{"id":93193,"date":"2016-01-05T15:44:23","date_gmt":"2016-01-05T20:44:23","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=93193"},"modified":"2016-01-05T15:44:23","modified_gmt":"2016-01-05T20:44:23","slug":"go-out-in-a-blaze-of-glory","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/01\/05\/go-out-in-a-blaze-of-glory\/","title":{"rendered":"Go Out in a Blaze of Glory"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

Robert Frost on a 1974 postage stamp.<\/p><\/div>\n

From \u201cDabbling in Corruption,\u201d an essay by W. D. Snodgrass, in our Spring 1994 issue<\/a>. Snodgrass was born on this day in 1926; he died in 2009. Here, he recalls seeing Robert Frost read at a Washington D.C. poetry conference in October 1962, when the Cuban Missile Crisis was at full tilt. Frost was eighty-eight then, and, as Snodgrass writes, \u201cobviously in his last months\u201d; he died the following January.<\/em><\/p>\n

Our luncheon with Jacqueline Kennedy that day was suddenly canceled\u2014rumor had it she was in a cave somewhere in a western state. Soviet ships carrying nuclear missiles were steaming toward Cuba; American war ships were steaming toward them. If they met in mid-Atlantic, World War III would almost certainly begin; Washington would be wiped out in hours \u2026\u00a0<\/p>\n

By the time [of Frost\u2019s reading], I was even more drunk and \u2026 did not dare register what was happening until a day or so later. Frost began, as he almost never did, by reading someone else\u2019s poem: \u201cShine, Perishing Republic\u201d by Robinson Jeffers. The title alone might have outraged his audience but they were so preconditioned to reverence that nothing else could reach them. Moving to his own poem, \u201cOctober,\u201d he drew special attention to its relevance for the current autumnal crisis:\u00a0<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

\n

O hushed October morning mild.
The leaves have ripened to the fall;
Tomorrow\u2019s wind if it be wild,
Should waste them all.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

His next poem, \u201cNovember,\u201d developed that figure:<\/p>\n

\n

We saw leaves go to glory, \u2026
And then to end the story
Get beaten down and pasted
In one wild day of rain.
We heard \u201c\u2019Tis Over\u201d roaring.
A year of leaves was wasted.
Oh, we make a boast of storing,
Of saving up and keeping
But only by ignoring \u2026
By denying and ignoring
The waste of nations warring.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

He said that this was no waste \u201cif it\u2019s toward some meaning. But you can call it waste you can call it expense. Just for this evening.\u201d Then he added a new line of his own:<\/p>\n

\n

By denying and ignoring
The waste of nations warring
And the waste of breath deploring.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

This was a direct slap at those whose attitude toward the crisis differed from his own. In him, it produced an immediate exhilaration and pugnacity, not against the Russians or Khrushchev (whom he called \u201cthe greatest ruler in the world, you know, the almighty\u201d) but against the liberals, most of his audience. They had often criticized his politics (e.g., his saying that no one\u00a0should get rid of the poor since he needed them in his work); throughout the evening he kept gibing at their attitudes in general and, specifically, toward this crisis. He spoke of \u201cDover Beachcombers\u201d and those who \u201cwould rather fuss with a Gordian knot than cut it.\u201d He went on to say that \u201cevery liberal I know of has a tendency when his enemy works up against him \u2026 to try to remember if he isn\u2019t more in the wrong than the enemy \u2026 a liberal is a person who can\u2019t take his own side in a fight.\u201d As the evening went on, he came to be pumping himself up and down at\u00a0the lectern like a rooster about to crow. Breaking into what seemed a laugh, he referred to that fearful crisis exultantly, \u201cYou didn\u2019t want to just fade out, did you? Why not go out in a blaze of glory?\u201d<\/p>\n

After he had received a standing ovation and everyone started to leave, he returned to the podium and called us all back to hear\u00a0some inconsequential comment. Again\u00a0he received a standing ovation and everyone started to leave. And once again, he called everyone back for another empty comment and a third standing ovation.<\/p>\n

Meantime, R. P. Blackmur, sitting near me, was growling loud obscenities: \u201cYou dirty old bastard! You rotten \u2026 \u201d I did not understand, though I\u2019d heard Blackmur had never liked Frost. As we surged out of the hall \u2026 I heard myself (to my own astonishment) singing loudly an old Scottish ballad:<\/p>\n

\n

She was trantin\u2019 and dancin\u2019 and singin\u2019 for joy;
She\u2019s vowed that very night she would feast Inverey;
She hae laugh\u2019 wi\u2019 him, danced wi\u2019 him, carried him ben;
She was kind wi\u2019 the villain that had slain her guid man.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

I had no notion why either Blackmur or I were behaving so badly. Days later I asked myself why I had been singing that<\/em> song\u2014\u201cThe Baron of Brackley.\u201d Earlier in the song, Brackley, head of the clan Gordon, had been urged\u00a0by his wife to ride out and fight against a pack of hired cattle thieves and gallows birds who finally butcher\u00a0him. Now, triumphing in his death, she spends the night with Inverey, the leader of that gang. Only when I had recreated\u00a0the song did I realize how betrayed I had felt by Frost\u2019s speech and his attitude. Of all the people in that packed hall, only Blackmur had recognized that Frost was not only triumphing over those in his audience he thought over-scrupulous in conflict, but laughing at the probability of that audience\u2019s imminent death. Now he would not have to die alone; he had had his full career; they would not. Meantime, they were so worshipful that he could mock them to their faces and receive, in return, not one but three standing ovations.<\/p>\n

This essay later appeared in Snodgrass\u2019s book <\/em>After-Images: Autobiographical Sketches<\/a>.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

From \u201cDabbling in Corruption,\u201d an essay by W. D. Snodgrass, in our Spring 1994 issue. Snodgrass was born on this day in 1926; he died in 2009. Here, he recalls seeing Robert Frost read at a Washington D.C. poetry conference in October 1962, when the Cuban Missile Crisis was at full tilt. Frost was eighty-eight […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":917,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[1188],"tags":[16304,20682,20680,20678,20679,20681,7221,165,2426,605,3110,20677,13267,941],"class_list":["post-93193","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-from-the-archive","tag-archive","tag-conservatism","tag-cuban-missile-crisis","tag-issue-130","tag-jackie-kennedy","tag-liberals","tag-poems","tag-poetry","tag-politics","tag-readings","tag-robert-frost","tag-robinson-jeffers","tag-w-d-snodgrass","tag-washington-dc"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nRobert Frost\u2019s Death Wish<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"W. D. 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