Andres Neuman - Traveller of the Century

Comparing styles, Sophie said, as she leafed through the book, there seem to be two distinct approaches in English poetry — the grandiloquent and passionate, like Shelley and Byron, and the more serene but more modern one of Coleridge or Wordsworth. And where would that put Keats? Hans asked, indicating his poems. In both, Sophie hesitated, or neither. I agree, said Hans, that Byron or Shelley, however good they are, could never be modern like Wordsworth. He attempts to approximate speech when he writes, which in poetry is a cardinal sin. And as we know, literature only evolves through sinning (do you really think so? she smiled mischievously), yes, of course, I mean, when Wordsworth says in the Preface, wait, look, here, when Wordsworth says the language of prose can be perfectly adapted to poetry, that there is no real difference between well-written prose and the language of poetry, what is he doing? Debasing poetry? On the contrary, it seems to me he is enriching the possibilities of prose. And more importantly, he is associating poetry with everyday speech, with events in life that aren’t necessarily sublime. Wordsworth takes poetry off its pedestal and broadens its scope.

I understand, Sophie said, taking the book from him, it sounds very convincing. But if poetry takes on too much of an everyday quality, how are we to differentiate between a well-written and a badly written poem? That, replied Hans, is Wordsworth’s most difficult dilemma, which I suppose is why he tackled it early on in his Preface, pass me the book, please, look, here: “The first volume of these poems, blah blah blah, was published as an experiment, which, I hoped, might be of some use to ascertain, how far, by fitting to metrical arrangement a selection of the real language of men …” (Ah, said Sophie sarcastically, and the language of women remains a mystery.) Well, all right: “to ascertain, how far, by fitting to metrical arrangement a selection of the real language of people …” (how kind of you, Sophie broke in) “… in a state of vivid sensation that sort of pleasure and that quantity of pleasure may be imparted, which a poet may rationally endeavour to impart.” Notice that Wordsworth refers to it as an experiment , there is nothing perfunctory about it, especially since he is referring to a selection of everyday speech, which is where the poet’s talent comes into play, and that such everyday moments must coincide with a state of vivid emotion. If these premises are adopted, Wordsworth’s experiment could never result in vulgarity. It would be different were someone to follow the simplest part of his advice and ignore the rest. Most notably, just a moment, let’s see, I underlined it somewhere, where is it? Ah, here — most notably the part where he says “and, at the same time, to throw over them a certain colouring of imagination, whereby ordinary things should be presented to the mind in an unusual aspect”, this is most interesting don’t you think? And then further down: “chiefly, as regards the manner in which we associate ideas in a state of excitement”, meaning, to delve into everyday emotions, to order them and translate them into everyday language, not forgetting the capacity our imagination has to associate images and ideas. Do you see how old-fashioned Byron seems by comparison?

I’m not trying to defend Byron or Shelley, Sophie mused, I just think that in order to judge a poet’s style one must take into account the rhetoric of his forebears. I mean, rhetoric is like a pendulum, isn’t it? There are periods when everyday speech and writing seem to be in conflict, such as in the works of Milton or Shakespeare, until that exclusively poetic language becomes mannered, giving way, so to speak, to Pope, and then poetry moves closer to speech again, as in some of Coleridge’s or Wordsworth’s poems. It strikes me that the swings of the pendulum have their propitious moments, and that a poet with a good ear should know at what point the pendulum is with regard to the poetry in his language. Hans said with admiration: We must include that idea in the introduction. Yes, Sophie went on, I see it like a set of scales, and perhaps Wordsworth is right, and now is one of those moments. Hans agreed: We could do with a dose of it here in Germany. We are constantly seeking purity, which is regrettable. And in my view poetry that seeks purity becomes puritanical, true lyricism is the opposite, how can I describe it? It is pure impure emotion. That’s what I like about modern English poetry, its impurities. However lofty, it never loses faith in the value of immediate reality, as in “the fancy cannot cheat so well”. That’s why (Hans went on, skipping forward through the pages of the book) I left Keats, my favourite, until last. I was very keen for us to translate him together, beginning with Ode to a Nightingale . A simple nightingale would never satisfy a German poet, he’d have to hear the cosmos or at the very least a gigantic mountain.

Sophie had just finished reading the last words of Ode to a Nightingale . Hans remained silent for a few moments, eyes hal-fclosed, savouring the possible sound of those words in a different tongue. Then he asked Sophie to read the last verse again more slowly. “Forlorn!” she began reading again softly. “The very word is like a bell to toll me back from thee to my sole self …” Hans simultaneously copied out his translation, which she read immediately afterwards.

Sophie reread the final verse. She noted down fades next to vanishes (I think it’s more powerful, she said, crossing her leg), she wrote down has flown next to has gone (we lose a rhyme, she explained, slipping off a shoe, but we gain in accuracy, because music flies like a bird) and submerged instead of interred (it fits better with the stream, she explained, letting her other shoe fall to the floor). But if the song is submerged , Hans protested gazing at her feet, we sacrifice the idea of the nightingale not just flying away, but in some way dying in the poem. I see, Sophie replied, moistening her lips, what about buried , which sounds more terrible? Possibly, said Hans chewing his lip. Sophie read aloud the different versions. I like it, she nodded, standing up, although the poet seems pleased the dream has ended, as if by bidding the nightingale farewell he had vanquished it — farewell! Fly away! I’ve awoken, you can no longer deceive me, I know that nothing is eternal. True, Hans grinned, seeing what she was driving at, but don’t you think Keats was saying the same thing? I’m not sure, Sophie said, standing in front of him, I thought he was sad that the nightingale’s spell has been broken. The question is, Hans said, rising from the table, whether when he writes: “the fancy cannot cheat so well”, he means: what a pity the dream can’t deceive us for ever! Or is it his pride speaking: you can’t fool me now! — like someone suddenly seeing the light. Exactly! Sophie said, running her hands over Hans’s thighs, doesn’t the same apply to “deceiving elf”? Is he writing with longing or regret? It seems to me, Hans said, spreading his legs, that Keats was saying farewell to his dreams, he was sick and knew what awaited him, he no longer had time for certain things, he wanted to come down to earth, to be as real as possible, I assume that’s what happens when you have tuberculosis. Perhaps, said Sophie, her hand reaching his upper thigh, and yet what a beautiful and ambiguous poem! Precisely because he knew he hadn’t long to live, I think, Keats was struggling to create a voice that would outlast his own, a means to fly away with the nightingale, as though the nightingale itself were poetry, don’t you think? “Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!”—a bird that sings for all eternity. Do you know what? Hans said, unfastening his belt, I think both interpretations are right, Keats must have thought: How wonderful it would be to live in an imaginary world where death doesn’t exist and one can sing for all eternity! Why not shield oneself from pain with this fantasy? Even as he was thinking: Yet each day I feel more pain, my condition is deteriorating, and when I sing blood pours from my mouth, how can I believe nightingales live for ever? Farewell, let them fly away, I’ll spend what remains of my life down here.