A detail of the cover of The Paris Review’s Summer 1977 issue, which marked Deborah Pease’s first appearance in the magazine. Cover painting by William Copley, “Untitled,” 1977.
The Paris Review was saddened to learn that Deborah S. Pease—a poet, our former publisher, and a longtime supporter of the magazine—died in Boston earlier this week. She was seventy.
Pease was The Paris Review’s publisher from 1982 to 1992. She was a generous benefactor: in addition to her work with the Review, she supported Poets House and the Poetry Society of America, and she went on to help found A Public Space, whose editors write, “For her one of the truest ways to value art was to share it.”
An accomplished poet, Pease found a home for her work in the Review as early as 1977, and she returned to these pages often over the next decades; her work could be found in The New Yorker, AGNI, and Parnassus, among others, and in 1999 collected her poems in Another Ghost in the Doorway. She was precocious, too—a short story, “Doubt,” appeared in The New Yorker when she was only twenty-three, and her novel, Real Life, came not long afterward, in 1971.
Below is her poem “Self-Portrait in Iceland,” published in our Summer 2010 issue.
The face is featureless,As though bound in tight gauze,And therefore presents a mienOf deadly restraint, and for a momentIt terrifies, this visageShorn of expression, the first impulseIs to recoil from what appearsTo be willful, if bloodless and unscarred,Mutilation, but somehow The set of the head, its angled tilt,Imparts a liveliness to the sitterThat defies a nullity because it capturesLight from an unseen windowAnd reflects from an unseen radianceA sanguine assertion of selfDrawn from tones of glacial tidesAnd roseate pumice stone.The hands, extremities at restIn the sitter’s lap just over the kneesAnd crossed at the wrists, are nearly convivial,Inward-cupped, not articulated but nonetheless Eloquent in their assured capacityFor labor, the lack of delicate modelingSuggests a readinessTo take hold, to lend themselvesTo tasks at hand, but the rudimentaryAspect reveals no crudeness of characterIn the sitter, no vulgarity, on the contraryThe hands are free from guile and coarse use,They echo the face in elemental probity,Holding in quick, almost offhand fashionGulps of sun,Chunks of flameIn the shade of bleached volcanoes.
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