The Place of Poetry

Last week I went to a local poetry reading featuring Robert Pinsky. I've had the privilege of working with him on a new edition of poems by the mid-century Greek poet C.P. Cavafy, and I wanted the opportunity to see him in person.

I have to confess that when I got to the auditorium, I was startled. I looked around the room and wondered: where did all these people come from? The seats had filled up and the room teemed with an artistic breed rarely found in Princeton: trench-coated writers and scholars, clutching messenger bags crammed with books that had been generously thumbed through. People were rustling with excitement, murmuring lines and bandying favorite titles. I located myself in a corner and watched with wide eyes.

The thing about Princeton (that you learn when you've lived here) is that it's not a real college town. Though it hosts a remarkable faculty and recruits gifted students, it lacks the buzz and palpable energy of an intellectual community. I rarely feel, in walking about this campus, that it's a place that nourishes the love of ideas, the desire to grapple with artistic or political concepts and to wring new truths out of them. What I am aware of is the insistent drive to achieve and to excel--not unworthy goals by any means, but somewhat soulless when the results are all but intellectual. To be intellectual is to be unproductive, it would seem.

It's little wonder that artistic communities are so hard to find--and that they're often centralized into a few major hubs across the U.S. When so much creative content is mediated by the candied lens of MTV, the kind of creative output that forces you to think and to be mentally and psychologically engaged gets completely marginalized. Maybe this is why poetry is so poorly received in America. Somehow this culture has forgotten that verse is one of the purest and most lyrical means of expressing the human condition.

Even Robert Pinsky, who gave by far the most genial reading I've experienced, acknowledged his appeal as that of "a lounge act." He laced his performance with humor, keeping up a steady Jay Leno-esque banter, and inviting the audience to call out favorite pieces for him to read. He quoted lovingly from poets such as Ben Jonson, and invoked the musical genius of Charlie Parker and the earliest saxophonists. On a mission to revive public interest in poetry, he was willing to sing for his supper.

As it was, I laughed and clapped him out of the room until my palms stung, but I was also left to ponder the state of things around me. Why aren't universities churning out as many poets and philosophers as engineers and economists? Why are we at the point at which our poets need to do stand-up just to be heard? Can verse no longer dazzle on its own merits? When did poetry need to be anything more than what it is: lines, crafted by human hands and human minds, that lead us on a pilgrimage to the site of our inner selves. A poem is a journey that doesn't need embellishment. What it does need - as Pinsky intuited long before I did - is more pilgrims.

ANTIQUE by Robert Pinsky, from Gulf Music

I drowned in the fire of having you, I burned

In the river of not having you, we lived

Together for hours in a house of thousand rooms

And we were parted for a thousand years.

Ten minutes ago we raised our children who cover

The earth and have forgotten that we existed

It was not maya, it was not a ladder to perfection,

It was this cold sunlight falling on this warm earth.

When I turned you went to Hell. When your ship

Fled the battle I followed you and lost the world

Without regret but with stormy recriminations.

Someday far down that corridor of horror the future

Someone who buys this picture of you for the frame

At a stall in a dwindled city will study your face

And decide to harbor it for a little while longer

From the waters of anonymity, the acids of breath.

Hot Times at AIG

1) Jake DeSantis, an executive vice president of AIG’s financial products unit wrote a letter of resignation to Liddy, now posted at the Times. Makes for interesting reading, as it's by someone who clearly feels under attack from politicians and subject to public scrutiny. More simply, it's a voice from AIG other than Liddy's and therefore worth the read, though I frankly think the gesture itself (and the content) is a little too mea non culpa for my taste. Jake may want to consider keeping a low profile given the attacks on other such sufferers (which I by the way, don't condone).

2) A comprehensive piece by David Leonhardt who writes Economic Scene. He approaches the issue from a less personal standpoint, and lays out why retention pay is part of the faulty apparatus that had a role in bringing Wall Street crashing down. To be fair, this was written 7 days ago, and given how quickly things are moving, he may be revising his stance. But I doubt it.

3) I don't get many comments, so I was interested in a response to my post about AIG yesterday. Whoever "Anonymous" is, I think his/her comment has relevance in light of DeSantis' letter of resignation above. You can scroll down to read the post + our one-round exchange, but I want to post the comment itself here again.

Anonymous said...

AIG received $85 billion from the government. That is $85,000 (eighty five thousand) million. $165 million is less than 0.2% of that. People do not have the perception for comparing these huge numbers, everybody could imagine a million or ten million, but handling 85,000 million would be way too much for most of the population to handle.

If you get a loan of $2,000 and then go to Starbucks to buy a coffee for $4, nobody is going to complain despite the fact that it is 10 times more than what a coffee should cost.
People also tend to forget the difference between cause and correlation. Just because these managers were there when the crash happened, it does not mean they were the cause of the problem. So why not go and sue all former managers of AIG for every bonus they ever received? I guess nobody would like to do that either. And if you analyze the problem, you will eventually find that the cause is some hard to understand socio-economic mass phenomenon whose regulations require thoughtful handling.

Nevertheless it is more important to handle the 85,000 million wisely, than stigmatizing 0.2% that cannot be reversed at this time anymore. Yes, it might be an important step to calm down the masses, but it is not as important as the collective brain of the society (aka Blogosphere) thinks it is.

March 24, 2009 3:15 PM

Off With Their Heads?

The recent scandal about executives at AIG receiving bonuses of $165 million reminds me of the backdrop to the French Revolution. In a breathtaking moment of "let them eat cake" oblivion, these people have continued to leech the taxpayer's money. Only in this case it's even more repugnant, because the money they seized was a benefactory lifeline -- a privilege accorded by the government's triage as the financial markets collapsed.

I'm fearful of how much money has lately been sunk into companies run by people without principle. I understand too why there's a desire for bloodshed in the public outcry. What's come to light is the fact that even in a society founded on democratic ideals, capitalism enables every industry to develop its own monarchy--leaving the financial and economic fate of the populous in the hands of those who are entirely self-guided. We don't expect our fellow man to sabotage millions of his peers. But we also don't live in a culture that fosters ethical thinking or civic duty--both of which are essential to tempering the excesses of free market capitalism. At this juncture the government is our only ally, and, guillotine-style, we want them to bring a fist of justice crashing down.

It looks as though there's some progress being made: 9 top AIG executives have been persuaded to return their bonuses, totaling $50 million so far. But there are others overseas whom the government may not reach, and who in any case may be insulated from US jurisdiction. We also have to consider the fact that several executives have either refused to return their bonuses or have resigned in the wake of giving them back. This is a damning flip-off to the sufferings of the populous, as it signifies that those who've brought us to financial ruin haven't ceased to profiteer.

Nonetheless, as the furor has grown, I've realized that this is a moment when what we need is a temperate hand - not a Robespierre - at the helm. In his February 24th speech to Congress, President Obama said that he would not "govern out of anger." Although this may not satisfy our carnal desires to see executives carried to execution in a tumbrel, it's the only way to get out of this mess without dessicating the economy.

I realize that Obama himself has condemned the executives in question. This doesn't mean we get to see their heads roll. We have to follow the legislation that's in place to protect and manage our society, even if it means we can't legally block or tax these bonuses. The AIG issue is too dangerous and sensitive to mismanage at a time like this, when the public (and that includes me) is severely wound up, and the opportunity to bypass legal obligations for the sake of retribution is tantalizing close at hand. We saw what excesses that led to in 1789.

What we do need is to get on with it and find a plan that works. Paul Krugman doesn't think the administration is on the right track; he's probably right. But he's also right to say that "the public want Mr. Obama to succeed." I am anxious and angry about the financial situation, but rectifying it isn't in my hands. All I know is that at least I have a President I can finally trust. I trust Obama because he has the insight to see how quickly the winds are changing these days, and to pull back from potential missteps. I trust him because - unlike our French predecessors - he's trying to balance the people's needs with a plan to get our economy out of the ICU. Ultimately, we need these banks to function and we need credit to flow again.

I obviously don't have the answer. What I do know is that 1789 is a long way off but dealt some important lessons. We won't save ourselves if we govern out of anger.

Posterity and its Discontents

I was at a bar a few nights ago, when a very good-looking guy came up to me and started chatting. At first I was completely chuffed. And then something strange happened: he got onto the subject of achievement, and cited bearing children as an individual's greatest accomplishment. "You have a chance to create something that's 50% pure you, a part of yourself that will live on," he exulted. 

Inwardly, I cringed. I've never felt a strong biological impulse to reproduce in the way that he described, nor was I keen to follow what appeared to be a fanatical viewpoint. "I may consider adoption," I said, hoping for tolerance. "That's fine, but you should definitely have your own children," came the dogmatic reply. And that was that. 

Posterity has long been a point of human inquiry. Its earliest records are in classical literature, which the world over featured humans desperate to seize immortality and overcome the limitations of flesh. One way to do so is to procreate; that much is obvious. But procreation takes many forms--and of all of them, I am most interested in intellectual and literary offspring. 

In terms of my output, two blogs and an old collection of poems are the sum total. I have six diaries that peter out by the 2nd week, and twice as many notebooks, crammed with fragments of thought rather than polished prose. As with bearing children, I don't plan to produce a book, though I idle with the thought, and assume it may just happen. For now though, this blog is my primary point of authorship, and to date, blogging does not rank as literary achievement. 

Nonetheless, it came to my attention recently that four friends - some nearby, some far flung - have not only followed this blog, but been inspired enough by it to forge their own imprints. I have a sense for who among them will stay active and who may bow out, but I'm touched that all four cited "The Better Element" as having stirred them to creative activity. 

 

Whether or not we admit it, every writer desires an engaged readership. One of the luxuries of personal writing is being able to imagine your 'other' out there: the idealized reader with whom each printed word is a point of intellectual communion. It means that someone other than you is awake to your purpose and fortified by it. What could be more validating? 

Helen Vendler, the queen of close readings, makes a strong case for this in her book Invisible Listeners: Lyric Intimacy in Herbert, Whitman, and Ashbery. She reveals how these poets, each radically distinctive in style and content, used language to identify and appeal to their respective audiences. Herbert directed his spiritual misgivings to God; Whitman figured all of humanity or a single beloved as the companion he called "you"; and Ashbery, the most difficult to read, traced his lineage back to the Italian mannerist Parmigianino, with whom he shared an instinct to distort and aestheticize reality. 

These are high-flown examples, but my point is that any kind of writing--even on unromantic topics--wants for a greater return on investment than mere praise. It's lovely to be commended; sweeter yet to know that your words haven't died on the page, that they've stimulated reflection and reaction in others. Such feedback keeps our minds fertile and generative. Why do we publish personal writings, after all? Why are literary memoirs and diaries as vital as fiction? Because they're carriers of ideas and impulses that we hope will burn bright long after our bodies expire. Thus we vainly reach - even without children! - for that hard-won gift of posterity.

(A True) Independent Spirit

Here's Mickey Rourke accepting his 2009 Independent Spirit Award. The man has so much character, this clip is a short film unto itself. Thanks to JWI for sharing.

Blood, Sweat, and a Backroom for Tears

Best to start off on a note of honesty: I'm not a fan of professional wrestling. Watching a series of fights between men inflated to look like Bluto but dressed like '80s figure skaters has never ranked high on my agenda. I find the pageantry of such fights misplaced; the characters exaggerated to the point of drollery.

And yet strangely enough, these theatrics take place with greater sanctity at the other end of the cultural spectrum: the opera house. Consider Siegfried or Aida. Where else will you find protagonists bedecked in capes and masks, eager to stimulate the audience by means of vocal pyrotechnics? In opera, love and brutality are borne by human voices raised to an extreme register. Pro-wrestling effects a similar drama by putting bare bodies on center stage and inciting them to attack each other with choreographed rage. Neither medium falls short on hyperbole, and both rely on the celebrity of 250lb performers.

Darren Aronofsky's The Wrestler has elements of the operatic about it. It's a film with a virtuoso performance at its center, and it relays its protagonist's decline as a single - but universally applicable - instance of everyday human tragedy. I wouldn't call it brilliant cinematic fare, but it's worth viewing simply because it's carried by extraordinary acting on the part of Mickey Rourke and his two female counterparts.

As with Rourke himself, Randy The Ram's career peak takes place offstage, in the past. The movie opens with a montage of newspaper cuttings, audio clips and autographed paraphenalia that collectively represent The Ram in his prime. The music is pure '80s, laced with hair-metal bands of the Def Leppard and Quiet Riot extraction. I loved it. But Aronofsky has a point to make: tempus fugit...whatever the songs said, 1986 didn't last forever.

Instead it's 2006 and Randy's on the local circuit with 20 years of battering and drinking to bear. Aronofsky draws a pointed contrast to the power shots of the opening credits, making us wait to see Randy's face. He rests the camera at eye-level, tracking behind Randy as he walks out of his trailer and gets to dressing room, acquaintances and admirers coming up to clap him on the arm. There's no Citizen Kane-like projection here; the camera is handheld and hovers at Randy's shoulder for most of the movie. It's as though the body, which we later witness in its sturdy but bruised state, has ceased to matter: Randy's face - Mickey Rourke's, inescapably - is our ground zero.

There's something about this face. The features aren't beautifully arranged and the skin has all the suppleness of worn leather. But it's also a majestic face - the face of a haggard Achilles, of everyman, a face with which I fell into depthless empathy.

This empathy stayed alive throughout the movie, even as Randy took hits of cocaine and racked up $900 in steroids, even as a one night stand left him sleeping past the dinner plans he worked so hard to earn from his estranged daughter (Stephanie). I felt for him as he tried to step away from his former self by flirting with a local stripper and taking Stephanie to Asbury Park. Whatever his faults, Randy tries hard and does it with a smile. He plays pater familias to younger wrestlers who look to him for tips and a gentle boost of confidence. He buys Stephanie a peacoat and stands up to dance in an empty bar when a favorite song comes on the radio. He gets locked out of his trailer for failing on rent, and then takes a shift at the supermarket in order get back in. He trips up constantly, but tries so hard not to that you ache for him to get even one break.

At the end of the day, however, Randy is a demigod only in the ring, and it's there that he feels most alive--there too that he'll meet his end. It's a saccharine plot-twist, but even though The Ram has a weak heart that's going to give out soon, what keeps him coming back is the purity of his purpose. Like a good '80s song, despite the drugs, sex and lethal blows, you still have to believe this guy is all heart.

On Thin Ice

Michael Lewis wrote a terrific piece on the situation in Iceland for Vanity Fair. I remember back in October 2008 when disaster broke out on Wall Street and my sister tried to explain it all to me. At the time I thought it was strange that she kept mentioning Iceland -- possibly the last corner of the earth I would have considered a barometer for the financial crisis, let alone a powerhouse. As Lewis so eloquently makes apparent, no one has really probed the rise from obscurity of this "tiny fishing nation," which, since 2003, reinvented itself as a major player in the international financial market.

What strikes me at first is the spindly number that represents Iceland's total population: 300,000. Let's put this into perspective. In square miles, Iceland is about the same size as Virginia, which is home to 7,000,000 people. Iceland is also the second largest island in Europe. To be fair, unlike Virginia or Greece, Iceland's population density is thwarted by the fact that about half of its terrain is either pure wasteland or uniformly covered by lava deposits, relegating most of the population to the Southwest regions. Either way, 300,000 in this day and age smacks of containment.

To get back to the main issue, there are two points that really interest me about Iceland's situation. First: the numbers, and their sheer scale. In 2003, Iceland had three major banks with only a few billion dollars in assets, which accounted for 100% of its GDP. 3.5 years later, they had grown to represent $140 billion, and it wasn't even worth calculating how much of the GDP they accounted for, since they were so greatly in excess of it. As of October 2008, however, the roof fell in on the three banks. The Icelandic stock market crashed by 85% and the krona sank. It suddenly appeared that on the shoulders of 300,000 citizens sat a new debt of $100 billion of banking losses, as well as several billion dollars worth of personal debt. This now works out to about $330,000 per man, per woman - and per child. As Lewis dryly notes, Iceland's debt of 850% of their GDP is the one thing that Americans, saddled with a debt of 350% of our GDP, can point to without personal accountability.

The second thing that fascinates me is the broader socioeconomic framework in which this disaster took place. You have to wonder: a) how on earth did an unassuming society of fisherman reinvent themselves as financial wizards and b) what prompted them to step out of the centuries-long collectivist stupor they were in?

The answer to the first is perhaps simpler, or at least, can be explained. Lewis references a paper by H. Scott Gordon, written in 1954, on the "plight of the fisherman." As Gordon revealed, due to the fact that the sea and fish were public property, there were no profits to be made by fishing day in and day out for a steady catch. The fisherman's practice was to stake his livelihood on "a lucky catch"--a single catch that, with great risk but minimum equipment and expense, would return an extraordinarily high yield. Sounds a lot like investment banking...

Moreover, this effort to maximize fishing efforts was aided by a government intervention in the 1970s, which privatized fishing and allowed only the most capable fisherman to take to the seas. This, then, is the moment that Iceland modernized itself. It's also where the answer to the second question begins: with fewer opportunities to make a living on the seas, Icelanders finally had the time to renovate their culture. Until 2003 they focused on developing themselves economically, educationally and artistically--as Lewis says, Iceland became the country that produced Bjork (to my mind a dubious accolade).

But the parallels between opportunistic big catches in fishing and the high-risk/high-yield mentality employed in investment banking eventually revealed themselves. Sophisticated young Icelanders returning home with business degrees made an impression on their native peers and taught them about the possibilities of financial speculation. A blistering irony is that they were quick to borrow from the American mindset "that finance had less to do with productive enterprise than trading bits of paper among themselves." The miracle is that they got away with it. Lewis recounts his meeting with a young man - this is the story of men only, it seems - who took seven years to hone expert skills as a fisherman, but who landed a job as "an adviser to companies on currency risk hedging" without blinking twice. The traits synonymous to these two identities are clear: risk-taking, competitiveness, confidence and hyper-masculinity.

The final component of this article - perhaps the one that needs more addressing - is the cultural backstory. Lewis touches upon Iceland's history under the Norwegian and Danish monarchies, the cornerstone that fishing claims in their heritage and imagination, their collectivist impulse and their gender biases. But I want more. I'm still curious to know who the Icelanders are. How do they live and how do they view themselves within the world? What is it about them that emits a sense - even through the filter of Michael Lewis' voice - of unbroken authenticity, of feral intelligence?

I doubt their story is over.