in praise of Difficult

There is this Rilke quote that you can find all over the internet (although sorry I can’t find where he actually said it):

What is required of us is that we love the difficult and learn to deal with it. In the difficult are the friendly forces, the hands that work on us.

I did find this in Letters to a Young Poet, though (letter No. 7):

Most people have (with the help of conventions) turned their solutions toward what is easy and toward the easiest side of the easy; but it is clear that we must trust in what is difficult; everything alive trusts in it […]. We know little, but that we must trust in what is difficult is a certainty that will never abandon us; it is good to be solitary, for solitude is difficult; that something is difficult must be one more reason for us to do it.

Mere assertions, really, that stand or fall less on the strength of the evidence presented than on whether the assertions happen to resonate with the audience.

Well, they resonate with me. I’m a fan of Difficult, mostly. Yes, we all deal (must deal) in one way or another with Difficult when we come upon it, or it upon us. And, yes, what is my difficult is not necessarily yours. Everyone’s difficult is different.

But we all know what our difficult is, immediately, when we see it. And then there are Questions about it.

On the tactical level: When I am faced with Difficult, do I a) run from it or b) face it? On the strategic (more important?) level – when I do face Difficult, is it because I have a) stumbled upon it or b) sought it out?

There was recently an exchange on Difficult on the New Poetry list. Poet X posted in outrage about some incomprehensible work by some famous difficult poet (Peter Manson, as it happens). (You know how it goes: This means nothing to me. How can it mean anything to anyone!? Do this artist and his/her supporters take me for a fool? Anyone could do this! Watch me do it right here! Etc.)

And someone nice responded: Poet X, The piece you quote has been taken out of context. Yes, the whole work is difficult, but worth the effort, trust me. “Difficulty,” said the responder, “is usually the entry fee for anything new (or new in one’s experience), in the arts and elsewhere. Complaining about it makes no more sense than arriving on an unknown island and being offended by the lack of maps.”

To which my hero of the moment, Bob Grumman, responded (his response reproduced here with permission):

I commend [Poet X] for at least complaining about it, the standard reaction to such stuff of mainstreamers being to ignore it. I also think he SHOULD complain about there being no maps. That is one of my on-going complaints: no critical attention paid to people doing work like Manson’s or like other poets in schools of poetry totally or almost totally unknown to academia like, yes, mathematical poetry.

Why not, I just thinkz: a college class devoted to Literary Incomprehensibilty. Start with an overview of all the great writers whose work was first thought incomprehenisible, then do Stein’s Tender Buttons, excerpts from Finnegans Wake (neither of which I yet find comprehensible, except for a few lines here and there, myself) and “The Wasteland” and maybe something else from back then). Then present students with a list of incomprehensible contemporary texts by people like Manson, Jim Leftwich, P. Inman, Clark Coolidge, John M. Bennett, Scott Helmes, and require each student to choose one text no one else will be working on and require a thousand-word appreciation due at the close of the course. Devote each class after that to discussions of the poems. The teacher should guide but not give any help of substance–for instance, he might suggest where criticism of some of the authors or writers like them may be found, and maybe ask a clarifying question or two, but leave the students on their own. Group efforts allowed, perhaps encouraged.

Goals: forcing each student to confront the incomprehensible and find ways of dealing with it; astonishing a lucky few into a capacity for appreciation they wouldn’t have believed they could have (like me, when a friend said something that suddenly made me at 18 see what the impressionist painters were doing, and caused me on my own within weeks to appreciate the abstract expressionists and all kinds of other non-representational painters I had hitherto had contempt for). But also forcing those not able to appreciate whatever texts they had to try to appreciate to say what those texts lacked, what they did wrong, what it was about them that prevented appreciation–all of which would have to improve their critical sense. Intelligent negativity counting as much as intelligent positiveness.


Sometimes when you’re having a back and forth with someone and they begin (hulLO) to lean towards your point of view, this disgruntles them, so, even as they become prepared to accept and to indicate that they accept the way you see things, they snipe. They say things that are snipey. And you see that the snipey things they say mean that they are coming round to your point of view. And you see that what you have to do is not to respond to the snipey with snipey, even though you really want to, because if you do they may very well and probably will dig their heels in and go back to their old unenlightened position and actually think they are justified in doing so because you turned snipey on them.


Not responding to snipey is so HARD.

They melted, OK?!

Not that anyone is seeking nominations for the most annoying poem of the millenium, but if they were, this would probably be my number one choice: Ballade des dames de temps jadis or aaargh Où sont les neiges d’antan. 

With a bunch of different translations, so we can fully appreciate its full annoyingness.

Carpe Diem

Ode à Cassandre

Mignonne, allons voir si la rose
Qui ce matin avoit desclose
Sa robe de pourpre au Soleil,
A point perdu ceste vesprée
Les plis de sa robe pourprée,
Et son teint au vostre pareil.

Las! voyez comme en peu d’espace,
Mignonne, elle a dessus la place
Las! las ses beautez laissé cheoir !
Ô vrayment marastre Nature,
Puis qu’une telle fleur ne dure
Que du matin jusques au soir !

Donc, si vous me croyez, mignonne,
Tandis que vostre âge fleuronne
En sa plus verte nouveauté,
Cueillez, cueillez vostre jeunesse :
Comme à ceste fleur la vieillesse
Fera ternir vostre beauté.

– Pierre Ronsard

Thinking about this (translations) today and Herrick’s rosebuds, and Marvell’s winged chariot of time. Stupid philosophy, nice poems. Or maybe I’ve been doing too much financial planning lately.

Trouble with feeds

I’m just letting some of you know that your Bloglines feeds are having problems. If you click on my Bloglines feeds list, you will notice that several of the listed blogs have a red exclamation mark by them. All of these blogs were frozen in time on November 16, 2006.

Were you all at some drunken, drug-ruled, blank-inducing party together that night, or what?

I’ve unsubscribed, re-subscribed, shut down, shut off, restarted, re-booted, etc etc, a dozen times, and I can’t fix your Bloglines feeds. Luckily, through yet another heroic act of technology subduance, I have found actual direct RSS feeds for some of you (that would be Rob, Julie, Twitches and Poet Mom). So NOW I now what you have been up to for the last two weeks.

But don’t blame me if the rest of the world is thinking, gee, I wonder what’s up with Rob, Julie, Twitches and Poet Mom? I haven’t heard a peep out of them since November 16.

All this feeds stuff is great, though. It’s making nonsense of blogstats and counters and comments-as-a-way-of-proving-I’m-reading-your-blog-so-you-better-darn-well-be-reading-mine-and-where’s-your-comment.

A new generation already, and I only just found out about the old.