Tony Abbott's Blog, page 4

FBR 93: Dots and Dashes . . .

Inaugurating a new column of Friday Book Report with "Dots and Dashes," an occasional eclectic look at the microcosm of the book world swirling across my desk.

This past week received and read Chris Lynch's marvelous new novel, Angry Young Man. It's an often harrowing story of two brothers, one of whom is a kind of misfit while the other is a sort of bully. You love them both, they love each other, but we watch in pain as they drift away, flail, and veer toward violence. Lynch's prose is spare and muscled. Brothers will recognize the troubled relationship and know it comes from life.

Am nearing the end of Paul Alexander's Salinger: A Biography (1999), purchased after Jay McInerney plugged it in his New York Times Book Review piece about the new bio, J.D. Salinger: A Life by Kenneth Slawenski, which I haven't started yet. Both books are short, because, after the 1965 publication of Salinger's most recent story, there isn't much to tell: Lived in woods. Hated everything else. The Alexander book is solid, if not as compelling as what Blake Bailey might have made of the story, but there were some funny moments for me. Not funny Ha-Ha. I wondered if my father ever read him. Or knew that their paths may have crossed. Salinger was in the infantry in the D-Day invasion, priorly stationed in England, as my father, a paratrooper was. Sure, I know, there were tens of thousands of guys there. But later, Salinger was part of the group that liberated Cherbourg where and when my father, wounded and taken to a German prisoner of war hospital, was being held. Will likely never know.

Salinger's New Yorker stories are fine and stand up. I've never been able to get much beyond the first page of Catcher; that voice is so grating. But I will try it again, probably, after I get through the Slawenski.

Speaking of short stories, read the title story of ZZ Packer's debut collection, Drinking Coffee Elsewhere, mostly because as I was skimming it I saw that it was set at Yale (she is a graduate). Would like to someday teach this story as an example of how one is crafted. It may show the youth of its author, but is well done, well written, and would hold up under examination. Researching ZZ, I understand that this is her only book. Want to see more of her writing. Want to see a novel. A short one. ZZ, write one now, thank you.

Two other books of note can't wait to start: Harlem is Nowhere by Sharifa Rhodes-Pitts, the kind of book I love, a wide-ranging, personal meditation on the culture of a specific time and place. The title, of course, is from Ellison. And Townie, a memoir, just out, from Andre Dubus III. I heard him read a portion of this a couple of years ago, from a high pulpit in one of the old churches in Newburyport and knew instantly that I wanted to read on paper what he read out to us, a story about his growing up poor and weak in a depressed Massachusetts mill town. This, while having a famous writer for a father. Townie is that book.

FBR 92: Like a Motherless Child . . .

Writers may take refuge in the thought that vacancy or error or need are powerful prods to creativity. Stories are born this way. I know from my own work the lure of wanting to read a particular kind of story, discovering that it didn't exist, and taking on the task myself. Different writers have different ways of saying this, but no one got it from anyone else; it's a sentiment born of individual revelation.

To dovetail with this sentiment, we find conflict abounding in the business of putting that work out, setting it on the table of commerce. I wrote a book, scheduled to come out later this year, in which I included song lyrics. The song, recorded first in 1927, could have been, and very well may be, in the public domain. It may not have been written by that first recorder. It may be, for all anyone knows, a traditional song from a hundred years before, with no claim of copyright whatsoever.

But the tangled history of the song is exactly what prevents the strictly legal use of it. When my editor told me that the company attorneys forbade the use of the song since there is no trail of ownership, I was troubled. Not with the decision (I have known the terror of forces waiting to pounce), but with a loss of artistic coherence in my book, and with the annoying thought that I would have to choose another song, one whose copyright status is known — as if some other song would do (I ask the reader to refer below to my discussion of the Hughes poem that serves as epigraph to the same book). Rather than face that possibility, I decided to do some digging.

When I asked two artists who have recorded the song recently, they both told me that it was public. An archivist at an esteemed government institution told me there was no estate, that that first recorder was long dead, destitute when he died, and that, very likely, no family exists anymore. Alas, all of these statements are what one might call "hearsay" and not good enough to take a potentially liable step.

There is something maddening about a situation, though no one's fault, that necessitates the alteration of a creative work because of external, uncreative restrictions. So I whined. I whined over breakfast, lunch, and dinner, until my wife threw up her hands and said, "Write your own hymn."

So I did. I've written many songs over the years. Every book in one series from the mid nineties had at least one song, usually sung by a zombie or alien or zombie alien. In a draft of a book in another series, submitted just this past Tuesday, there was a song. When I was in guitar bands in high school, I wrote a lot of songs. Songs are me.

I sat down and crafted a substitute set of lyrics. Interestingly, a character in my book refers to specific words in the eliminated song, which meant I had to use those words in my new song. Again, necessity. But, again, not a problem, and an actual help in shaping the lyrics. Unexpectedly, or perhaps not so unexpectedly, when I finally polished my lyrics and read them aloud to myself, they came with a tune. It was similar to the original disallowed song's melody, but different enough to be original to me.

So, creativity led to roadblock led to creativity. I find myself humming my song here and there around the house. My only question now is whether I should copyright the thing.

FBR 92: Like a Motherless Son . . .

Writers may take refuge in the thought that vacancy or error or need are powerful prods to creativity. Stories are born this way. I know from my own work the lure of wanting to read a particular kind of story, discovering that it didn't exist, and taking on the task myself. Different writers have different ways of saying this, but no one got it from anyone else; it's a sentiment born of individual revelation.

To dovetail with this sentiment, we find absurdities abounding in the business of publishing that work. I wrote a book, scheduled to come out later this year, in which I included song lyrics. The song, recorded first in 1927, could have been, and very well may be, in the public domain. It may not have been written by that first recorder. It may be, for all anyone knows, a traditional song from a hundred years before, with no claim of copyright whatsoever.

But the tangled history of the song is exactly what prevents the strictly legal use of it. When my editor told me that the company attorneys forbade the use of the song since there is no trail of ownership, I was angry. Not at them, but at the loss to the artistic coherence of my book, and at the annoying thought that I would have to choose another song, one whose copyright status is known — as if some other song would do (I ask the reader to refer below to my discussion of the Hughes poem that serves as epigraph to the same book). Rather than face that possibility, I decided to do some digging.

When I asked two artists who have recorded the song recently, they both told me that it was public. An archivist in the Smithsonian music division told me there was no estate, that that first recorder was long dead, destitute when he died, and that, very likely, no family exists anymore. Alas, this is what I guess one would call "hearsay" and not good enough to take a potentially liable step.

There is something deeply troubling about a situation, though no one's fault, that necessitates the alteration of a creative work because of external restrictions. So I whined. I whined over the breakfast, lunch, and dinner table, until my wife finally said, "Write your own hymn."

So I did. I've written many songs over the years. Every book in one series from the mid nineties had at least one song, usually sung by a zombie or alien or zombie alien. In a draft of a book in another series, submitted just this past Tuesday, there was a song. When I was in guitar bands in high school, I wrote a lot of songs. Songs are me.

Interestingly, a character in my book refers to specific words in the eliminated song, which meant I had to use those words in my new song. Again, necessity. But, again, not a problem, and an actual help in shaping the lyrics. Unexpectedly, or perhaps not so unexpectedly, when I finally polished my lyrics and read them aloud to myself, there was a tune. It was similar to the original disallowed song's tune, but different enough to be original to me.

So, creativity led to roadblock led to creativity. I find myself humming my song here and there around the house. My only question now is whether I should copyright the thing.

FBR 91: Garbage In, Garbage Out: Happy New Year

The world has come beseeching. What thoughts have I about the year just past and the year ahead? By way of an answer, I want to relate what occurred on this morning's dog walk.

At the bottom of the hill on Plymouth was an overturned garbage can. It was outside the snowbank, near the stop sign. Its hinged lid was laying open in the street. Since I use the same refuse company, I know these cans are heavy. They are large and have to be durable because the refuse truck is the sort with nifty mechanical arms that grab the can and lift it in a jerky arc over the open-topped truck. I righted the can, and Kip and I walked on.

Now, and bearing in mind the theme of today's Report, you are asking: why did I stand the can upright?

First of all, seeing it overturned struck me as wrong. It was an image of something that was not as it should be. Like, perhaps, a body in the snow. A man reading a newspaper that he's holding upside down. A tuft of dog hair on the carpet. That sort of thing. The overturned can needed to be set right — or rather I needed it to be, or wanted it to be, or liked being the hero of an unbidden, selfless, unseen action. All of which speaks to a deep I don't know what — sentiment? genetic necessity? — to set things just so, to undo, whenever possible, the unright thing. That's one.

There was another reason. While approaching the can, dog on leash, I had time to work over these thoughts: if a woman, say, the wife in the house in front of which the can was overturned, came out at that moment to right the can, I would feel compelled to help her. Remember the can is heavy and awkward. Yes, a courtesy. But I am walking a dog who is, uh, insufficiently trained in the ways. Yesterday, he snapped at a nice lady. This was the second time. He also jumps like a joey. Since the leash was the retractable kind, and there was nothing else but a street sign near, it would have proved difficult and time-consuming to fetter the dog somewhere, while the woman waited — in the cold, rubbing her arms — for me to help her.

A final issue was that in a few seconds, I would be past the can, around the corner, not in a useful position to hear her request, and saw in my mind's eye (that useful thing) her lonely struggle with the big wheeled can. Her husband, in this scenario, has already gone to work. Her children are too little and likely still snuggled deep in their beds. There was no choice. Just do it now, one-handed, with the dog in tow, before any such uncomfortable scene has a chance to materialize.

The New Year's message? Well, let's see. Right a wrong whenever you see it. Do it alone to avoid discomfort on all sides. Keep your dog on a leash. Yes, all of those things. In the larger picture, I really wouldn't expect the world to get any better; dogs are just dogs, people are just people, so flawed as to make you want to give up. But every now and then (and here the music swells), you just might find something tiny enough for you to do more or less successfully, at least in your own mind. Happy New Year.

FBR 90: One of the books . . .

. . . I've asked for this Christmas is Human Chain, the latest collection from Seamus Heaney. For a while in the 1970s and 80s I followed Heaney's work obsessively, obtaining, while in England several times over those years, some first editions and other titles hard to come by here. After taking up the writing of works for children, I drifted away from poetry as one drifts away from any number of good things when family takes center stage.

Lately I've begun to think of Heaney's poetry again because I feel that the drifting has gone on too long and taken me too far. What his work gave me in those earlier years, among a thousand senses and emotions and inspirations, was a place of quiet. The noise that overtakes you in the course of life, when you stand back and simply hear it, is unbearable. In the best of Heaney's work is the silence of contemplation, rumination, even. It itself is an inspiration.

. . . But in a still corner,

braced to its pebble-dashed wall,

heavy, earth-drawn, all mouth and eye,

the sunflower, dreaming umber.

I remember reading an interview he gave, somewhere around the time that those lines from Field Work (1979) came out. When asked what his plans were, he said something to the effect that all he wanted from life was to have time to write, or not write, as he deemed necessary. A lovely sentiment. To write or not write. And the quiet in which to make that decision.

Life here in the workshop has become a noisy thing. People come and go from morning to night. There are oxygen pumps, nebulizers, mattress inflaters, all manner of hospitalic devices. We have a stranger boarding with us now, and an ancient woman living in the dining room. The house is not our house any longer, but you don't curse your lot, because the gods are watching, and there are occasional laughs. But today, and for some days these past weeks, not-writing has been the thing we do most. So we sit and sit and sit . . . dreaming umber.

FBR 89: The smell of smoke . . .

The other day I came across a photo of my brother and me from around 1957. I look to be almost five, my brother a year older. We're dressed in baggy dungarees and waist-length jackets, open to show patterned sweaters. It is overcast and could be October.

I'm wearing a pale cowboy hat with looped colored stitching around the brim. My brother's hat is dark and more narrowly brimmed, with what looks like a small object, maybe a feather, tucked on one side of the crown. His hat is raked higher on the right, and has an altogether Tyrolean look, particularly when you consider the cape slung over his shoulders. It hangs below his knees and is dark, clearly matching the color of his hat. Likewise mine, the size of a child's blanket safety-pinned around my neck, is colored like my hat. Some care was taken there.

Cowboys with capes. There would be a humorous aspect to this image were it not for the faces of these two boys. I appear to be on the verge of tears, as if, even though I am standing directly in front of our house, I am irretrievably lost. It is such a sorrowful look that my hat and cape combination seem not so much that particular day's random play-attire, but a desperate, even foolhardy attempt to survive by doubling personae. Not simply a cowboy, who, though far superior to a regular boy, can do only so much; but a flying one, one possessed of extraordinary powers. Through all this Ricky is sober, detached. He looks into the lens with somber resignation: So. We're lost. That's it, then.

Not long after finding this photograph, I began to smell smoke.

FBR 88: Bringing home sixty-seven cents . . .

There were two signings this past week. The first, at a Barnes and Noble in Connecticut, was held in conjunction with a local school's book fair and was not unsuccessful. Because of the sales (Droon, Derek Stone, and Firegirl), I was given a gift card to the store. It wasn't even cold before it was back in their hands. I'd had my eye on a three-hundred page "collected" Maupassant, which is fine and enough for me at this time, but, of course, nothing of the sort, and a Bellow. These used up the gift card with the exception of sixty-seven cents, which I pocketed. I considered this more than a win: two new books, lots of bright faces, a frosty evening, and fresh coin.

The signing yesterday at Macy's in Herald Square, was a Christmas cracker of a different sort. A major affair, in its own way. You enter the building in a confusion of red and gold and marble, the air thick with odors of competing cosmetic counters. Then up seven floors to the Kid's Department, where Asiana and her cohorts have arranged a "Reader's Circle." They have a sound system that makes you feel rather like a diety, with the ability (unused) to broadcast your whims to the entire floor.

Like clockwork at noon, I was introduced to the crowd of twenty five or thirty children and parents (and troop leaders) and read from Kringle. Five years after its publication this still strikes me as a fine little Christmas story. That was splendid. What I also enjoyed were the rides up to and down from the seventh floor; some of the escalators still have thick-slatted wooden stairs that might have been installed in 1902. I remember as a boy the awkward panic when ladies' shoeheels became lodged between the slats and the pleasant myth of all those individual stairs collecting in the basement. Riding up and down on that old wood reminded me that the Old New York of Martin Dressler is still around. If modern Christmas was born in London in the 1840s, it has a second home in the New York of a half-century later.

FBR 87: The FIREGIRL Letters . . .

The teacher of a Special Needs class in Indiana contacted me some weeks ago to say that he was reading my novel Firegirl to his students, and he wondered if I'd be willing to answer their questions. Normally, I wouldn't post about this, except that I've found myself answering in ways I find new. The questions ranged from the familiar to the provocative, and in talking about them, and their responses, here, I hope to have a kind of critical record of the book and its afterlife. I've added to or edited my answers for clarity.

Summary: Seventh grader boys Tom Bender and Jeff Hicks are friends. They like comic books, sports cars, girls, especially a very pretty girl named Courtney. Tom is the shyer of the two. Jeff's parents are divorced; he lives with his mother. Some weeks after the beginning of the school year, Jessica Feeney enters their classroom; she has been in an accident and bears burn scars over much of her body, especially her face. The boys react in different ways.

Q: Have you ever met someone who was burned badly, or was anyone in your family burned? What inspired you to write the book, Firegirl?

A: There was a girl with burns in one of my classes when I was in 7th grade, though her name was not Jessica. She was there for a while, and some little things happened in the classroom, and then she was gone. I always remembered this, but never thought I would write about it, until a few years ago. It bubbled to the top of my mind again and again, and I finally realized that it was something I needed to write down. After many changes, and a good deal of imagining and invention, Firegirl is the story that came out. Much of the book is fiction. I did create people and invent actions. But the story started because of something that really happened.

Q: Are you really Tom in this book?

A: Tom is based on me, a little. But during the writing of the story, it was no longer me, but Tom himself I was writing about. He became his own person. I was shy like him. There was a girl like Jessica in my class. There was a friend like Jeff. And there was a class election. But all the characters in the story became so different from the real life, and I'm not really Tom anymore.

Q: How did you respond to the girl that was in your school that was burned?

A: When the girl was in my class it was probably 45 years ago, so some of what happened then I can't possibly remember. I think I was nice to her. Some of the other kids were, too. I never went to her house, though. I didn't get to know her. I believe we were friendly. When I came to write the book, I used that beginning to start my writing, but the book became its own story. So, the book isn't completely true. Or completely untrue, either, I guess.

Q: What did Tom's mom mean by "get out there"? Is he what you would call a loner?

A: I do think Tom was a loner; at least he was not very popular. He was embarrassed to put himself in any situation where he would stick out. That's why he didn't want to run for class president; it's why he kept his election poster in his locker. He was someone who liked to be on the side more than in the center. I supposed that's the way I grew up, and it came out in Tom. His mother, of course, wanted him to be successful with meeting and being friends with other people.

Q: Why did you describe Courtney with so much figurative language?

A: I wrote about Courtney the way I did, because I was thinking of her through Tom's eyes. You know what I mean. He likes her. He doesn't really know her that well, but she is a pretty girl, and he likes her. He thinks about her. So he daydreams about Courtney, and the language I think he would use would be figurative (good word), and romantic, if you know what I mean.

Q: Did you have a friend like Jeff when you were in school? Do you think Jeff is caught in the middle of his Mom and Dad's problems? We feel like they are using him to get back at each other.

A: I did have a friend like Jeff, and he did let me down. Not that I was perfect; no one is. But Jeff promised something, and it never happened, and it hurt. So Jeff and Tom's breakup is based the way I remember some things about my friend and I. You are absolutely right that Jeff is caught in the middle of his parents' problems. He doesn't feel as if he belongs anywhere. It's a very hard situation for a young person. A child in the middle of parents who are angry with each other makes that child feel used.

Q: Why is Jeff such a jokester?

A: I think Jeff is a jokester because it's hard for him at home. He knows that people will pay attention to him if he does funny things. But he is still and always sad. His family is split up. He hardly sees his father. It's not a fun life for him. So he jokes around a lot to distract himself and others.

Q: Why does Jeff constantly change the subject?

A: You are very close readers to see that Jeff changes the subject when talking. He is embarrassed and angry sometimes when he thinks about his home life. The fact that his mother is always working. That his father has a new life. And how he feels stuck in the middle. He doesn't want to talk about things sometimes, and changes the subject. He seems to be working on something inside himself that does not come out until he explodes.

Q: Why do you think that Jeff is so negative about Jessica?

A: I believe Jeff is negative about Jessica maybe because he feels that she is something else he's supposed to deal with. His life is full of negative things already: his mom working so much, his father living away, the fact that he doesn't feel at home anywhere. Jessica, even though she has nothing to do with him, is one more thing that is heaped on him — at least that's how I imagine his subconscious mind sees it. And she's easy to be unkind to because she is so visibly different. When Jeff acts unkindly to her, he feels a little better about himself. Which, of course, is twisted and wrong. But that may be one reason Jeff does what he does.

Q: Why didn't Jessica say anything back to Rich when he said what he did about Anne? We would have been mad about it. Also, were you afraid of the girl who was burned that was really in your class in school?

A: I think Jessica was mad, but she was also embarrassed to answer any questions. She wanted people to stop asking her, and didn't want to talk about it. You can understand why she didn't want people to know about her accident. She wanted to be invisible, really, and now she was quickly becoming the center. She was like Tom, in not wanting to be at the center of things. Was I afraid of the girl? I was afraid of her, like everyone was. I did talk to her, though it wasn't enough. We weren't close in any way, not as Tom and Jessica become in the story.

Q: Is Jessica mad at her Mom because she didn't save her?

A: Yes, Jessica is mad at her mother because her mother was so close, just outside the car windows, but couldn't help. You know, you always sort of feel that your parents should do anything to help you. In Jessica's mind, of course, she knew that her mother couldn't do anything. The fire was too dangerous. But another part of her is angry. It's very difficult, but that's how our minds work, I think.

Q: Why do Jessica's parents get mad at her? She can't help it.

A: You ask a very good question, and a hard one to answer. I think Jessica's parents are mad at her, even though they know it's not right to be mad at her. Like every parent, they wanted a normal child with a normal childhood. They wanted this fiercely. And for themselves, parents want a normal parenthood, watching your child succeed and do well. Jessica's accident changed all that. It is horrible for Jessica, but it's also horrible for the people who love her. And they are sometimes angry because of the accident. Not at Jessica, but at the accident. Why did it have to happen? Why did everything wonderful have to change? And so . . . they get angry. It's not right, but it's what happens.

Q: How is Tom feeling about Jessica? Is Jeff feeling guilty?

A: Tom feels . . . a lot of things about Jessica. His "heart," I suppose you could say, is taken by Courtney, even though he doesn't really know her. But then he sees Jessica's photograph of before her accident, and he sees a lovely person, someone nice to look at. Now, of course, Jessica is no longer that way, but she's still a good person. So he sees that, or he comes to see that in her now. He likes her. He grows to understand her, a little bit. And she tells him things that he knows she doesn't tell anyone else, mostly because there isn't anyone else. So there is something special going on between them. Jeff probably does feel guilty, but he doesn't show it very much in this story. Maybe in some future time, he will see it more. But he is angry, mostly about his own situation.

Q: Why does Jessica keep her bedroom window open all the time? Is she afraid of another fire?

A: You have answered your own question. Yes, Jessica is afraid of the fire, she's afraid of being boxed in, closed up, as she was in the car, unable to escape. And when she imagines she's flying, it's because in those moments she doesn't have a body anymore, and she's normal, looking beautiful like she used to. Of course, that can never happen now, but these are some of the things she does to make herself feel better.

Q: Do you plan to write another book to continue the story about Firegirl and about what happens to Tom?

A: I've been asked this question before. I think readers like to know the future of a story that doesn't quite end. But I don't think I will write another story about Tom. At least not right now. Over the years since the book was published, I've heard readers' ideas about what might be in store for both Jessica and Tom. In their guesses about what might happen, I find the real sequel to my short book. I like the idea of readers imagining what the story might be with Tom and Jessica. And I have learned from readers that there are lots of ideas about their future than I might have in mind. If I write the story down, there will be only one idea, and all that imaginative thinking from readers will be squashed. So, no; I'm not really thinking about another book with them.

FBR 86: Talismans, the library of self . . .

Deadlines coagulated lately; November 1st and 8th for two different books. The past few weeks were a clever episode of plate-spinning, the upshot being a few missed Reports, for which my apologies. I know how you can't sleep. Well, none of us can, lately, reminding me of the Thurber caption:

"You're disillusioned? We're all disillusioned!"

The library has gained a few volumes recently and, as disillusioned as I am, I'll take a minute to describe what may have started this latest flow. A few weeks ago under no more compulsion than a slight love of technology, I ordered a Kindle 3. It arrived, and I began to read samples on it. I'd previously just started The Member of the Wedding in a paperback Collected Stories I have, and took it up on the Kindle to press farther.

Now, I know I didn't give it enough time, but reading this particular story on a screen only yelled "SCREEN!" at me. The story was secondary to the device and Frankie's tender, twisted yearning put off at arm's length. So, a fail. I went back to the paperback. The physical object was better in every way. But reading on the device had alerted me to one failure of this edition, too. Because it had crabbed the short novel into a format denser and shorter than the story was meant to be read in, it was made functional, nearly as "functional" as the Kindle, but it was not the story she wrote.

I'd checked the available in print versions (those I could find), and they were no better. What reading on the Kindle had taught me is that there is a priority in print, particularly in books written before the electronic age, and more particularly classics. A book of this kind is in the nature of an artifact indivisible from the story it tells. What I needed to do to read The Member of the Wedding was to obtain an early edition.

I found one, a 1946 cloth bound in fairly good shape, a solid reading copy, for $6.00. With $3.95 shipping it was less than a sandwich with fries and coffee. And this I am now going through a slow paragraph at a time. And that's how reading is meant to be done.

Another book has similarly made its way into my stacks. A 1928 Hemingway (of all people). A bit more, but not at all outrageous; a lunch for two, and again a solid reading copy.

These old books, these real books, become talismans, touchstones, and proof in your hands that the past is never dead.

On the other side of the spectrum are the two splendid just published volumes of Lynd Ward's woodcut novels assembled in a boxed set by the Library of America. A birthday present, and proof of another thing. That good and great publishing still happens among us.

FBR 85: The safest way . . .

I've had a copy of Randall Jarrell's translation of Faust for quite a while. It's the FSG Noonday paper edition at $6.95, so how long is that? Last week I got hold of the 2000 edition of the same work, this one a hardcover with eleven illustrations by Peter Sis: the color cover and ten interior black and white "dot" drawings, particular to Sis's earlier work. I have loved the art of Peter Sis since I first saw it in the New York Times Book Review, and have a small collection of books, from Alphabet Soup on, but I never knew he did a Faust.

After receiving it (it cost a single penny — one cent — plus $3.99 shipping, can you believe it? One shameful penny for what might turn out to be a desert island book?), I was delighted to have an opportunity to read over Jarrell's work again. It is colloquial and almost slangy in parts, formal in others, and all around a solid piece of work. There are some exquisite scenes: Faust wanting to be young again, the Dungeon scene. One of the best things about the edition, however, is his wife's Afterword, "Faust and Randall Jarrell."

Mary von Schrader Jarrell gives the reader a first-hand picture of a major poet in the act of translating another major poet: "It was not done for riches, not for fame, not for a foundation grant; it was an assignment of the soul." Jarrell himself gave a more desperate reason: "At least, if I can't work on poetry of my own, I'm working on poetry better than my own . . . "

Being in the realm of poetry, in the country of words, was a necessary part of life for him, and I suspect for others of us as well. Elsewhere he quotes Goethe, who manages to combine the selfishness and selflessness of the artist in a beautiful epitaph:

"The safest way to avoid the world is through art; and the safest way to be linked to the world is through art."