{"id":14742,"date":"2011-04-18T10:44:19","date_gmt":"2011-04-18T14:44:19","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=14742"},"modified":"2011-04-19T10:11:42","modified_gmt":"2011-04-19T14:11:42","slug":"david-orr-lost-in-the-archives-spring-1974","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2011\/04\/18\/david-orr-lost-in-the-archives-spring-1974\/","title":{"rendered":"David Orr: Lost in the Archives, Spring 1974"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"

W. H. Auden. <\/p><\/div>\n

The best thing about The Paris Review<\/em>, aside from the editors\u2019 formidable liquor stash, is the magazine\u2019s sense of history. Sure, there are older American literary journals (The Yale Review<\/em> was founded, no joke, in 1819), but The Paris Review<\/em> has had a consistent idea of itself for longer than many publications that predate its debut in 1953. Of course, that consistency makes some aspects of the magazine vulnerable to, oh, for example, parody<\/a>. But it also makes The Paris Review<\/em>\u2019s archive a useful tool with which to survey an art\u2014and one\u2019s personal response to that art\u2014over several decades. So for the next month or so, that\u2019s what I\u2019ll be doing for the gracious and impeccably shirted Lorin Stein, and the equally gracious (and presumably impeccably shirted) Thessaly La Force.<\/p>\n

Let\u2019s begin at the beginning, which for me was the spring of 1974<\/a>.<\/p>\n

In the poetry world, this was a season of uncertainty and transition, as seasons in the poetry world so often are. The popularity of the \u201cdeep image\u201d style associated with James Wright and W. S. Merwin was just beginning to wane; John Ashbery was on the brink of arriving at his full prominence (Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror<\/em> would complete the only hat trick in the history of the major poetry awards in 1975); and W. H. Auden, whose hand both stirred and hindered several currents in American poetry, had died only a few months earlier. In fact, Auden is the subject of the \u201cArt of Poetry<\/a>\u201d interview in the Spring 1974 issue, lending a poignant touch to that meticulously casual series. This being Auden, things get pretty droll pretty quickly:<\/p>\n

\n

INTERVIEWER:\u00a0 Do you have any aids for inspiration?<\/p>\n

AUDEN:\u00a0 I never write when I\u2019m drunk.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

And:<\/p>\n

\n

INTERVIEWER:\u00a0 Have you read, or tried to read, Finnegans Wake<\/em>?<\/p>\n

AUDEN:\u00a0 I\u2019m not very good on Joyce.\u00a0 Obviously he\u2019s a very great genius\u2014but his work is simply too long.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

It\u2019s tempting to keep on quoting Auden, because he so thoroughly understands a poet\u2019s duty to be entertaining. But in looking through these pages, I find myself drawn not to the interview with Auden, delicious as it is, but to the poems that close the issue, which are by Pablo Neruda.<\/p>\n

Yes, Pablo Neruda. Let me confess two things. First, although I neither speak nor read Spanish, that didn\u2019t stop me from toting around Neruda\u2019s Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair <\/em>when I was twenty-two or so, and proclaiming from it like a quiveringly earnest version of William Shatner. Really, any young dude\u2014and it\u2019s always a young dude\u2014who has a copy of this book should be forced to turn it over until he reaches a responsible age, or at least to balance his reading by spending quality time with something of equal and opposite heft, like the U.S. tax code. Second, because of the aforementioned youthful toting, I have a hard time even reading the name Neruda now without wincing. So it\u2019s nice to be reminded in this issue of what a brilliant poet the real Neruda actually could be. Here\u2019s the beginning of \u201cThe Citizen<\/a>,\u201d translated by Alastair Reid:<\/p>\n

\n

I went into the toolshops
\n in all innocence
\n to buy a simple hammer
\n or some vague scissors.
\n I should never have done it.
\n Since then and restlessly,
\n I devote my time to steel,
\n to the most shadowy tools:
\n hoes bring me to my knees,
\n horseshoes enslave me.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

We\u2014or at least, I\u2014often associate Neruda with Whitmanian reach, but it\u2019s worth remembering that he had a drier, tighter mode as well (this poem makes me think of Zbigniew Herbert, actually, except for the inadvertent pun on \u201choes bring me to my knees,\u201d which I\u2019m going to lay at the feet of the otherwise excellent Mr. Reid). Neruda goes on to describe his fascination with the machinery (\u201cFor in the addict\u2019s dream\/ sprout stainless steel flowers\u201d) and the strange, old beauty of the tool shops (\u201cThey have a whale\u2019s heart,\/ these toolshops of the port\u2014\/ they\u2019ve swallowed all the seas,\/ all the bones of ships,\/ waves and ancient tides\/ come together there \u2026\u201d). \u201cThe Citizen\u201d ends:<\/p>\n

\n

\u2026 I\u2019ve never got away from
\n the aura of toolshops.
\n It\u2019s like my home ground,
\n it teaches me useless things,
\n it drowns me like nostalgia.<\/p>\n

What can I do?\u00a0 There are single men
\n in hotels, in bachelor rooms;
\n there are patriots with drums
\n and inexhaustible fliers
\n who rise and fall in the air.<\/p>\n

I am not in your world.
\n I\u2019m a dedicated citizen,
\n I belong to the toolshops.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Which is where all poets belong, however far they may stray.<\/p>\n

David Orr<\/a> is the poetry columnist for <\/em>The New York Times Book Review and the author of <\/em>Beautiful and Pointless: A Guide to Modern Poetry<\/a>. He will be blogging<\/a> from time to time about poetry from <\/em>The Paris Review\u2019s back issues. <\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The best thing about The Paris Review, aside from the editors\u2019 formidable liquor stash, is the magazine\u2019s sense of history. Sure, there are older American literary journals (The Yale Review was founded, no joke, in 1819), but The Paris Review has had a consistent idea of itself for longer than many publications that predate its […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":160,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[2157],"tags":[33,1987,2159,1494,2161,165,2158,2160],"class_list":["post-14742","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-on-poetry","tag-archives","tag-david-orr","tag-issue-57","tag-new-york-times","tag-pablo-neruda","tag-poetry","tag-spring-1974","tag-w-h-auden"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nDavid Orr: Lost in the Archives, Spring 1974 by David Orr<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"April 18, 2011 \u2013 The best thing about The Paris Review, aside from the editors\u2019 formidable liquor stash, is the magazine\u2019s sense of history. 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