larger, better than I thought, I did not know it held so much goodness.

And then I met Emily. I had known her for years, too. She showed up in those same literature classes, acknowledging Death’s kindness in stopping for her. I heard her fly buzz when she died and felt the funeral in her brain, but mostly she puzzled me—she intrigued me, but I felt unsteady, dizzy in her presence, and once Walt came along, it was easy to forget about her.

Many years later, though, my friend Rebecca Hazelton told me about an essay by Alice Fulton, who wrote about how many poets with clearly Dickinsonian leanings will cite Whitman as their primary influence instead. I began to look back over my own poems, and quite quickly, I discovered that Emily, too, was my big love—but she was my secret love, my love that dared not speak its name, not even to me. But she’s left her marks all over my poetry—her longing, her intimacy, her music, even her penchant for devising her own rules for punctuation.

Walt may have introduced me to the pleasures of poetry, but Emily showed me how to find that pleasure even in the most spare language, to exact lusciousness from “the pea within the pod,” to wrap sensuality in formal constraints and find delight in that restraint. She taught me, too, how to “tell it slant,” to let the speaker in my poems “tell all the truth” through voices with whom I felt an affinity, but who were decidedly not me, who were just askew of me. Those personae could “dazzle gradually” in a way I couldn’t—in a way Walt couldn’t, with his bold cosmic love—and I thank Emily for the years she stood by me, for the Wild Nights when she moored in me.

Walt and Emily, how different you were, how good you have been to me, how dearly I love you both.

For original fiction, poetry, interviews and art song, visit our magazine: www.memorious.org

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