Ash Wednesday

February 17, 2010 at 10:04 pm (coincidence, friends, mood, poetry, T. S. Eliot, too many tags)

Since it’s Ash Wednesday I thought I’d post some clips of T. S. Eliot reading one of his more depressing poems. Guess what it’s called.

Part One:

Part Two:

It seemed appropriate to post since a good friend of mine doesn’t particularly feel like striving to do anything today.

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Kill Yr Idols…

June 13, 2007 at 12:19 pm (Bukowski, Ezra Pound, idols, poetry, T. S. Eliot, Vonnegut, writers)

…or how Bukowski convinces his future wife that he’s a great, sensitive writer by beating her.

That’s what this post would have been about but the video was removed for copyright infringement. I guess you’re just gonna have to take my word for it. Such a video would have demonstrated misogyny. Instead, here’s an excerpt from Women about, well, women.

“If I had been born a woman I would certainly have been a prostitute. Since I had been born a man, I craved women constantly, the lower the better. And yet women-good women-frightened me because they wanted your soul, and what was left of mine, I wanted to keep. Basically I craved prostitutes, base women, because they were deadly and hard and made no personal demands. Nothing was lost when they left. Yet at the same time I yearned for a gentle, good woman, despite the overwhelming price. Either way I was lost. A strong man would give up both. I wasn’t strong. So I continued to struggle with women, with the idea of women.”

Here’s Bukowski’s own reading of the poem dinosauria, we that hints at his misanthropy:

In the published poem, Bukowski refers to Dante’s Inferno as a children’s playground in comparison as to what’s to come. I assume he cut it out of the video since it would have appeared too learned for his usual crowd. Observe the comments at Youtube.

Before I go on, let me just say that I do not share this world-view with Bukowski and by the end of Women it appears that Buk’s veiled representation of himself, Hank Chinaski, has prepared to give up what is left of his soul. So I suppose there’s still hope for him. Or was hope. He’s dead and mostly dust by now. Perhaps he’s up in heaven with Vonnegut.

Although Charles Bukowski’s words and stories are for the most part ugly and painted with a Schopenhauer colored will, they can also be witty, charming and beautiful due to this marred world-view. Like such great writers as T. S. Eliot or Ezra Pound, one can take their antisemitism or fascism or Bukowski’s misanthropy and gain a greater understanding of ourselves as a whole without coming to the conclusion that they are just poor representatives of humanity. On the contrary, it is due to these flaws that make them “great” writers, “great” advocates of our species.

There is often difficulty in reading an author with such a forceful opinion of how things are, not to mention a belligerent following who take his or her word as gospel. Remembering that these writers are human just like the rest of us may be difficult as well, especially when they’re beating women and prophesying our doom.

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April is the cruelest month…

April 25, 2007 at 11:11 pm (coincidence, poetry, T. S. Eliot, Umberto Eco, writers)

Today I went to Chapters and picked up Umberto Eco’s latest piece of fiction, The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana, and was delighted to discover that the character’s adventures arise on the same day I began to read them.

The Mysterious Flame excites me due to the fact that it’s an Eco book with an amnesiac as a main character, but especially since it’s illustrated with a plethora of European magazine and comic clippings. In full color! And they’re actually foot-noted!

My “plan” is to read this twice in a row, first by my lonesome and then with the aid of this wiki. These annotations will aid me with Eco’s notorious intertextuality and, at a glance, they appear to be more fully illustrated than the book. Plenty of translations, photography, paintings, maps, and stamps to inform me of Man’s barren memory. Eco says this is his last piece of fiction so I’m gonna milk it for all it’s worth.

April, since it is so cruel, is also poetry month and I’ve been trying to work up the nerve to post something of mine, whether it be old or new. Only five days left. We’ll see.

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