"World's greatest bass line"

I put a link to my post about The Smiths on my Facebook profile, with this comment:

The Smiths as "the commodification of the critique of commodities." Oh shut up and dance! :-)

That led a friend to say, "What difference does it make?" And that reminded me of this story: It was sometime in the mid-eighties. I was at a party at Synergy, a co-op at Stanford, and the band was playing "Mystery Achievement," by The Pretenders. Jack Sayers was on bass, but I don't remember which of the specific bands he was in that was playing that night (Missy and the Boogiemen; The Heptiles?). And while that killer bass line was throbbing along, I found myself next to my friend Paul G., and I said to him, "World's greatest bass line!" And he agreed. A few moments later, I asked Paul, "Do you think the bassist knew it was the world's greatest bass line when he came up with it?" And Paul stopped dancing for a moment and said something like, "That's the question, isn't it? Did Rilke know how good 'The Duino Elegies' were while he was writing them? Or was he just writing them, so caught up in the act of creation that he did not think about how good they were? Does the genius know when he has produced a masterpiece?"

And then we went back to dancing!

Ruefle, footnotes, Sebald

Thanks to Karin, who sent me the link in the comments to one of my posts on Coetzee's Youth, I read Mary Ruefle's short essay "Someone Reading a Book is a Sign of Order in the World."

Here's the bit about footnotes that I liked:

'For years I planned a theoretical course called "Footnotes." In it, the students would read a footnoted edition of a definitive text--I thought it might as well be The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge--and proceed diligently to read every book mentioned in the footnotes (or the books by those authors mentioned) and in turn all those mentioned in the footnotes of the footnoted books, and so on and so on, stopping only when one was led back, by a footnote, to The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge.'

Now that is a beautiful idea for a course!

And here's the bit about Sebald that I liked:

'I had recently one of the most astonishing experiences of my reading life. On page 248 in The Rings of Saturn, W. G. Sebald is recounting his interviews with one Thomas Abrams, an English farmer who has been working on a model of the temple of Jerusalem--you know, gluing little bits of wood together--for twenty years, including the painstaking research required for historical accuracy. There are ducks on the farm and at one point Abrams says to Sebald, "I have always kept ducks, even as a child, and the colors of their plumage, in particular the dark green and snow white, seemed to me the only possible answer to the questions that are on my mind." It is an odd thing to say, but Sebald's book is a long walk of oddities. I did not remember this passage in particular until later the same day when I was reading the dictionary, where I came upon the meaning of the word speculum: 1) an instrument inserted into a body passage for inspection; 2) an ancient mirror; 3) a medieval compendium of all knowledge; 4) a drawing showing the relative position of all the planets; and 5) a patch of color on the secondary wings of most ducks and some other birds. Did Sebald know that a compendium of all knowledge and the ducks' plumage were one and the same? Did Abrams? Or was I the only one for whom the duck passage made perfect, original sense? I sat in my chair, shocked. I am not a scholar, but for the imaginative reader there can be discoveries, connections between books, that explode the day and one's heart and the long years that have led to the moment. I am a writer, and the next step is inevitable: I used what had been revealed to me in my own writing.'

This perfectly captures one element of the magic of Sebald's work: his particular gift for spinning out associations leads the reader to spin out associations as well. The most uncanny feature of the Sebald reader's free association on his works is how often the process leads back to his work again, as if he had anticipated the reader's personal response to the book. For a memorable example, see Tim Parks's essay "The Hunter," in his collection Hell and Back.

German Poetry anthology

A few weeks ago, I finally received my contributor's copies of Michael Hofmann's Twentieth-Century German Poetry: An Anthology (FSG, 2006; Faber & Faber, 2005). I contributed two translations of poems by Lutz Seiler.

The anthology is superb. J. B. Leishman's translation of Rainer Maria Rilke's "Orpheus. Eurydice. Hermes" is worth the price of the book alone, and then there's his co-translation (with Stephen Spender) of the Ninth Duino Elegy.

But I also like this little tidbit by Paul Klee, translated by Harriet Watts:

WATER

Water,
topped by waves,
topped by a boat,
topped by a woman,
topped by a man.

Christopher Middleton's translation of Gottfried Benn's "The Evenings of Certain Lives" (the lives in question being Rembrandt's and Shakespeare's) makes a fine introduction to Benn for those not familiar with a poet ranked by many in the German-speaking world as the equal of Rilke and Paul Celan. Michael Roloff's version of Nelly Sachs's "Chorus of the Rescued" will probably open a few eyes as well, not to mention her "Two hands, born to give" (translated by Ruth and Matthew Mead and Michael Hamburger).

There's a generous selection of Bertolt Brecht; it's always nice to be reminded how wonderful a poet he was. Middleton's version of "Thoughts on the Duration of Exile" was my favorite here, but John Willet's "To Those Born Later" also deserves mention.

One of the great post-war German poems is Günter Eich's "Inventory," here translated by Charlotte Melin. This is surely new to most English speakers who have no German, and it, too, makes the book worth getting.

For me, the highlight of the selections from Celan is John Felstiner's version of "Deathfugue," which means that translations of mine have now appeared in an anthology with some by my mentor. His version of "Tübingen, January" also struck me here, with its resonant conclusion:

if he spoke of this
time, he
could
only babble and babble,
ever- ever-
moremore.

("Pallaksch. Pallaksch.")

The last Celan poem is the positively accessible "Don't write yourself," again in Felstiner's translation:

Don't write yourself
in between worlds,

rise up against
multiple meanings,

trust the trail of tears
and learn to live.

The Ingeborg Bachmann selections are also on target, the highlight being Peter Filkins's version of "Departure from England," with its surprising conclusion: "I have never set foot on its land."

Michael Hamburger's version of Günter Grass's "The Egg" is the highlight of the Grass section. But he gets short shrift compared to Hans Magnus Enzensberger; although I love Enzensberger, the poems in the lengthy selection here did not strike me. Perhaps it was just the wrong day for them as I read them; perhaps he is a poet whose hard-earned lightness in German does not translate well?

My two Seiler translations include one of the poems in the sidebar: "my birth year, sixty-three, that."

My only very small complaint is that the poem chosen to represent Oskar Pastior's work is likely to turn off quite a few people who might otherwise like his work. But that is my only quibble with this excellent anthology.

Change Your Lifestyle

"No, the admonition of Rilke's archaic torso would not be quite same if it were merely: You must change your lifestyle!" (George Szirtes, "Brain Noise")

"... for here there is no place / that does not see you."

Rilke's German here.