Anne Carson
The Life of Towns
Towns are the illusion that things hang
together somehow, my pear, your winter.
I am a scholar of towns, let God commend
that. To explain what I do is simple
enough. A scholar is someone who takes a
position. From which position, certain
lines become visible. You will at first
think I am painting the lines myself; it’s not so. I merely know where to stand to see the lines
that are there. And the mysterious
thing, it is a very mysterious thing, is how these lines do paint
themselves. Before there were any edges
or angles or virtue—who was there to ask the questions? Well, let’s not get carried away with
exegesis. A scholar is someone who knows
how to limit himself to the matter at hand.
Matter which has painted itself within lines
constitutes a town. Viewed in this way
the world is, as we say, an open book. But what about variant readings? For example, consider the town defined for us
by Lao Tzu in the twenty-third chapter of the Tao Te Ching:
A man of the way
conforms to the way; a man of virtue
Conforms to virtue; a
man of loss conforms to loss. He
Who conforms to the
way is gladly accepted by the way;
He who conforms to
virtue is gladly accepted by virtue;
He who conforms to
loss is gladly accepted by loss.
This sounds like a town of some importance,
where a person could reach beyond himself, or meet himself, as he chose. But another scholar (Kao) takes a different
position on the Town of
I am not being
trivial. Your separateness could kill
you unless I take it from you as a sickness. What if you get stranded in the
town where pears and winter are variants for one another? Can you eat winter? No.
Can you live six months inside a frozen pear? No.
But there is a place, I know the place, where you will stand and see
pear and winter side by side as walls stand by silence. Can you punctuate yourself into silence? You will see the edges cut away from you,
back into a world of another kind—back into real emptiness, some would
say. Well, we are objects in a wind that
stopped, is my view. There are regular
towns and irregular towns, there are wounded towns and sober towns and fiercely
remembered towns, there are useless but passionate towns that battle on, there
are towns where the snow slides from the roofs of the houses with such force
that the victims are killed, but there are no empty towns (just empty scholars)
and there is no regret. Now move along.
Sumptuous Destitution
"Sumptuous
destitution"
Your opinion gives me a serious feeling: I would like to be what you deem me
(Emily Dickinson letter 319 to Thomas Higginson)
is a phrase
You see my position is benighted.
(Emily Dickinson letter 268 to Thomas Higginson)
scholars use
She was much too enigmatical a being for me to solve in an hour's
interview.
(Thomas Higginson letter 342a to Emily Dickinson)
of female
God made me [Sir] Master -- I didn't be -- myself.
(Emily Dickinson letter 233 to Thomas Higginson)
silence.
Rushing among my small heart -- and pushing aside the blood --
(Emily Dickinson letter 248 to Thomas Higginson)
Save what you can, Emily.
And when I try to organize -- my little Force explodes -- and leaves me bare
and charred.
(Emily Dickinson letter 271 to Thomas Higginson)
Save every bit of thread.
Have you a little chest to put the Alive in?
(Emily Dickinson letter 233 to Thomas Higginson)
One of them may be
By Cock, said Ophelia.
(Emily Dickinson letter 268 to Thomas Higginson)
the way out of here.
Father's
Old Blue Cardigan
Now it hangs on the back of the
kitchen chair
where I always sit, as it did
on the back of the kitchen chair where he always sat.
I put it on whenever I
come in,
as he did, stamping
the snow from his boots.
I put it on and sit in the
dark.
He would not have done this.
Coldness comes paring down from the moonbone in the sky.
His laws were a secret.
But I remember the moment at which I knew
he was going mad inside his laws.
He was standing at the
turn of the driveway when I arrived.
He had on the blue cardigan with the buttons done up all the way to the top.
Not only because it was a hot July afternoon
but the look on his face —
as a small child who has been dressed by some aunt early in the morning
for a long trip
on cold trains and windy platforms
will sit very straight at the edge of his seat
while the shadows like long fingers
over the haystacks that sweep past
keep shocking him
because he is riding backwards.
from Men in the Off Hours, Knopf
Publishers
