{"id":31583,"date":"2012-05-17T12:11:49","date_gmt":"2012-05-17T16:11:49","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=31583"},"modified":"2012-07-11T13:18:18","modified_gmt":"2012-07-11T17:18:18","slug":"serious-nonsense","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2012\/05\/17\/serious-nonsense\/","title":{"rendered":"Edward Lear\u2019s \u201cThe Dong with a Luminous Nose\u201d"},"content":{"rendered":"

<\/p>\n

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<\/center><\/p>\n

Edward Lear was born two hundred years ago this month. His reputation, which has outlived many others, rests largely on a book of limericks published when he was thirty-four and a single poem, appearing twenty-one years later, that begins (as you all know, or should):<\/p>\n

\n

The Owl and the Pussycat went to sea
\nIn a beautiful pea-green boat
\nThey took some honey, and plenty of money
\nWrapped up in a five-pound note<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n


\nFor the cowardly, for those who require permission to enjoy nonsense or doggerel (which are, after all, the purest forms of poetry\u2014poetry stripped of inflated ambition and ornament), let me note that T.S. Eliot glossed Lear\u2019s self-portrait in verse (\u201cHow unpleasant to meet Mr. Eliot \/ with his features of clerical cut\u201d) and Auden devoted a poem to him (\u201che wept to himself in the night \/ A dirty landscape-painter who hated his nose\u201d). For the grim-hearted, let me add that it’s impossible to take Edward Lear seriously\u2014at least in the dreadful sense of the phrase to take seriously<\/em> that has infected our language (it’s come to mean something close to embalming). And from that very impossibility is derived the inescapable hold he exerts as a lyricist and prosodist. Lear’s verse is so strong and so unitary that it resists analysis; it requires, in fact, no analysis at all. One is never in doubt as to what he means, even when he\u2019s relating the sad fate of the old man of Thermopylae<\/a>, who was exiled for his disregard of convention, or the tale of the \u201cDong with the Luminous Nose<\/a>,\u201d heartbroken and stalwart, a prosthesis made of tree bark affixed to his face and a lamp suspended within it. <\/p>\n

\n

When awful darkness and silence reign
\nOver the great Gromboolian plain,
\n Through the long, long wintry nights;\u2013
\nWhen the angry breakers roar
\nAs they beat on the rocky shore;\u2013
\n When Storm-clouds brood on the towering heights
\nOf the Hills of the Chankly Bore:\u2013<\/p>\n

\nThen, through the vast and gloomy dark,
\nThere moves what seems a fiery spark,
\n A lonely spark with silvery rays
\n Piercing the coal-black night,\u2014
\n A Meteor strange and bright:\u2013
\nHither and thither the vision strays,
\n A single lurid light. <\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

\nSo begins the Dong\u2019s tale. He falls in love with a foreign woman, she leaves, he is bereft and driven to his insane and endless wanderings. Never imagine that some sordid, Viennese impulse lies behind the name this forlorn lover bears. If anything, the attentive reader will hear in it a knell, nothing more. Or the lament we all raise when confronted with loss and the hideous inadequacy of our art, of our intellect itself. \u201cFar and few, far and few \/ are the land where the Jumblies live\u201d: copying down that line as an adult carries with it a certain shame at ever having been entranced by it, to say nothing the greater shame that this entrancement has not ended, although the words no longer possess the incantatory power they did when I first encountered the poem as a child. And its jogging, broken meter, that too recalls the ragged and unendurable pace of childhood, which now seems absurd and feverish, trite, forced, but which, as you lived through it, excruciated and exalted you.<\/p>\n

\nI don’t want to go on too long or too volubly. To do so would run counter to the spirit of Lear\u2019s work. But I doubt that any reader of poetry\u2014after encountering the the tyrannical, fanatical cruelty so often displayed in the limericks and the more recognizably human experiences portrayed in his longer lyrics\u2014has ever rid himself of the pain reading Lear induces.<\/p>\n

\nSam Munson’s novel <\/em>The November Criminals <\/a>is now available in paperback. <\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Edward Lear was born two hundred years ago this month. His reputation, which has outlived many others, rests largely on a book of limericks published when he was thirty-four and a single poem, appearing twenty-one years later, that begins (as you all know, or should): The Owl and the Pussycat went to sea In a […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":349,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[4715],"tags":[7575,7586,165,1772,7585,2160],"class_list":["post-31583","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-the-poem-stuck-in-my-head","tag-edward-lear","tag-nonsense","tag-poetry","tag-t-s-eliot","tag-verse","tag-w-h-auden"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nEdward Lear\u2019s \u201cThe Dong with a Luminous Nose\u201d by Sam Munson<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"May 17, 2012 \u2013 Edward Lear was born two hundred years ago this month. 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