Warmest wishes to you, dear writerly readers, for a fabulously felicitous and swirlingly creative 2019.
With the new year two brilliant titles have just been added to my list of recommended literary travel memoirs: J. M. Synge’s The Aran Islands and Ryszard Kapuscinski’s Travels with Herodotus. The former is a classic of the Irish Renaissance published in 1907; the latter, the memoir / meditation of an extraordinary Polish international journalist of covering India, China, Africa and more in the 1950s and ’60s. Both of these memoirs were written well before the advent of smartphones and social media and in many ways reading them–and on paper– felt like… profound relief. I’ll have more to say about smartphones, social media, and literary travel writing in next Monday’s post.
Speaking of writing, I can scarcely believe it but in 2019 “Madam Mayo,” this veritable Methusela of blogdom, will celebrate its 13th year. And it has been blinking & beeping on my “to do” list for nearly all of these many years to take my own advice and get off of the Google platform onto self-hosted WordPress.
In the last days of 2018, I finally did it– but not exactly. Various research surfaris yielded the intelligence that blogger-to-Wordpress migrations oftentimes work smoothly but, perchance generate headache-inducing snafus. Moreover, there is a huff-and-puff of a learning curve for any new digital endeavor. Hence I plan to keep that ginormous olde blog parked right where it’s always been at https://madammayo.blogspot.com, while offering new posts (and reposting selected posts of yore, bit by bit as I see fit) at this WordPress self-hosted site, www.madam-mayo.com.
If you subscribe by email, I hope you’ll consider resubscribing from the new WordPress blog instead. (I think that button works over there on the sidebar; if not, it will soon.)
What can you expect from “Madam Mayo” in 2019?
Front and center, I’ll be bringing back the Marfa Mondays Podcasting Project, finishing up podcasts 21-24, as I continue to work on my book on Far West Texas.
My book Meteor, which won the Gival Poetry Prize for publication in 2018, will, after all, be published early this year, so look for some posts on poetry as well.
In addition, as in 2018, the second Monday of each month will be dedicated to topics for my writing workshop, and the fourth to a Q & A with a fellow writer. Next up is the intrepid David A. Taylor, author of Cork Wars.
With México en las miradas de Estados Unidos (Editorial Las Animas, 2017), Mexican writer and historian José N. Iturriaga has edited an anthology that is at once a vital scholarly contribution towards the history of Mexican and of US-Mexico relations, and an “armchair read,” as I like to think of those box-of-chocolate tomes one can dip into here and there, on some quiet afternoon (perhaps with a bit of a birdsong and by a burbling fountain…) In short, this is a book I will keep on an eye-level shelf of my working library, but also return to time and again just for the fun of it. (For this reason furnishings for a proper working library include an upholstered armchair and ottoman!)
For those who can read Spanish and have even an
iota of interest in Mexico, México en las miradas de Estados Unidos is
a must-have. Over 130 American voices are represented here, and of an
astonishing variety, from the early 19th century to recent years, and of all
sensibilities. To quote [my translation] from Iturriaga’s introduction, they
are:
“traders and engineers, adventurers and sailors, explorers and historians, photographers and archaeologists, diplomats and journalists, novelists and miners, geographers and artists, poets and filmmakers, priests and planters, scientists, various soldiers, a comic and a president.”
That comic would be Groucho Marx, and the
president, James K. Polk.
Many of these authors will be familiar to those
who who have already read widely on Mexico in English: Fanny Chambers
Gooch, John Kenneth Turner, John Reed, Katherine Anne Porter, Alma Reed,
William Spratling, John Steinbeck, William Burroughs, John Womak.
And I was delighted to see so many of my personal
favorites, among them, pioneer trader and explorer Josiah Gregg, Princess Salm
Salm (suffice to say, had Andy Warhol been alive in 1866 they would have been amiguísimos),
Charles Macomb Flandrau, and my own dear amigo, the accomplished biographer and
historian Michael K.
Schuessler.
I am immensely honored to find my own work in
such company, with an excerpt from my novel based on the true story of Mexico’s
half-American prince, The Last Prince
of the Mexican Empire.
Although I have been reading on Mexican history
for decades now, and in fact collect memoirs of Mexico in English, many of
Iturriaga’s selections were new to me, for example, General John E. Wool,
soldier Thomas Yates Lundie, traveler Maude Mason Austin, and more.
Read about José N. Iturriaga’s many works,
including the recent Saberes y delirios, his fine novel about the
incomparable 19th century naturalist Alexander von Humboldt, here.
Another year of unusually intensive reading, mainly for my book in-progress on Far West Texas, hence this list is extra crunchy with geology, dinosaurs, Westerns, guns, and technology (yet somehow, like a pair of strawberry puddings amongst the platters of BBQ, Emma and The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie slipped in there…)
In the Shadow of the Machine: The Prehistory of the Computer and the Evolution of Consciousness by Jeremy Naydler The maintream mediasphere seems to be overlooking this book, and not surprisingly, for it has been published by a small press that specializes in esoteric subjects. If “esoteric” gives you the readerly “cooties,” well, chill, if you possibly can because Naydler’s In the Shadow of the Machine stands as major contribution to the history of both technology and consciousness. If you’re wading through any of the current best-sellers on the perils of too much screentime and AI and all that, fine and important as some of those works may be (more about Carr below), I would suggest that instead, for a more panoramic and penetrating view of the challenge, start with Naydler.
2. Tie:
Death Comes for the Archbishop by Willa Cather Historical fiction closely based on New Mexico and Church history but in all a soaringly lyrical work of empathic imagination. Deservedly one of the grand classics of 20th century American literature.
Emma by Jane Austen Ye olde read-it-by-the-fireside-with-a-cup-of-tea romance. But it’s a more serious work of literary art than it might appear; as a writer of fiction myself I found much to admire in Austen’s Emma. On that note, dear writerly readers, you might find of interest this piece in the Guardian.
The Rise and Fall of the Dinosaurs: The Untold Story of a Lost World by Steve Brusatte Dino-out! Finally, the whole millions-upon-millions-upon-millions of years of dinosaurs falls into parade-like Ordnung! More fascinating stuff about T-Rex & Co. than I ever thought I would find fascinating! Super nerdy in the friendliest, most readable, and authoritative way. If you read one book on dinos, let it be this one.
Ten Arguments For Deleting Your Social Media Accounts Right Now by Jaron Lanier If you know who Jaron Lanier is, you can understand why he, and probably only he can get away with such a title for a commercially published book, one that most people today, and that would include writers with books to promote, would consider hoot-out-loud humbug. But perhaps they would not if [continue reading]
Dense yet elegantly lucid, Stephen L. Talbott’s The Future Does Not Compute: Transcending the Machines in Our Midst was published by O’Reilly Associates in 1995, on the eve of the explosion of email, well before that of social media. Astonishingly, it delineates the nature of our now King Kong-sized challenges with technology, when those challenges were, so it now seems, but embryonic. And Talbott writes with unusual authority, grounded in both philosophy and his many years of writing and editing for O’Reilly Media, a prime mover in the economic / cultural juggernaut of a complex, increasingly dispersed from its origin in California’s Santa Clara Valley, that has become known as “Silicon Valley.” CONTINUE READING
I’m not where I want to be with my writing here at the end of 2018 and Carr’s works detail many of the reasons why. But I’m moving forward by having deactivated my FB, reduced Twitter to once-a-month-ish courtesy tweet for my Q & A with another writer; generally ignoring LinkedIn, and still– still! thumb cemented in the dike!– refusing to use Whatsapp.
But please know, dear writerly reader, that even
as I wend my way, I would not pretend to know what would be best for you. And
this the Matterhorn of the challenge of our time: digital technologies that
might be zest for one person can prove hazardous for another. One needs both the
fortitude and courage to evaluate one’s own path– taking into account one’s
own circumstances, talents, weaknesses, predilections, obligations, and goals–
then strategize, and restrategize as needed.
My sense is that, primed by Carr’s and others’ works
in this vein, our cultural paradigm will definitively shift this winter with
the publication of Cal Newport’s Digital
Minimalism. Never mind what Newport actually has to
say (though as a big fan of his Deep Work, I expect it will be
juicy); in simply coining the term
“digital minimalism” Newport helps us move towards richer
and more effective ways of thinking about how, given our personal and
professional goals and well-being, we can optimize our use (or nonuse) of
digital technologies.
As I write now in December 2018 the reigning
paradigm is the same one we’ve had since forever: if it’s digital and new it
must be better; those who resist are old fogeys. It’s a crude
paradigm, a cultural fiction. And it has lasted so long time in part because
those who resisted either were old fogeys and/or for the most part could not
articulate their objections beyond a vaguely whiney, “I don’t like
it.”
As an early adopter of digital technologies for
decades now (wordprocessing in 1987, email in 1996, website in 1998, blog in
2006, podcast and Youtube channel 2009, bought a first generation iPad and
first generation Kindle, self-pubbed Kindles in 2010, etc.), I have more than
earned the cred to say, no, my little grasshoppers, no, if it is digital and it
is new it might, actually, maybe, in many instances, be very bad for you.
In other words, adopting a given digital
technology does not necessarily equate with “progress”; neither does
not adopting a given digital technology necessarily equate with backwardness. I
so often hear that “there is no choice.” There is in fact is a
splendiferous array of choices, and each with a cascade of consequences. But we
have to have our eyes, ears, and minds open enough to perceive them, and the
courage to act accordingly.
I wish my wiser self could have time traveled to
tell my younger self, Be more alert to the ways you invest your time and
attention. Be aware that the digital can be, in some ways and sometimes, more
ephemeral than paper (and not necessarily ecologically so friendly, either).
Social media mavens are not reading the kinds of books you want to write
anyway, for they lack the time and the attention span. Social media
“friends” may be but are not necessarily your friends; and until you
try to communicate with and encounter them outside these networked public
spaces, e.g., in the real world, and via one-on-one private communication such
as snail mail, telephone, and email, you’re in a hall of mirrors. With almost
every app, every platform, some corporation is harvesting your attention and
data for shareholder value– and all the while conjuring up new ways to grab
even more. Life goes by, zip.
This year the second Monday is dedicated to a post for my writing workshop students, except when not. This post is a “not”– or rather, not exactly; I would hope that my workshop students, and indeed any and all English-language readers, may find it of interest.
This interview was an honor, and a most welcome opportunity to say some things that have been looming ever larger in my mind.
MEXICAN WRITER LUIS FELIPE LOMELÍ ASKS QUESTIONS IN ENGLISH; LA ESCRITORA ESTADOUNIDENSE C.M. MAYO CONTESTA EN ESPAÑOL
DECEMBER
2018
LUIS
FELIPE LOMELÍ: Where you were born and where have you lived?
C.M. MAYO: Nací en El Paso, Texas, en la frontera, pero crecí en el norte de California, la parte ahora conocida como “Silicon Valley.” He vivido en Chicago, Washington DC, y otros lugares pero puedo decir que he pasado el mayor número de años de mi vida en la Ciudad de México.
[I was born in El Paso, Texas, on the US- Mexican border, but I grew up in northern California, in what is now “Silicon Valley.” I’ve lived in Chicago, Washington DC, and other places, but at this point I have lived more years of my life in Mexico City than anywhere else.]
LFL:
Your profession?
CMM: Soy novelista, ensayista, poeta y traductora literaria.
[I am a novelist, essayist, poet, and literary translator.]
LFL:
What drove you to Mexico, to live in Mexico (where and for how long) and to
write about Mexico, to embrace Spanish as part of your culture?
CMM: ¡El amor! Me casé con un mexicano, un compañero de la
Universidad de Chicago, y recién casados vinimos a vivir a la Ciudad de México.
Han sido 32 años, la mayoría de ellos en la Ciudad de México.
[Love! I married a Mexican, a classmate at the University of Chicago, and directly after we got married we came to live in Mexico City. We’ve been married 32 years now, and most of these years we have been in Mexico City.]
LFL:
What do you think about U.S. immigrants that live in Mexico, what do they do
there, why are they there? Do they chose particular places to live?
CMM: Conozco mucha gente como yo, que venimos a residir en México por motivos personales. Otras también han venido por motivos profesionales, por ejemplo en la academia, en los artes y en las actividades empresariales, en todo tipo de empresas. Por supuesto allí están las comunidades de jubilados y artistas, en lugares tales como San Miguel de Allende, Ajijic, Los Cabos, y demás. A mí me parece que les ha convenido venir a México porque el clima invernal es más suave, el costo de vivir es menor que en Estados Unidos, y también por la aventura. ¡Algunas personas tienen mayores aventuras que otras!
[I know many people such as myself, who came to Mexico for personal reasons. Many also come for professional reasons, especially in academia, the arts. And others for business, all sorts of businesses. Then there are of course the retirees and artists living in San Miguel de Allende, Ajijic, Los Cabos, and so on, and it seems to me that most of them have come south because the winter weather is better, it’s cheaper to live there than the U.S., and for the adventure. Some have more adventures than others!]
Los norteamericanos han estado viniendo a vivir en México desde hace mucho más de un siglo. En los 1840s empiezan a llegar algunos comerciantes a través del Santa Fe Trail, el camino que conecta la ciudad de St Louis, Missouri con el Camino Real de Tierra Adentro, esto es, el camino real desde Santa Fe hacia a Ciudad Chihuahua, Durango, Querétaro, y la Ciudad de México. Y después, en la segunda mitad del siglo 19, por ejemplo, muchos ingenieros estadounidenses vinieron a México, ingenieros de minas, de ferrocarriles, de petróleo. Periodistas, rancheros, hacendados, novelistas, hoteleros, misioneros. Y aún mercenarios. Por ejemplo, muchos estadounidenses lucharon en varias facciones de diversos conflictos en México, incluyendo en la Revolución. Y en algún momento inmigró un grupo de mormones. Otro de menonitas.
[Americans have been coming to live in Mexico for well over a century. We start to see a few traders coming to live in Mexico in the 1840s, coming down on the Santa Fe Trail, connecting St Louis, Missouri with the Camino Real de Tierra Adentro, that is to say, the old royal road down to Ciudad Chihuahua, Durango, Querétaro, Mexico City. And later, in the second half of the 19th century, many U.S. engineers came to Mexico—mining engineers, railroad engineers, petroleum engineers. Journalists, ranchers, planation owners, novelists, hotel owners, missionaries. And even mercenaries. For example, many Americans fought in conflicts in Mexico, including in the Mexican Revolution. At one point Mormons migrated into Mexico. And Menonites.]
Uno de los personajes de mi novela está basado en Alice Green,
la hija de una familia prominente de Washington DC. Su abuelo fue un ayudante
del General Washington en la Guerra de Independencia. En Washington ella se
casó con un diplomático mexicano, Angel de Iturbide, quién era de casualidad el
segundo hijo del emperador de México, Agustín de Iturbide. Ella y su esposo
vinieron a residir a la Ciudad de México en los 1850s.
[One of the characters in my novel is based on Alice Green, who was the daughter of a prominent family in Washington DC. Her grandfather was an aide-de-camp to General Washington in the American Revolution. In Washington she married a Mexican diplomat, Angel de Iturbide, who happened to be the second son of Mexico’s Emperor, Agustín de Ituride. She and her husband came to live in Mexico City in the 1850s.]
Otra historia del siglo 19, muy diferente, sobre la cual estoy escribiendo actualmente, es la de los negros seminoles, quienes eran los esclavos de los indígenas Seminoles, originalmente de Florida. Pues si, es poco conocido pero algunos indígenas tenían, compraban y vendían esclavos de descendencia africana. Poco después de que el gobierno de Estados Unidos obligó a los Seminoles a mudarse a Territorio indio, los negros seminoles se escaparon, caminando a través del desierto de Texas hacia México. El gobierno mexicano les otorgó terreno en cambio de que los hombres ayudaran al ejercito mexicano en la persecución de los apaches y otros indigenas nómadas en el norte de México. Con la conclusión de la Guerra Civil en Estados Unidos y la Emancipación de los esclavos, muchos de los seminoles negros migraron de regreso a Texas para hacer lo mismo, ayudar al Ejercito de los Estados Unidos en cazar a los apaches, comanches y otros indigenas nómadas en las Guerras Indias. Todavía existe una comunidad de los descendientes de los negros seminoles en Brackettville, Texas y otra en el norte de México.
[Another very different story, one I’m writing about now, is that of the Seminole Negros, who were the slaves of the Seminole Indians, originally in Florida. It’s little known but it’s a fact, some Indians kept and bought and sold slaves of African descent. Soon after the U.S. government forced the Seminoles and their slaves to Indian Territory, the Seminole Negros fled, trekking from Oklahoma over the Texas desert, into Mexico. In exchange for land, their men worked as scouts for the Mexican Army, which was hunting down Apaches and other nomadic indigenous peoples in northern Mexico; and after the U.S. Civil War, with Emancipation, many Seminole Negroes migrated back into Texas, to do the same work for the U.S. Army, in the Indian Wars. There is a community of the descendents of the Seminole Negroes in Brackettville, Texas, and another in northern Mexico.]
La inmigración de estadounidenses hacia México es una historia
extraordinariamente rica y compleja, pues cada persona, cada familia tiene su
propia historia. Es más, en México hay inmigrantes de varias partes del mundo.
[U.S. immigration to Mexico is an extraordinarily rich and complex history, or rather, many histories, for each person, each family has their own. Moreover, Mexico has immigrants from many parts of the world.]
LFL:
What is your impression and/or conception about this cultural exchange?
CMM: En cuanto la comunicación intercultural entre Estados Unidos y México, yo diría que hay muchos enlaces, muchos acercamientos, mucho que tenemos en común, mucho que podemos celebrar, pero no es lo que podría ser. Creo que algunas razones de eso—algunas—tienen sus raíces por allá en el siglo 16, en la rivalidad entre la España católica y la Inglaterra protestante.
[As for US-Mexico intercultural understanding today, I would say there are many connections, many bridges, much that we all have in common, and can celebrate, but it’s not what it could be. I acually believe that some reasons for this—some— have their roots all the way back in 16th century, to the rivalry between Catholic Spain and Protestant England.]
Pero enfocamos en cuestiones literarias. Hoy, un elemento, el
cual es tanto una causa como un síntoma de la falta de comunicación
intercultural, es que relativamente pocos libros se traducen del español al
inglés o del inglés al español. Como porcentaje de libros publicados es
minúsulo. Como resultado, muy, muy pocos escritores mexicanos se conocen en
Estados Unidos. Octavio Paz, quién ganó el premio Nobel. Carlos Fuentes… quizá
Juan Rulfo… algunos pocos lectores en inglés han oído de Carlos Monsiváis,
Elena Poniatowska, Angeles Mastretta, Ignacio Solares, para nombrar unos de los
distinguidos escritores contemporáneos mexicanos cuyos libros han sido
traducidos al inglés. La lista de nombres conocidos disminuye en un parpadeo.
[But to focus on literary questions. Today, one factor, which is both a cause and a symptom of problems with intercultural communication, is that relatively few books are translated from Spanish into English, or from English into Spanish. As a percentage of what original work is published it’s minuscule. As a result, very, very few Mexican writers are known in the US. Octavio Paz, who won the Nobel Prize. Carlos Fuentes…maybe Juan Rulfo… a very few will have heard of Carlos Monsiváis, Elena Poniatowska, Angeles Mastretta, Ignacio Solares, to name a few of Mexico’s distinguished contemporary writers who have had books translated into English… The list of recognizable names dwindles in a blink.]
Y por cierto un escritor mexicano destacado quién debe de ser más conocido en inglés es Luis Felipe Lomelí.
[And by the way, an outstanding Mexican writer named Luis Felipe Lomelí should be much better known in English.]
En México cuando voy a una librería mexicana, en cuanto a libros
de literatura traducidos del inglés, por lo general encuentro best-sellers,
Harry Potter, y así, y quizá algunos clásicos. Shakespeare, por ejemplo. Ay,
acabo de mencionar dos obras británicas. Edgar Allen Poe. Ernest Hemingway.
Ahora que lo pienso, conozco un par de poetas mexicanos quienes les encantan
los Beats, William Burroughs, Jack Kerouac. El último grito en los 1950s. Hay
muchos ejemplos per, a grandes rasgos, así es la situación.
[In Mexico when I go into a Mexican bookstore, as far as books of serious literature translated from the English, I generally find best-sellers, Harry Potter, and the like, and a few classics. Shakespeare, for example. Ha, I just mentioned two British works. Edgar Allen Poe. Ernest Hemingway. Now that I think about it, I know a few Mexican poets who love the Beats, William Burroughs, Jack Kerouac. Hot stuff in the 1950s. There are many more examples but, in general terms, this is the situation.]
Podemos señalar el prejucio, la ignorancia, el conservativismo
de los editores, pero podemos avanzar más por el camino de la comprehensión en
reconocer, primeramente, que lectores—en todo el mundo—prefieren leer libros
originalmente escritos en su propio idioma. Segundo, reconocer el gran sapo
gordo del hecho de que la traducción literaria es cara. Y así debe ser, puesto
que traducir todo un libro es una labor que requiere muchos conocimientos y
mucho tiempo. Aún así, los traductores literarios ganen muy poco. Cuando
traduzco poemas y cuentos cortos para revistas literarias, como la mayoría de
los traductores literarios, no cobro, o más bien no recibo nada más que dos
ejemplares de la revista. Lo hago como labor de amor, por lo general. Existen
becas y otros apoyos, pero son escasos.
[We could point a finger at prejudice, at ignorance, at publishers’ conservativism, but we can go further down the road towards understanding by acknowledging firstly, that readers—all over the world— prefer to read books originally written in their own language. Secondly, there is the big fat toad of a fact that literary translation is expensive. And rightly so, because it takes a of skill to translate a book, and it takes a lot of time. Even still, translators are poorly paid. When I translate poems and short stories for literary magazines, like most literary translators, I usually do it for free, or I should say, I don’t receive anything other than a couple of copies of the magazine. I do it as a labor of love, usually. There are grants for literary translators, for publishing literary translations. But these are few.]
Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz. Para mí, ésta historia nos dice todo:
Tengo entendido que “Primero Sueño,” el magnum opus de Sor Juana Inés de la
Cruz, la gran poeta mexicana del barroco, una monja quien fue una figura
literaria monumental en las Americas del siglo 17, se traduce al inglés por
primera vez hasta 1983. Afortunadamente fue hecha por John Campion, un
traductor y poeta excelente. El libro está agotado no bastante puedes
Googlearlo y leerlo en su página web, worldatuningfork.com. John Campion, Sor
Juana Inés de la Cruz.
[Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz. For me, this sums it up: “Primero Sueño,” the magnum opus of Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz, Mexico’s great poet of the Baroque, a nun who was a monumental literary figure in the Americas, was first translated into English only in 1983. Fortunately it was by John Campion, a fine translator and a poet himself. The book is out of print but you can Google that up and read it on his webpage, www.worldatuningfork.com. John Campion, Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz.]
Mi mensaje para las escuchas de esta entrevista es que una manera en que tú, como lector, puedes mejorar la comunicación intercultural, es buscar libros más allá de los best-sellers, más allá de los libros que todo el mundo lee, y en especial, buscar traducciones. Por lo general las traducciones se publican por editoriales pequeñas quienes no cuentan con muchos recursos para hacer mercadotécnia. Si no tienes el dinero para comprar un libro, es probable que la biblioteca de tu escuela o universidad o tu biblioteca pública pueda conseguirte un ejemplar. Si no lo ves en su catálogo, no seas tímido, pregúntale al bibliotecario si lo puede conseguir mediante préstamo interbibliotecario o comprarlo para la biblioteca. No pierdes nada en preguntar. Podrías ser felizmente sorprendido.
[My message for those of you listening to this interview is that one way that you, as a reader, can help improve intercultural communication is to look beyond the books on the best-seller table, read beyond the books everybody else is reading, and in particular, hunt for translations. Translations are often brought out by small presses that don’t have much marketing muscle. If you don’t have the money to buy a book, your school, university, or public library can probably get you copy—if you don’t see it in their catalogue, don’t be shy about asking the librarian to get you a copy on interlibrary loan, or even to buy it for the library. It doesn’t hurt to ask. You might be happily surprised.]
Y si tienes ganas de hacer una traducción, que sea al inglés o
al español ¡házla! Por supuesto, si la obra original se encuentra en copyright
y quieres publicar tu traducción, es necesario conseguir el permiso.
[And if you feel moved to translate a text, whether into English or into Spanish, give it a try! Of course, if the original work is still in copyright and you want to publish it you will need to get permission.]
Como lector, tus esfuerzos son importantes. No todo el mundo lee
libros, así que para mucha gente la lectura no les parece una actividad
importante. Pero los lectores tiendan a ser gentes pensantes y de acción. Un
libro, aún leído por poca gente, aún por una sola persona, tiene el
potencial—el potencial— de un poder enorme. Un poder para cambiar el mundo. No
exagero.
[As as reader, your efforts matter. Not everyone reads books, so it might not seem all that important an activity. But those who read books, they tend to be thinkers and doers, so a book, even if read by a few people, even by one person, holds the potential—the potential— for enormous power. Power to change the world. I do not exaggerate.]
En esencia, un libro es un pensamiento grande y complejo
empaquetado en un recipiente hiper-eficiente capaz de llevarlo a través del
tiempo y del espacio.
[A book is, essentially, a large, complex thought packed into a hyper-efficient vessel that can carry it across time and space.]
Déjenme regresar al ejemplo de Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz. Si no
has oído de esta monja del siglo 17, en este instante a través de tu laptop o
smartphone, o aún mejor, yendo a la biblioteca, lee tantito sobre su vida,
algunas líneas de su poesía. Con este pequeño esfuerzo, yo creo que cambia tu
concepto de México, de mujeres y del mundo. Vas a llegar a tus propias
conclusiones, por supuesto, pero tu mundo será ya diferente.
[Let me return to the example of Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz. If you have not heard of this 17th century nun, and you take a moment on your laptop or smartphone, or better yet, to go the library and read up a bit, and you read some lines of her poetry—just that little—I think your whole view of Mexico, of women, and of the world will change. You will draw your own conclusions, of course, but your world will be changed.]
LFL:
And what was your intention or the goal you pursued in editing the Mexico: A
Traveler’s Literary Companion?
Mexico: A Traveler’s Literary Companion, edited by C.M. Mayo. Visit the book’s webpage here.
CMM: Es un retrato de México a través de la ficción y prosa de 24
escritores mexicanos, muchos en traducción por primera vez. No es un Who’s Who,
un Quién es quién de los escritores mexicanos, aunque de hecho incluye
varios escritores muy distinguidos. Más bien ofrece a los lectores en
inglés una introducción a la deliciosísima variedad de la literatura mexicana y
en México mismo: desde los puntos de vista cultural, social, regional. La meta
fue ir más allá de los estereotipos.
[This is a portrait of Mexico in the fiction and prose of 24 Mexican writers, many in translation for the first time. It’s not meant to be a Who’s Who of Mexican writers, although it does include some distinguished writers, but rather, to provide for English-language readers an introduction to the delicious variety in Mexican writing and Mexico itself: cultural, social, regional. To blast beyond clichés!]
Armar el tomo fue para mí un reto nada fácil puesto que la mayor
parte de la literatura mexicana contemporánea, por cierto la más visible,
proviene de la Ciudad de México. No obstante, encontré varias obras
espléndidas, por ejemplo, “La Dama de los Mares” por Agustín Cadena, un relato
ubicado en la costa de Baja California, “Día y noche” por Mónica Lavín en
Cuernavaca, y el relato de Araceli Ardón “No es nada mío” de Querétaro. Les
invito a leer más en mi página web, www.cmmayo.com
[This was quite a job for me as editor because much of contemporary Mexican literary writing, and certainly the most visible, comes out of Mexico City. But I did find many splendid pieces, for example, Agustín Cadena’s “Lady of the Seas,” set in Baja California, Mónica Lavín’s “Day and Night” in Cuernavaca, and Araceli Ardón’s “It Is Nothing of Mine,” set in Querétaro. I invite you to read more on my website, www.cmmayo.com.]
My bookMeteor, which won the Gival Press Poetry Award, will be out in early 2019. I’m working on a brief Q & A about it, and this got me to noodling. One of the standard questions for any poet, any writer, is about their influences. I wrote many of these poems an eon ago; indeed, some are more than 20 years old. The most recent poem in the collection is from 2010. (Why did it take so long to publish? That would be another blog post. Suffice to say, I didn’t make much effort; I was more focused on writing an epic novel and a book about a book and the Mexican Revolution.)
Back when, I would have said that my main influences as a poet were, in alphabetical order, Raymond Carver, Harry Smith, Stevie Smith, Wallace Stevens, and W. B. Yeats. But I think that now, from this distant perspective of 2018, that in writing these poems I was perhaps equally influenced by James Howard Kunstler’s razor-sharp nonfiction, in particular, his The Geography of Nowhere, and by certain musicians prominent in the ’70 and ’80s– not only by their lyrics, but the physical ambiance they create, the trickster, shapeshifting way they pull down the astral by sound, rhythm, the masks of archetypes. In English, we lack vocabulary for this.
This year, with some exceptions, the post for the fourth Monday of the month is dedicated to a Q & A with a fellow writer. This is the last Q & A for 2018; look for the series to resume on the fourth Monday in January 2019.
I had the pleasure of meeting Amy Hale Auker and of hearing her read
from her work back in 2016 at the Women Writing the West conference in Santa
Fe. She’s the author of several works of poetry, fiction and essay, including Rightful
Place, the 2012 WILLA winner for creative nonfiction and Foreword
Reviews Book of the Year for essays. Her latest collection, Ordinary Skin:
Essays from Willow Springs, is a treat for anyone who relishes
fine creative nonfiction– and it’s a vivid and moving look at a life lived
close to the land, on a working ranch in Arizona.
As those of you who follow my blog well know, my
work to date has focused on Mexico, but for a while now I’ve been at work on a
book about Far West Texas, and this had led me to read widely and closely about
the West. It has a grand if sometimes underappreciated literary tradition, so
if you’re not familiar with it, take special note of Amy Hale Auker, and of her
reading recommendations here. You will be richly rewarded.
From the catalog copy for Ordinary Skin:
“Touching on faith and body image and belonging, these essays explore our role in deciding what is favorable or unfavorable, as well as where we someday want to dwell, and who came before us. In that touching, they feel their way with observations about current affairs, drought, mystery, and the hard decisions that face us all as we continue to move toward more questions with fewer answers. This exploration is informed and softened by hummingbirds, Gila monsters, bats, foxes, bears, wildflowers, and hidden seep springs where life goes on whether we are there to see it or not. It is about work in a wild and wilderness environment. In the end, even as life changes drastically around us, we are better off for knowing that the ugly mud bug turns into a jewel-toned dragonfly.”
C.M. MAYO: How might you describe the ideal reader for the essays in Ordinary Skin?
AMY HALE AUKER: Ordinary
Skin is a book for anyone who loves language and story and first person
narrative, who craves an intimate look at the natural world and the land, who
recognizes the value of hard work and sweat with a pause, or many pauses, for
falling in love with life, over and over again. While I think that women will
find the deeper messages of the instinctual feminine, it is also a refresher
course for men on why they love our Mother Earth.
C.M. MAYO: If a reader were to read only one essay in your collection, which would you recommend and why?
AMY HALE AUKER:“Using Tools
Backward.” That essay reflects our sense of place and those who came
before, paving the way, and who we are as we stand in these places.
C. M. MAYO: You have been a longtime participant in cowboy poetry festivals, including the Cowboy Poetry Gathering in Alpine, Texas. My impression is that while cowboy poetry, fiction and song are beloved to many in the western US and Canada and elesewhere, they are also considered exotic, and alas, something to even disdain, by many in the literary communities in urban areas of the Pacific and Atlantic coasts. Your writing seems to me to fall squarely in both camps– cowboy and what I would call (for lack of a better term) literary. Can you offer your thoughts about this? And perhaps comment on what people who read literary prose but who are unfamiliar with cowboy poetry (and cowboy culture generally) might look for and reconsider?
AMY HALE AUKER: I
have to admit to having run with this question directly to my editor and dear
friend, Andy Wilkinson,
who is often a clearer thinker and better communicator about labels and
definitions than I am. I tend to simply write what I write and bang my head
against category later. Wilkinson responded to my query in this way:
“The only way out is to question … artificial categorization. Stevens didn’t write ‘insurance executive’ poetry, Williams didn’t write ‘pediatrics’ poetry, Frost didn’t write ‘farmer’ poetry, etc. Poets write poetry, and though their poems may be about a kind of life, the poets are neither the subjects nor the classifications.”
I agree with Editor Dearest, but would also add
that it is not my job to ask any reader to look more closely at any culture. It
is my responsibility to simply do my job and step back (my clumsy paraphrase of
Lao Tzu). This question looks too closely, in my opinion, at genre, marries me,
as a writer/poet, too closely to a day job, a skill set, a means to earn a
paycheck. Of course, my work in the natural world, with animals, growing food,
informs my writing, my creative process, as did Frost’s… as does Wendell
Berry’s. And yes, there are stereotypes out there, always, surrounding any
profession or region that has been grossly, and often erroneously, romanticized
to the point of becoming myth rather than reality. But an astute reader and
listener will be quick to see where the stereotype breaks down and were reality
shines through.
I would like to add that the elitist view of
literature and life is what furthers the divide in this nation. That the only
writing worthy of consideration can’t come from the pen of someone who grows
food, who works as a peasant, who has shit on their boots, who works with their
hands. This us vs them view of art, literature, and philosophy is
dangerous and furthers our separateness.
C.M. MAYO: Speaking of shit, my own favorite writer on that topic is Gene Logsdon, who called himself “The Contrary Farmer,” and who wrote a book I highly recommend– it’s informative, beautifully written, and hilarious– with the title, Holy Shit.
For someone who appreciates good writing but is unfamiliar with writing about rural life / farming / ranching, apart from your works, what might be a few reading suggestions?
AMY HALE AUKER: I just added Logsdon
to my list of things to read! Thank you.
I hope you will consider all of Wendell Berry’s
work… poetry, prose, essay…. all of it. I highly recommend The Unsettling
of America, essays surrounding the “green
revolution” and the industrialization of agriculture.
Some other authors include James Galvin (Fencing
the Sky), Verlyn Klinkenborg (The Rural Life), and Merrill Gilfillan
(Magpie Rising).
Teresa Jordan wrote a gorgeous memoir, “Ride
the White Horse Home.”
These are just a few, but if you really want to
the peak of the pile, read The Unsettling of America. Berry is
brilliant.
C.M. MAYO: Can you talk about which writers have been the most important influences for your writing– and which ones you are reading now?
AMY HALE AUKER: My influences are
eclectic and many… but I tribute the poetry and songwriting of Andy Wilkinson
as an influence to write any and everything that burns brightly in me. I
tribute Merrill Gilfillan, Jeanette Winterson, E. B. White, Verylyn
Klinkenborg, Barbara Kingsolver, and Edward Abbey with influencing my first
person narrative. Clarissa Pinkola Estes, Natalie Goldbberg, Ann Lamott, and
Julia Cameron are on my “forever shelf.” Recently I started reading
Pema Chodron. I read a lot of fiction when I am writing nonfiction. So, right
now I am reading novels. By my elbow is News of the World by Paulette
Jiles. I love how she writes literary fiction in a western setting, breaking
out of genre.
C.M. MAYO: You have been a consistently productive writer for many years. How has the digital revolution affected your writing? Specifically, has it become more challenging to stay focused with the siren calls of email, texting, blogs, online newspapers and magazines, social media, and such? If so, do you have some tips and tricks you might be able to share?
AMY HALE AUKER: I view my time
as a pie chart. It is important to give of my creative energy consciously.
However, my journey has also led me to consider all of the roles in my life as
part of who I am as a creative being… author, cowboy, grandmother, gardner,
cook, poet, performer, speaker. So, it has been fun to see how very creative I
can be on my social media platforms, in particular Instagram. People point
their cameras at things they love, so it is a glimpse at their hearts. That
said, the most important thing I can do is to go to cow camp where I am
unplugged and write in longhand on the unlined page. Or put a 38 pound pack on
my back and walk off in the wilderness, solo except for the dog. And I do. When
I am home, it takes discipline to turn it all off. But that is what we all
should do, for more of the day rather than less.
C.M. MAYO: Another question apropos of the digital revolution. At what point, if any, were you working on paper? Was working on paper necessary for you, or problematic?
AMY HALE AUKER: I
write three pages of longhand every single morning a la Julia
Cameron. It is my discipline and my practice and it serves me well.
Even if I don’t get to write the rest of the day, I know I showed up at the
page Even if it reads like a “to do” list, I know I was present to my
creative fire. I wrote most of “The Story Is the Thing” in longhand
on yellow legal pad because a character in the book wrote in the same manner.
What startled me was the dramatic and interesting process of transfering my
handwriting to the screen. There was a magic there that I have not forgotten
and crave to duplicate. So I am grateful that there are so many tools available
to us… from uniball pens on blank journal pages to speaking into our phones
while we drive to Schrivener (which baffles me) to Word where I can hurry up
and get it all down. There is a freedom in having multiple ways to approach art
in any medium.
AMY HALE AUKER: I joined Women Writing the West because my publisher, Texas Tech University Press, told me to. It has been an honor to be part of that group of highly talented people.
[C.M.M. post-interview note: Women Writing the West is open to writers (both women and men) living in and/or writing about the West, in any genre. I’ve been a member for several years now, and highly recommend it.]
C. M. MAYO: What’s next for you as a writer?
AMY HALE AUKER: So many things…. I am working on both a very weird collection of short short pieces that are a mixed bag of fiction and nonfiction and meditations as well as what may very well end up being a new collection of essays. However, I don’t believe artists should discuss what they are working on at the time in much detail. It is too easy to talk about our process rather than dig deep and stay in it…. all the way to completion… if there is such a thing.
COMMENTS: Ms. Mayo: Fascinating interview with Amy Hale Auker. I have two of her essay collections: Ordinary Skin and Rightful Place. Her word choices are poetic; her thoughts on ranch life are inspiring. Thank you for asking inciteful questions—they are challenging but she is up to the task. –Judith Grout www.judithgrout.com
Thanks for your interview of Amy Hale Auker. I have read both her essays and her fiction and admire both, and heard her poetry at one of the WWW conferences (perhaps Tucson?). Your questions and her answers were thoughtful and interesting. I appreciated your delving into her thought processes and comments on poetry and essays. I loved both of your recommendations for books! –Julie Weston
This year, 2018, I have been aiming to post a Q & A with a fellow writer, poet and/or translator on the fourth Monday of the month. This usually happens! This month however I am posting two Q & As– this third Monday, and another for the fourth.
The Internet invites us be everywhere allwhen, so it seems, but in ye olde 3D meatspace, I have a habit of attempting to be in three places at the same time. (I leave all other impossible things for before breakfast!) One of those places is California, because that’s where my mother was living, and in recent years I flew out there from Mexico City to see her more times than I can count. Initially, when I realized I needed to go more often, I imagined that I could attend literary gatherings while in California, so I joined the San Francisco chapter of the Women’s National Book Association, an organization I warmly supported in the years I was living in Washington DC. Alas –(those with elderly parents will smile sadly with understanding)– I never could make it to a meeting. But I did read the SF WNBA newsletters and announcements, including news of Mary Mackey’s books. Her latest, The Jaguars That Prowl Our Dreams, a collection of her poetry from 1974 – 2018, promises to be an especially rich read.
Mary Mackey is the author of a multitude of award-winning poetry collections, novels and more. Read about her distinguished career, and the unusual and highly original nature of her works, here. Though we have yet to meet in California, here we are, at least, on the same page in cyberspace: via email, Mary Mackey graciously answered several of my questions about her work. May you, dear extra curious and adventurous writerly reader, find her answers as fascinating and inspiring as I did.
Here’s the catalogue copy for her latest, The Jaguars That Prowl Our Dreams:
“Mary Mackey writes of life, death, love, and passion with intensity and grace. Her poems are hugely imaginative and multi-layered. Part One contains forty-eight new poems including twenty-one set in Western Kentucky from 1742 to 1975; and twenty-six unified by an exploration of the tropical jungle outside and within us, plus a surreal and sometimes hallucinatory appreciation of the visionary power of fever. Part Two offers the reader seventy-eight poems drawn from Mackey’s seven previous collections including Sugar Zone, winner of the 2012 Oakland PEN Josephine Miles Award for Literary Excellence. “
“Mary Mackey’s poems are powerful, beautiful, and have extraordinary range. This is the poetry of a woman who has lived richly, and felt deeply. May her concern for the planet help save it.”—Maxine Hong Kingston
“Always Mackey’s eye is drawn to the marginalized, the poor, the outcast, the trivialized. [In] The Jaguars That Prowl Our Dreams, she has created an oeuvre, wilder, more open to change with each passing year. Hers is a monumental achievement.”—D. Nurkse
MARY MACKEY: As Maxine Hong
Kingston observed, my poetry has “extraordinary range.” I write for readers who
love the mystical, visionary poetry of Mirabai, Blake, Pablo Neruda, and
Saint John of the the Cross; for readers who want to step into the heart of our
disappearing tropical jungles; for women struggling against sexual harassment.
My ideal reader hates to be preached to and doesn’t like poems that are
obscure—academic poems that read like puzzles. Instead, my ideal reader loves
beautiful, well-crafted, complex, profound poetry that can be understood on
many levels. My ideal reader also likes to laugh because some of my poems are
very funny.
C.M.MAYO: What was the most important challenge for you in selecting poems from your now very substantial ouevre?
MARY MACKEY: When I started
selecting, I came up with 280 poems which, when combined with the 48 new poems
in Jaguars, would have resulted in a book the size of a cinder block. No
poet writes 280 great poems, so I started culling. I ended up with 78 of my
very best poems. Not one has a line I don’t like; not one is a second choice.
Another challenge was to make sure the poems I picked had stood the test of
time, since some were written as early as 1974. Some didn’t, but to my
amazement several I wrote in the early seventies as part of the Second Wave
women’s movement read as if they had been written today.
C.M. MAYO: In the process of selecting the poems, did you see your development as a poet in a new light? Are your poems very different now, and if so, how?
MARY MACKEY: I didn’t see my poetry
in a new light as I went over my previous collections, and although my poems
are different in content, they are not different in essence. My poetry has
always had an inward and an outward stroke. That is to say, it has always been
both highly personal and highly engaged with what is happening in the world. I
don’t preach. I don’t tell people what to do. I think it’s the duty of a poet
to bear witness to her times, and that’s what I have done for over 40 years:
bear witness. Right now I am not writing for those of us who are alive in 2018.
I am writing for future generations who will never see a live elephant, a
tropical jungle, or a healthy coral reef. I am writing poems to tell them how
beautiful our Earth was and what parts of it we are losing due to climate
change.
That said, I did discover some changes in my
poetry over the years. My lines grew longer, as if I were not as rushed. I
married happily and so wrote fewer sad love poems. I fell in love with
Portuguese and incorporated some Portuguese words in my last four collections.
In 2011, I began to speak openly about the fact that I have run a number of
life-threatening fevers (often near 107 degrees) and began to write poems about
the visions and fever-induced hallucinations I had during these near-death
experiences.
C.M. MAYO: You have been a consistently productive poet and writer for many years. How has the digital revolution affected your writing? Specifically, has it become more challenging to stay focused with the siren calls of email, texting, blogs, online newspapers and magazines, social media, and such? If so, do you have some tips and tricks you might be able to share?
MARY MACKEY: I’ve been using
computers since the early 80’s, so the Digital Revolution did not come as a
surprise. It hasn’t affected my writing, but, like all writers these days, I
have to spend time on social media that I would have otherwise spent writing,
so I ration my online time carefully. To write poetry, to create anything, you
need long periods of silence and intense concentration. You need to be able to
hear your inner voice. You can’t do this if you are always checking your phone.
My solution is rigorous compartmentalization. I set aside times to write and
times to do social media.
When I am writing, my phone is off, my browser is
closed, and I am completely and absolutely focused on my writing or on the
essential daydreaming that precedes writing. When I am doing social media, I am
absolutely focused on social media. The two don’t bleed over into one another.
I also add a third element: time in the real world with physically present
people. I write or do social media for about 5 hours a day beginning in the
morning. Then I stop, turn off my computer, and see friends and family, take
long walks, talk to strangers, look at the stars or watch an ant or a sparrow.
In the evenings, I usually read instead of watching Netflix or something on
cable, because I’ve had enough screen time for the day.
C.M. MAYO: Another question apropos of the Digital Revolution. At what point, if any, were you working on paper? Was working on paper necessary for you, or problematic?
MARY MACKEY: When I started
writing, paper was the only option. I still write out the first drafts of my
poems in cursive in a special journal because I don’t like to have any
technical interface between me and my imagination, nor any temptation to look
something up in the initial moments of inspiration. I write freely without
thinking about quality or organization. I let my hand and my mind wander. Then
I transfer the result to my laptop and begin a rigorous process of cutting,
improving, altering, editing, and crafting the final poem. I have taken a 4
page poem, written out in almost unreadable script, and transformed it into a
polished, poem of three lines.
I should mention here that I am also the author
of fourteen novels. Paper figures big in this part of my writing life. I wrote
my first novel out in cursive in a notebook in the Scandinavian statistics
section of the University of Chicago Library (a place where you could be sure
no one would appear to interrupt you). I wrote the second on a manual typewriter;
the third on an IBM Correcting Selectric typewriter, and the fourth on a
computer so primitive it didn’t have a hard drive. I’ve used computers ever
since for my subsequent ten novels, but at the end of each day, I print out all
additions and changes, because I like to have hard copies of my work. I find it
easier to edit hard copy, because you can see an entire page and move back and
forth more easily. Also you can actually see what you’ve crossed out in case
you want to change your mind. You can’t do this with deleted text. Then too, if
the Internet goes down, my backups get stolen, my hard drive goes up in smoke,
my passwords are compromised, the cloud is hacked, or my computer gets invaded
with ransom ware, I have hard copy.
C.M. MAYO: Your papers are archived in the Sophia Smith Special Collections Library, Smith College, Northampton, MA and your website offers a “Guide to Women Writers Archives.” https://marymackey.com/educators/guide-to-women-writers-archives/ . As a writer with an archive myself and as one who has made grateful use of many archives over the years –and one also keenly aware of how many valuable collections of papers, alas, end up lost— I am especially interested to know: How did this come about?
MARY MACKEY: It
took me fifteen years to get up the courage to try to place my literary papers,
because like so many women, I thought no one would want them. Imagine my
surprise when I finally sent out emails and got almost immediate replies from
nine universities who not only wanted my work, but offered to pay me
substantial sums for my archives. I ended turning down monetary offers and
donating my archives to Smith College, because they are dedicated to preserving
the archives of women writers and the history of women. I’m not an alumna of
Smith. I went to Harvard, but I didn’t donate my papers to Harvard because the
university wouldn’t let me use Lamont, the Harvard undergraduate library, when
I was a student there. In fact, until 1967, no women could enter Lamont. The
guards at the door even turned away Ruth Bader Ginsburg.
After my experience with archiving, I decided to
help women writers and artists archive their work. I have also helped men, but
my focus has been on women, because if you tell a women about archiving, she
will invariably say: “No one will want my papers. There’s no use trying.” In
contrast, a man will say: “No one will want my papers, but I might as well give
it a try.” I tell women that I want our history to be written on stone, not on
water. I don’t archive their work for them, but I give them a packet of
instructions on how to do it, encourage them to give it a try, tell them my own
story of being timid and uncertain, and remind them that they can only control
what goes into their archives while they are still alive. When they have
successfully placed their papers, I list them on my website in my Guide To
Women Writers’ Archives, congratulate them on my Facebook Page, and
congratulate them again in my quarterly
newsletter.
C.M. MAYO: What’s next for you as a poet and as a writer?
MARY MACKEY: Right now I’m working
on a plot outline for the final book in a series of
novels about the Goddess-worshiping peoples of Neolithic Europe and
their struggle to fight off Sky-worshiping, patriarchal invaders from the
steppes. These novels are based on the research of archaeologist and UCLA
Professor Marija Gimbutas who helped me with the first two novels in the
series.
I’m also working on a series of visionary poems
with the working title “Cassandra.” I think Cassandra is the perfect
spokeswoman for our era. She saw the future, but when she tried to warn people
that disaster was coming, no one believed her.
As of this year the second Monday of the month is dedicated to my writing workshop students and anyone else interested in creative writing.
Poetic alliteration is one of the many techniques
you can use to make your writing more vivid and powerful. The definiton of
alliteration: “The occurrence of the same letter or sound at the beginning
of adjacent or closely connected words.”
From (of all things) a movie review by Desson
Howe in the Washington Post:
“There he is, in all his glory, Brad Pitt, that beautiful, chiseled chunk of celebrity manhood. You want him? Go see Fight Club. You want action, muscle, and atmosphere? You want boys bashing boys in bloody, living color? Fight Club is your flick, dude.”
To start with, we have “chiseled chunk”
— ch and then ch
In the fourth sentence we have “action,
muscle, and atmosphere”– ah and ah
Then “boys bashing boys in bloody, living
color”– b, b, b, and b
Then “Fight Club is your flick, dude”
— f and f
The point: the sound of the words–
alliteration– reinforces the meaning.
#
More examples:
“…hold on with a bull-dog grip and chew and choke as much as possible” — Letter, President Lincoln to General Grant
“When somebody threatens me, he says, I usually tell them to pack a picnic and stand in line.” — Mikey Weinstein quoted in Marching As to War by Alan Cooperman
“A competitor once described [mining engineer Frank Holmes] as ‘a man of considerable personal charm, with a bluff, breezy, blustering, buccaneering way about him’ “ — Daniel Yergin, The Prize
“Small heart had Harriet for visiting” — Jane Austen, Emma
#
As I cannot repeat often enough, as a writer, your best teachers are the books you have already read and truly loved– the books that made you want to write your own. (These books or may not get the Seal of Approval from your English professor– but never mind. Some academics may be artists, and some artists academics, but in general they are creatures as different from one another as a coyote and a horse.)
To repeat: As a writer, your best teachers are the books you have already read and truly loved. Pull one of those beloved books off your bookshelf, have a read-through, see where and how the author uses alliteration. Or not?
Once you recognize a technique you can often spot it in, say, a newspaper article, a biography, or an advertisement. More about reading as a writer here.
Reading poetry in translation can be like wafting through a door into an eerily beautiful palace. The tiles glow in new colors, shapes are peaked or oval when you expect square, juxtapositions startle, and the cats don’t meow but miau or nya or, as in Norwegian, mjau…
C.M. MAYO: How might you describe, in just a sentence or two, the ideal reader for this book?
ROGER GREENWALD: These
poems are accessible but deep, and they reflect an unusual sensibility, so
anyone who is open to a new experience in poetry is an ideal reader. My
introduction explores why this poetry that is easy to “get” is so hard to
discuss critically; the essay will be of special interest to people concerned
with our relation to the natural world and with ecocriticism.
CMM:What inspired you to translate this work?
RG: Tarjei Vesaas was and is a
famous novelist, but his poetry was like a secret shared among other writers
and a small number of readers. When I first read his poems, I realized that the
best of them were unlike any I had ever read. In addition to his special
sensibility, he has a distinctive voice, pace, and turn of phrase, as well as a
very fine ear for the music of language. And by the time of his death in 1970,
almost none of his poetry was available in English, never mind in versions that
did it justice. In some ways it is very difficult to translate. Twenty years
passed before I had translated a selection to my satisfaction, and then it took
me another eight years (eight drafts) to write my introduction.
CMM: How did you learn the language?
RG: This apparently simple
question poses a problem at once: Which language is “the language”?! I first
learned Norwegian on my own from a textbook. But Norwegian has two official
written norms, and the textbook was about Bokmål, which ultimately derives from
Danish and reflects Norway’s urban dialects. Tarjei Vesaas wrote in Nynorsk,
which ultimately derives from Old Norse via Norway’s rural dialects. I advanced
my knowledge of Bokmål by living in Norway at various times, by doing more
reading, and by bothering my friends with a million questions. Dealing with
Nynorsk required further study, and I cannot claim to have mastered it even as
a reader, so I need more advice and feedback when translating from it than when
translating from Bokmål.
CMM: What was the most important challenge for you in this translation?
RG: Vesaas has certain characteristically odd turns of phrase that are difficult or impossible to render in English. They stretch Norwegian but are not un-Norwegian, so they require creative equivalents that stretch English but are not un-English. And of course English cannot be stretched in exactly the same was as Norwegian can be. But the greatest challenge lay in the responsibility I felt to introduce English-speaking readers to this poetry in a way that would help them to see that it was modern even though it was not urban, and that its relation to the natural world was profound and not a throwback to the English Romantic poets.
CMM: Has his work been an influence for your work as a poet?
RG: I think Vesaas’s poetry
hasn’t exerted as great an influence on my own poetry as has the work of some
other Scandinavian poets, but in one of my poems (“The Milky Way. Big and
Beautiful”) I refer to him and quote three lines; and I’d say that in another
(“The Voice”), the deliberate pace and the way silence creeps into the stanza
breaks probably owe something to Vesaas.
CMM:You have been a consistently productive poet and writer for many years. How has the digital revolution affected your writing? Specifically, has it become more challenging to stay focused with the siren calls of email, texting, blogs, online newspapers and magazines, social media, and such? If so, do you have some tips and tricks you might be able to share?
RG: I started using computers in
the early 1970s to produce files for the literary annual I edited, WRIT Magazine.
Coach House Press, where the journal was printed, was a test bed for
cutting-edge digital typesetting and layout. I learned enough about
computerized editing and typesetting on a UNIX system so that I could take
advantage of it for my own work for about twenty years before I acquired my
first Windows machine. This was an enormous benefit when it came to revision,
especially for translations, and it enabled me to get book manuscripts several
stages closer to publication than had been possible earlier. I felt that
computers trebled my productivity, not in the sense that I wrote more or
translated more, but insofar as they saved large amounts of time and encouraged
me to produce finished manuscripts and files that I knew could be used for
printing.
That was, you might say, the first digital
revolution, the second being that of the Internet and later the World Wide Web.
Online resources have made it much easier and faster to answer certain
questions that arise in writing and translating, whether these be about language
as such, about allusions in texts, or about what a certain landscape, building,
or object looks like. Email has greatly facilitated getting advice and feedback
from friends and colleagues in distant locations, consulting with authors I’ve
translated, and getting proofs from publishers. And the web has made it
possible for me to post descriptions of my books, sample poems, and ordering
links.
Resisting distraction is really a question of
psychology, work habits, and time management. We tend to forget that it was
almost as easy to be distracted and to waste time before the Internet existed
as it is now. One could read magazines and watch TV for hours a day. Those
were, though, less fragmented activities than online distractions can be now,
and were less likely to interrupt constantly. I made an early decision to stay
off all social media, mainly because of concerns about privacy and distrust of
the motives and methods of people like Mr. Green T-shirt. That decision has
meant being uninformed about a few events now and then, and it has perhaps
reduced my ability to promote my work (how many people would really have
followed a Facebook page that posted new material only a few times a year?).
But it has prevented most of the woes we all associate with social media,
including invasion of privacy, online harassment, and the expense of countless
hours on reading and posting.
CMM: Another question apropos of the Digital Revolution. At what point, if any, were you working on paper? Was working on paper necessary for you, or problematic?
RG: In my formative years, my
choice was between handwriting on paper and writing on an electric typewriter.
I always used paper then for any work that required real thought and much
revision during the writing process. Later I got to the point where I could
write letters and reports on the typewriter, and sometimes even fiction when it
was driven by a type of nervous energy that was in tune with the hum of the
typewriter. Even after decades of using computers, I still write poetry by
hand, and I tend to translate poetry by hand also. I can write a first draft of
fiction or translated fiction on a computer. Handwritten drafts make it easier
to see all the choices one has tried and then crossed out.
CMM: What’s next for you as a poet and as a translator?
RG: I have more or less
withdrawn from translation to focus on my own work (there is one more large
translation project that I may or may not get to someday). But I do what I can
for my previously published translations, like the Tarjei Vesaas book, which was
first published in 2000 and was out of print for many years. Finding a
publisher for a new edition enabled me to make revisions – the second time I
have been able to revise and/or expand a major selection (on the other occasion
the gap was from 1985 to 2002, when the University of Chicago Press issued North in the
World: Selected Poems of Rolf Jacobsen). Don’t ask me whether
such opportunities are translators’ dreams or nightmares!
My first book of poems was published in 1993, my
second (Slow Mountain
Train) in 2015. Now I am hoping to get out my third and fourth
books in the next two years. I have manuscripts beyond those and will be
working on getting them into near-final form. So get off Facebook and watch my
website: www.rogergreenwald.org !
How to make a list into something poetic? It helps to be attentive to and creative with diction drops and spikes, repetition, scansion, and alliteration. I’ve already posted on diction and on repetition; in future months look for posts on scansion and alliteration.
Herewith, taken from a few favorite works, are
some examples of poetic listing– and to get the most of this, to really hear
the poetry, I would suggest that you read these aloud:
#
“During the first days she kept busy thinking about changes in the house. She took the shades off the candlesticks, had new wall-paper put up, the staircase repainted, and seats made in the garden round the sundial; she even inquired how she could get a basin with a jet fountain and fishes.” Gustave Flaubert, Madame Bovary
“We eat our supper (cold biscuits, bacon, blackberry jam) and discuss tomorrow. Tomorrow the kind of work I like best begins: buying. Cherries and citron, ginger and vanilla and canned Hawaiian pineapple, rinds and raisins and walnuts and whiskey and oh, so much flour, butter so many eggs, spices, flavorings: why, we’ll need a pony to pull the buggy home.” Truman Capote, A Christmas Memory
“Tonight he wished for little things, the chance to take a hot bath, a reasonable suit of clothing, a gift to bring, at the very least some flowers, but then the room tilted slightly in the other direction and he opened up his hands and all of that fell away from him and he wanted nothing.” Ann Patchett, Bel Canto
“The carriage was crammed: waves of silk, ribs of three crinolines, billowed, clashed, entwined almost to the heights of their heads; beneath was a tight press of stockings, girls silken slippers, the Princess’s bronze-colored shoes, the Prince’s patent-leather pumps; each suffered from the others feet and could find nowhere to put his own.” Guiseppe di Lampedusa, The Leopard
And an example I also used in the post on
repetition (money, money, money):
“Tancredi, he considered, had a great future; he would be the standard-bearer of a counter-attack which the nobility, under new trappings, could launch against the social State. To do this he lacked only one thing: money; this Tancredi did not have; none at all. And to get on in politics, now that a name counted less, would require a lot of money: money to buy votes, money to do the electors favors, money for a dazzling style of living…” Guiseppe di Lampedusa, The Leopard
#
To take this further, as you are reading whatever you happen to be reading, note in your notebook whenever you find, in your view, any especially apt use of poetic listing. (>>More on reading as a writer here.)
P.S. Help yourself to many more resources for writers on my workshop page.
