I have already commented on how much I enjoy the fiction of Michel Houellebecq (see) so I am having a wonderful time reading his novel, The Map and the Territory. The story is of an artist who starts as a painter with little acclaim, switches to photography and becomes famous. and then successfully goes back to painting. Along the way he decides to have a gallery showing and wants to enlist the author, Michel Houellebecq, to write the brochure for the showing.
So the artist flies to Ireland where the author is living and spends some time with him discussing art, painting, photography, literature, critics, and how the Pakistani owner of an Irish restaurant doesn’t know how to cook a gigot of lamb. This entire exchange between the two men, written by the real author Michel Houellebecq, is fascinating and it allows the author to make several statements about art and the art world while still in the context of the novel.
Of course, this is fiction and it is the fictional Houellebecq that expresses his opinions about art and literature.
I know from the cover blurbs that this is a mystery and the artist is going to assist in solving the crime. The reading is fast and smooth and I am enjoying the novel immensely. If you haven’t read Michel Houellebecq, add him to your list.
I was reading the poems published in a journal I receive regularly and was disappointed that they seemed, for the most part, strained and almost silly: I would say that the poet was trying too hard to be poetic and to write poems that are easily recognized as being poetical. There were, however, several example of non-standard poetry (very non-standard) that I enjoyed, if only for the form.
Now it should be understood that I spent most of my undergraduate and graduate education reading, analyzing, and discussing poetry (and drama later), so I am truly not adverse to the idea of a poem and secretly wish that poetry was more mainstream and available in this new century. Furthermore, I can take a volume of Keats or Donne or Ginsberg off the shelf and amaze myself that such powerful and often beautiful writing exists. But the current crop of ‘the typhoon of your kisses drips blood on my Post Toasties’ poets just aren’t doing it for me anymore. City Lights keeps my hopes up but some of the doggerel that gets published today makes me wonder.
What is going on?
Maybe poetry is spreading out and becoming more accessible outside of the literati and prone to the same continuum of quality and intelligence as is the world of prose? Obviously there are novels written for simple entertainment: bodice rippers, teen romances, formulaic westerns and science fiction, hard-boiled and fast-moving detectives, etc. These types of novels are appealing to read but we can expect them to have a short life and be replaced in our bookstores by newer titles that promise variety but more often are slightly stirred variations of all the titles that went before.
Is poetry evolving into this same model: classics that have endured, contemporary examples that may show quality, and the rest which is targeted for the average reader seeking entertainment? I don’t know.
Paul Valéry defined the poet’s function and I agree (what do you think?):
A poet’s function … is not to experience the poetic state: that is a private affair. His function is to create it in others. … The man of genius is the one who infuses genius into me.
Many people consider poetry a personal, cathartic expression: the poet has such a level of experience and sentiment that the poet eases the pressure by creating a poem. The reader of the poem, then, is an observer of the poet’s condition. Valery doesn’t discount the poet’s condition, but he reverses the idea of a poem being cathartic, which wouldn’t even need a reader, to the idea of a poem being a way of conveying or sharing experience: an “educational” experience. This seems consistent with my exposure to the mechanics of creating poetry: some poets struggle with every line of the poem, every word; other poets write and rewrite the poem over and over in many different versions often with radically different variations. It’s the old inspiration vs. perspiration routine.
Writing poetry, despite the clichéd scenes in an early sixties movie, does not involve a garret, incense, or bongos; it is an artistic creation much like a symphony, an ivory statue, or a painting on the ceiling of a church; and like these other art forms, it is the artist’s way of getting the observer or reader to share in the same intense experience. It’s hard work and along the way the poet or painter may have a cathartic experience, but that is personal; the complete poem is turned over to the reader to be experienced.
Two things I notice about this view of the artist: first, there is an element of intention and second, the goal is to have the reader essentially duplicate the experience and not to have the reader attach his own personal, extra-textual experiences onto the poem. So on one side we break with the New Critics and on the other we conform. Furthermore, with apologies to Roland Barthes, the author is once again important.
I like that: but I’m just musing this fine afternoon and may go walk barefoot on my new carpet for a while …
I would be remiss if I didn’t comment on the state of poetry as it pertains to country music and overpriced greeting cards … no, I can’t do it … way too painful.