Actually, the way I interpretted it was that he is listing three things that *some* people are remorseful of and these are reasons why some people's minds "blank in the glare". But this is not the reason for him.Quote:
Originally Posted by Virgil
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Actually, the way I interpretted it was that he is listing three things that *some* people are remorseful of and these are reasons why some people's minds "blank in the glare". But this is not the reason for him.Quote:
Originally Posted by Virgil
Yes, the religion thing...Quote:
Originally Posted by The Unnamable
This was one of the most powerful messages in his poem, to me.
When we are confronted with the "Nothingness" after death, it is a "special way of being afraid". Why are we afraid of nothing? It's not "hell" we are afraid of, in this case, but nothing. Larkin is bashing religion here (my take) saying that religion tries to comfort us when we are faced with death. Don't be afraid, you will go to heaven and be with God and all the angels in this wonderful kingdom and live happily ever after... Or, it tries to instill even more fear in us: Obey this law/rule, behave like we tell you or when you die you will go to hell- woooo, scarey place, you better believe what we say and listen to us or be punished forever! Perhaps Larkin uses the past tense "Religion used to try" to suggest that he gave religion a try, and it didn't work for his needs?
But if there is no remorse, why mention anything. A poem is a condensation of thought. It's only got a few hundred words. Every word has to count. If there is any elaboration, it is open to scrutny. Larkin as an experienced poet knows this.Quote:
Originally Posted by genoveva
I take it as his true feelings toward it. "created to pretend" obviously shows his disbelief. "musical brocade" suggests an elaborate past tradition, of some wonderment and culture. "vast moth-eaten" suggests it has passed its time and no longer applies. I take his tone as he cannot believe in religion, but he's not happy in his disbelief. Like I said, every stanza is a statement of his wretchedness. I keep returning to that first line (which sets the tone) where he's half-drunk every night, and the last stanza where the sky is like clay.Quote:
Originally Posted by The Unnamable
It occured to me on reading this, that one reason I've had relatively little to say on this poem is that it is so "blunt" and "unembellished." I feel as though he's said everything so perfectly and simply in the lines that they speak for themselves in a way I could never speak for them. Of course, isn't that always the way we feel when analyzing really good poems?Quote:
What I find interesting about the analyses of this poem is the way they contrast with the blunt, unembellished starkness of Larkin. Perhaps we can deal more easily with what the poem reveals to us if we focus more on how he’s saying it? Everything about it says, this is the truth and there’s nothing more to be said. In the end, we all die and, in the profoundest sense, we die alone.
It's funny because that line brings up a very literal image for me of a room in the Museo del'Opera del Duomo in Siena (where I lived for a few months) where they have old antiphonals on display near to elaborately embroidered priestly vestments, hundreds of years old, in glass cases. The old fabric is worn and moth-eaten in many places (though still quite beautiful in its antique way). I used to go there often and it always struck me, the strangeness of this sacred clothing and sacred music preserved in the secular space of a museum (with a three euro charge at the door). It's interesting the way taking these things out of a sacramental context very forcibly makes the point that they are things "Created to pretend" on a certain level.Quote:
What do people think of his dismissal of religion as “That vast moth-eaten musical brocade/Created to pretend we never die,”?
Virgil, I agree with you about the regrets. It seems to me too that there is some irony in his denial of any regret and his immediate listing of potential regrets. It shows that they are certainly on his mind. At the same time, I think his point is that, terrible though such regrets might be, they don't really matter at all because nothing matters because all will be nothing in the end. Ultimately even terrible regrets look comforting next to the realization that we "shall be lost in always. Not to be here,/Not to be anywhere,/And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true." Cheery stuff that.Quote:
But if there is no remorse, why mention anything. A poem is a condensation of thought. It's only got a few hundred words. Every word has to count. If there is any elaboration, it is open to scrutny. Larkin as an experienced poet knows this.
I think this fits with my earlier comment. Perhaps this is an example of the art that conceals itself but I see Larkin (or the narrator, if you prefer) in that poem as a man first and a poet later. It’s the experienced man and not the experienced poet that I hear first and foremost.Quote:
Originally Posted by Virgil
I’d agree up to a point but then I also agree with your observation that “It seems to me too that there is some irony in his denial of any regret and his immediate listing of potential regrets. It shows that they are certainly on his mind. At the same time, I think his point is that, terrible though such regrets might be, they don't really matter at all because nothing matters because all will be nothing in the end. Ultimately even terrible regrets look comforting next to the realization that we "shall be lost in always. Not to be here,/Not to be anywhere,/And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true." Cheery stuff that.”Quote:
Originally Posted by Petrarch's Love
So your analysis has helped reinforce something important. Instead of taking us away from the starkness of the poem, you make us more aware of it. It reminds me of the scene in Measure for Measure between Isabella and Claudio. Claudio is facing execution. The Duke has just tried to prepare Claudio to face his death with a fairly long speech beginning,
DUKE:
Be absolute for death; either death or life
Shall thereby be the sweeter. Reason thus with life:
If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing
That none but fools would keep: a breath thou art,
Servile to all the skyey influences,
That dost this habitation, where thou keep'st,
Hourly afflict: merely, thou art death's fool;
These are fine words, in theory but Claudio’s own apprehension of death is far more immediate and ‘human’:
CLAUDIO:
Ay, but to die, and go we know not where;
To lie in cold obstruction and to rot;
This sensible warm motion to become
A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit
To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside
In thrilling region of thick-ribbed ice;
To be imprison'd in the viewless winds,
And blown with restless violence round about
The pendent world; or to be worse than worst
Of those that lawless and incertain thought
Imagine howling: 'tis too horrible!
The weariest and most loathed worldly life
That age, ache, penury and imprisonment
Can lay on nature is a paradise
To what we fear of death.
Look at the finality of that second line. That’s what happens to us when we die – we rot. It’s worth looking more closely at the differences in the two speeches.
Funny you should mention that scene from Measure for Measure: I was thinking of the same thing on Thursday and meant to paste it here and forgot. Thanks.
There are three things Larkin brings up that he dispells, unconvincingly to me: remorse, wretchedness, religion. As to religion, if he doesn't feel something towards it, why bring it up? The tone of the poem suggests to me that it could have changed his life, but he's too rational in this modern age to accept it. But he does bring it up and one must take note of that.
Monday, time for a new poem:
Between Going And Staying
Octavio Paz
Between going and staying the day wavers,
in love with its own transparency.
The circular afternoon is now a bay
where the world in stillness rocks.
All is visible and all elusive,
all is near and can't be touched.
Paper, book, pencil, glass,
rest in the shade of their names.
Time throbbing in my temples repeats
the same unchanging syllable of blood.
The light turns the indifferent wall
into a ghostly theater of reflections.
I find myself in the middle of an eye,
watching myself in its blank stare.
The moment scatters. Motionless,
I stay and go: I am a pause.
Lovely choice, Riesa.
I like this poem, Riesa. I'm not familiar with Paz's work, but I like the richness of the imagery here. I think I like these lines best:
The idea of it is very simple but effective, and affecting. I think it's very difficult to write about these sorts of still moments well, but this poem glows.Quote:
The circular afternoon is now a bay
where the world in stillness rocks.
*sigh* He is such an artist! Thank you for this! I especially love the above two lines. And, the last "I stay and go: I am a pause." :thumbs_upQuote:
Originally Posted by Riesa
Seems like an interesting poem. I'm always a little wary of diving into a translation. So much depends on the translator. I'm not familiar with Paz, but i'll explore his background and then I'll take a crack at this.
I absentmindedly didn't even take into consideration that this was a translation when I first commented (rolls eyes and hits head in amazement at missing obvious :lol: ). That explains a lot about my initial reaction to the form and sound of the poem. I thought it was enjoyable even translated though, which is a compliment to the translator, and also to the power of the imagery in any language. Could you tell us who the translator was Riesa? For those who know the language (or, like me, have enough of another romance language to get the sense of it), here's the Spanish version.
Entre irse y quedarse
Entre irse y quedarse duda el día,
enamorado de su transparencia.
La tarde circular es ya bahía:
en su quieto vaivén se mece el mundo.
Todo es visible y todo es elusivo,
todo está cerca y todo es intocable.
Los papeles, el libro, el vaso, el lápiz
reposan a la sombra de sus nombres.
Latir del tiempo que en mi sien repite
la misma terca sílaba de sangre.
La luz hace del muro indiferente
un espectral teatro de reflejos.
En el centro de un ojo me descubro;
no me mira, me miro en su mirada.
Se disipa el instante. Sin moverme,
yo me quedo y me voy: soy una pausa.
Octavio Paz