{"id":21914,"date":"2011-10-06T14:00:06","date_gmt":"2011-10-06T18:00:06","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=21914"},"modified":"2011-10-06T14:23:43","modified_gmt":"2011-10-06T18:23:43","slug":"on-not-letting-go","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2011\/10\/06\/on-not-letting-go\/","title":{"rendered":"On Not Letting Go"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

"Notebook on an Intended Dictionary." Bound manuscript written on wrappers from the 1855 edition of 'Leaves of Grass.' Courtesy The Library of Congress.<\/p><\/div>\n

Probably no writer ever finishes a book without wishing he could keep it to himself. For one thing, a book is company, during the writing of it; it\u2019s hard to accept its departure. For another, a book is never free of flaws, its author being human. Poets have long been able to console themselves for the loss and the exposure by revising and republishing. Thus Whitman expanded, aggrandized, and eventually bloated Leaves of Grass<\/em>; thus Wordsworth enlarged upon and finally diluted The Prelude<\/em>. Some writers of fiction, too, have indulged themselves. Henry James returned to his early prose to render it more ineffable. Raymond Carver restored some of the fullness that a charismatic editor had cut from his early stories.\u00a0<\/p>\n

For several years after publishing my first book, American Sympathy<\/em>, I kept a mental list of oversights that I meant to acknowledge and unnecessary mysteries that I meant to clear away, in case there was ever a paperback edition. When I gave up waiting, I scribbled my errata on the endpapers of Phyllis Cole\u2019s book on Mary Moody Emerson, a source for a couple of my corrections; I haven\u2019t checked on them lately, but I assume they\u2019re still there. Recently I completed a new book, a very different one, about which I\u2019ll only say here that I miss it, even though it\u2019s not yet altogether out of my hands. Some of my mixed feelings came back to me with the proverbial alienated majesty the other day when I read Samuel Daniel\u2019s poem \u201cTo the Reader.\u201d<\/p>\n

The poem first appeared as preface to a 1607 reprint of Daniel\u2019s shorter works, some of which had first been published by him as much as fifteen years earlier. In \u201cTo the Reader,\u201d\u00a0Daniel admitted to having tinkered with the poems during the interval and compared himself to<\/p>\n

\n

… the curious builder who this year
Pulls down, and alters what he did the last
As if the thing in doing were more dear
Than being done, and nothing likes that\u2019s past.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

By curious<\/em> Daniel means \u201cpainstaking\u201d rather than the word\u2019s modern meaning; nevertheless the imaginary builder is an odd duck. The end of building should be a house; the end of writing should be a book. The trouble is that a writer, as a writer, doesn\u2019t really want for writing to have an end, even if he knows that his reluctance is at odds with, say, a financially successful career, not to mention the fulfillment of a work of art by its release into the minds of readers.<\/p>\n

Daniel continues:<\/p>\n

\n

For that we ever make the latter day
The scholar of the former, …<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

There\u2019s melancholy in this explanation of Daniel\u2019s. He isn\u2019t talking only about revision. Even a writer who doesn\u2019t revise his earlier works may be continually looking back to them, trying to repair their insufficiencies through new efforts whose links to the past may only be legible to the writer himself. It\u2019s even possible that there\u2019s something retrospective in the nature of writing itself. Probably every writer\u2019s first piece of writing, if it were possible to excavate such a thing, would be found to look backward. Writing tries to fix the past\u2014to hold it in place and sometimes in imagination to improve it.<\/p>\n

\n

… and we find
Something is still amiss that must delay
Our business, and leave work for us behind.
As if there were no sabbath of the mind.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Daniel\u2019s irony is lovely and deeply misleading, because of course there is no sabbath of the mind. A mind torments its owner as long as he has one. Until death, it is never done with being the scholar of its former days, and Daniel\u2019s simile implies a reversal of fact and fiction. It implies, as a corollary, that the idea of a pause from writing is fanciful. And you can forget about finishing. A writer only ever imagines that he has stopped writing a book long enough to let it go. A book, as a physical object, is no more than the symbol of a rest that a writer can never really enjoy.<\/p>\n

Though Daniel may seem, in his implied longing after rest, to be willing at this point to let go, he\u2019s still not ready to. \u201cIt is mine own,\u201d he asserts. \u201cI may \/ Do whatsoever therewithal I will.\u201d He\u2019ll let go when he\u2019s dead. Continuing his earlier metaphor, he calls his poems\u00a0\u201cthe building of my life\u201d and says that they constitute the only estate that he\u2019ll leave to his posterity. Again the note is melancholy. Daniel is glad of long life, he says, only because it allows him to keep his poems in good repair a little longer, and because it\u2019s only at length that one becomes a writer at all, given the resistance of the world to understanding and the backward-glancing nature of writing:<\/p>\n

\n

… For man is a tree
That hath his fruit late ripe, and it is long
Before he come t\u2019his taste …<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Only after experience and after reflection does a writer\u2019s work become sapid; only then does he know what he likes. As someone who next year, if all goes well, will be publishing a novel for the first time at the age of forty-five, I feel rather sympathetic with the idea that a long enough life is one of the kinds of luck a writer needs to have.<\/p>\n

The faults that Daniel sees in his rivals\u2019 books make him painfully conscious of his own, but his self-doubt is offset by his awareness that the rest of the literary world is even worse at judging merit than he is. By the end of the poem, he is reconciling himself to the hazards of exposure by asking the reader for permission to take it all back, should any errors be detected: \u201cI\u2019ll disavow mine act,\u201d he promises. \u201cI will ask nothing … \/ But only to have in mine own again.\u201d Before he reaches this paradox of publishing while promising retraction, though, he comes to a philosophical sort of peace with his mistakes. It may be that no one would ever write if he didn\u2019t first err, he suggests:<\/p>\n

\n

I know no work from man yet ever came
But had his mark, and by some error showed
That it was his, and yet what in the same
Was rare, and worthy, evermore allowed
Safe convoy for the rest: the good that\u2019s sowed,
Though rarely, pays our cost, and whoso looks
T\u2019have all things in perfection and in frame
In men\u2019s inventions, never must read books.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Daniel\u2019s idea of error brings to mind what Gerard Manley Hopkins once called \u201cthe sakes\u201d of an artist. It\u2019s like a maker\u2019s mark; it shows a poem to have been the work of a particular man. In the moment of publication, a writer must accept that his writing can never be without errors. But he can also find a sort of comfort in them. He may lose his book to the world, but the errors in it will always remain his.<\/p>\n

Caleb Crain<\/a> is a writer living in Brooklyn.<\/em><\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Probably no writer ever finishes a book without wishing he could keep it to himself. For one thing, a book is company, during the writing of it; it\u2019s hard to accept its departure. For another, a book is never free of flaws, its author being human. Poets have long been able to console themselves for […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":17,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[2157],"tags":[4249,4254,153,3769,4250,4251,263,4252,4247,4253,264,4248],"class_list":["post-21914","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-on-poetry","tag-american-sympathy","tag-gerard-manley-hopkins","tag-henry-james","tag-leaves-of-grass","tag-mary-moody-emerson","tag-phyllis-vole","tag-raymond-carver","tag-samuel-daniel","tag-the-prelude","tag-to-the-reader","tag-walt-whitman","tag-wordsworth"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nOn Not Letting Go by Caleb Crain<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"October 6, 2011 \u2013 Probably no writer ever finishes a book without wishing he could keep it to himself. 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