I used to subscribe to the New York Review of Books in print form, but I got lazy about reading the issues. Yet I saved all of them and am now reading them, mostly when I go out by myself to lunch. Today, at a local Egyptian Restaurant in Culver City, I read this poem by Diane Seuss in an issue dated June 23, 2022. It’s called “Weeds.”
Weeds
The danger of memory is going to it for respite. Respite risks entrapment. Don’t debauch yourself by living in some former version of yourself that was more or less naked. Maybe it felt better then, but you were not better. You were smaller, as the rain gauge must fill to the brim with its full portion of suffering.
What can memory be in these terrible times? Only instruction. Not a dwelling.
Or if you must dwell: The sweet smell of weeds then. The sweet smell of weeds now. An endurance. A standoff. A rest.
Whenever things go blooey here in Sunny California, as they are wont to do from time to time, I remind myself that I am at the center of my being an Eastern European. I may have been born in Cleveland, Ohio, but the language that spoke most intimately to my emotions was Magyar (Hungarian).
My life has been a series of shifts from east to west and back again. That has prevented me from being depressed at setbacks that have occurred. We Eastern Europeans are used to suffering. But we have our own insane pride that prevents us from falling apart.
Consequently, I love reading literature that has been translated from Hungarian, Czech, Polish, Serbian, Romanian, Ukrainian, and Russian. And whatever my politics are—and they are certainly not on the side of Vladimir Putin—I see the stories, novels, dramas, and poems the product of a people, not a political system. The people are all right, however the politics might suck.
I have always dreamed of riding from Moscow to Vladivostok on the Trans-Siberian Railroad. To see a vast country unrolling before my eyes on the long trip to the Sea of Japan. I also see myself as reading long Russian novels during that trip. Alas, I think I am now too old for such an adventurous journey.
Currently, I am reading Eugene Vodolazkin’s The Aviator, which makes me feel these things more intensely.
Although I learned to play chess at the age of nine, I am no wizard at the game. In fact, my game is pretty mediocre. I leave pieces en prise (open to capture). I miss mates in two. I fall into opening traps. But I love the game and spend an average of an hour a day on Chess.Com solving problems, playing chess bots, and following the latest chess news.
When the conversation turns to the latest computer game, I just smirk. Chess is a game that will occupy my mind for a lifetime, not merely an intermission on TV.
If you look at all the possible combinations for white and black for just the first ten moves, the number is larger than the number of atoms in the universe. The game is over a thousand years old: It first emerged in India as the game called Chaturanga. It came to the West through Persia, where it was called Shah Mat (“The King Is Helpless”). That is where the term Checkmate arose.
I regularly play chess openings that date from the Sixteenth Century (the Ruy Lopez). There are mating patterns from the Eighteenth Century (Legal’s Mate).
I still have several shelves of classical chess books that I have pipe dreams of studying at some point. These include game collections from the likes of Bobby Fischer, Alexander Alekhine, Paul Morphy, José Raul Capablanca, and my hero, the Estonian Paul Keres.
Whatever happens, chess will have enriched my life immeasurably.
As I read today for the first time a play by French Writer Honoré de Balzac, I was reminded of the last scene in his great novel Père Goriot as Eugène de Rastignac attended the poor funeral of his old neighbor Goriot..
But just as the coffin was put in the hearse, two empty carriages, with the armorial bearings of the Comte de Restaud and the Baron de Nucingen, arrived and followed in the procession to Pere-Lachaise. At six o’clock Goriot’s coffin was lowered into the grave, his daughters’ servants standing round the while. The ecclesiastic recited the short prayer that the students could afford to pay for, and then both priest and lackeys disappeared at once. The two grave diggers flung in several spadefuls of earth, and then stopped and asked Rastignac for their fee. Eugene felt in vain in his pocket, and was obliged to borrow five francs of Christophe. This thing, so trifling in itself, gave Rastignac a terrible pang of distress. It was growing dusk, the damp twilight fretted his nerves; he gazed down into the grave and the tears he shed were drawn from him by the sacred emotion, a single-hearted sorrow. When such tears fall on earth, their radiance reaches heaven. And with that tear that fell on Father Goriot’s grave, Eugene Rastignac’s youth ended. He folded his arms and gazed at the clouded sky; and Christophe, after a glance at him, turned and went—Rastignac was left alone.
He went a few paces further, to the highest point of the cemetery, and looked out over Paris and the windings of the Seine; the lamps were beginning to shine on either side of the river. His eyes turned almost eagerly to the space between the column of the Place Vendome and the cupola of the Invalides; there lay the shining world that he had wished to reach. He glanced over that humming hive, seeming to draw a foretaste of its honey, and said magniloquently:
“Henceforth there is war between us.”
And by way of throwing down the glove to Society, Rastignac went to dine with Mme. de Nucingen.
I don’t like writing about politics, but not to react at all to what is happening to my country would be to suppress my fears and my rage at the second presidential term of Donald Trump, or, as I call it, the Revenge Tour.
With the shutdown of all government functions that our president doesn’t like—in effect, most of them—our nation is being diminished day by day. Here is what I see happening until the Devil takes the man:
THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA HE UNITE STATE F AMERIC E UNIT STAT AMERI UNI STA AMER UN ST AME N S AM A [NOTHING]
At present, flights are being delayed or canceled by 10%. Perhaps in a few days, it will be 20% How long before it becomes 100%
I am angry that ignorant voters could become a majority and unravel everything that made this country great. I can see it all now: Venezuela, Somalia, Myanmar, Haiti, and us. Ugh!
One of Many Anglo-Saxon Edwards Who Preceded the Conquest
The English language has a long history. We don’t have any samples of what the English spoke during the Roman occupation. In fact, it was not until the Angles, Saxons, and Jutes crossed the Channel into Britain that we have the bare bones of a literature. Today, I present one of the great Anglo-Saxon poems.
If you want to hear the poem in the original Anglo-Saxon of the Dark Ages, you can do so by checking out this YouTube site. It is a far, far cry from the language we speak today.
Here is “The Wanderer” in a modern translation from the Poetry Foundation:
The Wanderer
Always the one alone longs for mercy, the Maker’s mildness, though, troubled in mind, across the ocean-ways he has long been forced co stir with his hands the frost-cold sea, and walk in exile’s paths. Wyrd is fully fixed.
Thus spoke the Wanderer, mindful of troubles,
of cruel slaughters and dear kinsmen’s downfall: “Often alone, in the first light of dawn, I have sung my lament. There is none living to whom I would dare to reveal clearly my heart’s thoughts. I know it is true that it is a nobleman’s lordly nature to closely bind his spirit’s coffer, hold fast his treasure-hoard, whatever he may think. The weary mind cannot withstand wyrd, the troubled heart can offer no help, and so those eager for fame often bind fast in their breast-coffers a sorrowing soul, just as I have had to take my own heart— Often wretched, cut off from my own homeland, far from dear kinsmen—and bind it in fetters, ever since long ago I hid my gold-giving friend in the darkness of earth, and went wretched, winter-sad, over the ice-locked waves, sought, hall-sick, a treasure-giver, wherever I might find, far or near, someone in a meadhall who might know my people, or who would want to comfort me, friendless, accustom me to joy. He who has come to know how cruel a companion is sorrow for one with few dear friends, will understand: the path of exile claims him, not patterned gold, a winter-bound spirit, not the wealth of earth. He remembers hall-holders and treasure-taking, how in his youth his gold-giving lord accustomed him to the feast—that joy has all faded.
And so he who has long been forced to forego
his lord’s beloved words of counsel will understand: when sorrow and sleep both together often bind up the wretched exile, it seems in his mind that he clasps and kisses his lord of men, and on his knee lays hands and head, as he sometimes long ago in earlier days enjoyed the gift-throne. But when the friendless man awakens again and sees before him the fallow waves, seabirds bathing, spreading their feathers, frost falling and snow, mingled with hail, then the heart’s wounds are that much heavier, longing for his loved one. Sorrow is renewed when the memory of kinsmen flies through the mind; he greets them with great joy, greedily surveys hall-companions—they always swim away; the floating spirits bring too few familiar voices. Cares are renewed for one who must send, over and over, a weary heart across the binding waves.
And so I cannot imagine for all this world
why my spirit should not grow dark when I think through all this life of men, how suddenly they gave up the hall-floor, mighty young retainers. Thus this middle-earth droops and decays every single day; and so a man cannot become wise, before he has weathered his share of winters in this world. A wise man must be patient, neither too hot-hearted nor too hasty with words, nor too weak in war nor too unwise in thoughts, neither fretting nor fawning nor greedy for wealth, never eager for boasting before he truly understands; a man must wait, when he makes a boast, until the brave spirit understands truly where the thoughts of his heart will turn.
The wise man must realize how ghastly it will be
when all the wealth of this world stands waste, as now here and there throughout this middle-earth walls stand blasted by wind, beaten by frost, the buildings crumbling. The wine halls topple, their rulers lie deprived of all joys; the proud old troops all fell by the wall. War carried off some, sent them on the way, one a bird carried off over the high seas, one the gray wolf shared with death—and one a sad-faced man covered in an earthen grave. The Creator of men thus destroyed this walled city, until the old works of giants stood empty, without the sounds of their former citizens.
He who deeply considers, with wise thoughts,
this foundation and this dark life, old in spirit, often remembers so many ancient slaughters, and says these words: ‘Where has the horse gone? where is the rider? where is the giver of gold? Where are the seats of the feast? where are the joys of the hall? O the bright cup! O the brave warrior! O the glory of princes! How the time passed away, slipped into nightfall as if it had never been! There still stands in the path of the dear warriors a wall wondrously high, with serpentine stains. A storm of spears took away the warriors, bloodthirsty weapons, wyrd the mighty, and storms batter these stone walls, frost falling binds up the earth, the howl of winter, when blackness comes, night’s shadow looms, sends down from the north harsh hailstones in hatred of men. All is toilsome in the earthly kingdom, the working of wyrd changes the world under heaven. Here wealth is fleeting, here friends are fleeting, here man is fleeting, here woman is fleeting, all the framework of this earth will stand empty.’
So said the wise one in his mind, sitting apart in meditation.
He is good who keeps his word, and the man who never too quickly shows the anger in his breast, unless he already knows the remedy a noble man can bravely bring about. It will be well for one who seeks mercy, consolation from the Father in heaven, where for us all stability stands.
A Word of Explanation
The following discussion is taken from the Octavia Randolph website:
Wyrd is an Old English noun, a feminine one, from the verb weorthan “to become”. It is related to the Old Saxon wurd, Old High German wurt, Old Norse urür. Wyrd is the ancestor of the more modern weird, which before it meant odd or unusual in the pejorative sense carried connotations of the supernatural, as in Shakespeare’s weird sisters, the trio of witches in MacBeth. The original Wyrd Sisters were of course, the three Norns, the Norse Goddesses of destiny.
Wyrd is Fate or Destiny, but not the “inexorable fate” of the ancient Greeks. “A happening, event, or occurrence”, found deeper in the Oxford English Dictionary listing is closer to the way our Anglo-Saxon and Norse forbears considered this term. In other words, Wyrd is not an end-point, but something continually happening around us at all times. One of the phrases used to describe this difficult term is “that which happens”.
Czeslaw Milosz was born in Eastern Europe the same year as my father was born. Only, Elek Paris was no poet; and Czeslaw Milosz was one of the greatest poetic voices of his century. For many years, he lived in the United States and taught at Berkeley. He won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1980 and died in his native Poland in 2004.
Note that the title of the following poem ends with a question mark:
Ars Poetica?
I have always aspired to a more spacious form that would be free from the claims of poetry or prose and would let us understand each other without exposing the author or reader to sublime agonies.
In the very essence of poetry there is something indecent: a thing is brought forth which we didn’t know we had in us, so we blink our eyes, as if a tiger had sprung out and stood in the light, lashing his tail.
That’s why poetry is rightly said to be dictated by a daimonion, though it’s an exaggeration to maintain that he must be an angel. It’s hard to guess where that pride of poets comes from, when so often they’re put to shame by the disclosure of their frailty.
What reasonable man would like to be a city of demons, who behave as if they were at home, speak in many tongues, and who, not satisfied with stealing his lips or hand, work at changing his destiny for their convenience?
It’s true that what is morbid is highly valued today, and so you may think that I am only joking or that I’ve devised just one more means of praising Art with the help of irony.
There was a time when only wise books were read, helping us to bear our pain and misery. This, after all, is not quite the same as leafing through a thousand works fresh from psychiatric clinics.
And yet the world is different from what it seems to be And we are other than how we see ourselves in our ravings. People therefore preserve silent integrity, thus earning the respect of their relatives and neighbors.
The purpose of poetry is to remind us how difficult it is to remain just one person, for our house is open, there are no keys in the doors, and invisible guests come in and out at will.
What I’m saying here is not, I agree, poetry, as poems should be written rarely and reluctantly, under unbearable duress and only with the hope that good spirits, not evil ones, choose us for their instrument.
Yesterday, Martine and I attended a screening of old cartoons from Walt Disney, the Fleischer Studio, MGM, and United Productions of America (UPA). Much was made of fact that several of the cartoons had won Oscars for animation.
It was at that point that my hackles began to rise. Academy Awards? You mean those awards voted on by industry members who bore grudges against the studio for which they worked or for competing studios. Granted, some Oscar winners deserved their awards. Knowing the film industry as I do, however, many votes are cast based on pure spite.
There is no doubt that the Walt Disney Studio made some great cartoons. But did “The Old Mill” (1937) deserve an Oscar? See your yourself: The Old Mill. There were some very arty effects, but zilch in the way of story or characters.
On the other hand, a controversial Donald Duck cartoon entitled “Der Fuehrer’s Face” (1943) was banned for decades because it showed the Quackster having a dream that he was a Nazi in Hitler’s Germany. It was a fascinating look at American war propaganda. Was it a little racist? Hmm, could be….
In the speaker’s idolization of Disney, he totally left out Warner Brothers’ Looney Tunes and Merrie Melodies. No Bugs Bunny, no Tweety or Sylvester, no Roadrunner, no Porky Pig, and no Daffy Duck. And he said very little about the 1930s productions of Max and Dave Fleischer. I am referring to Popeye, Betty Boop, and a host of great cartoons, such as Poor Cinderella (1934) or Raggedy Ann and Raggedy Andy (1941).
As a low rent film scholar, I am suspicious of awards. I never watch the Academy Awards on television, and I never take awards into consideration when planning my viewing. I may not have the so-called prestige of the Oscars behind me, but I am more likely to see films for other reasons than industry backbiting.
At the end of September, I set myself a program for reading several appropriate ghoulish, ghastly, and horrifying titles in honor of my favorite holiday, Halloween. You can read about my intentions here.
Of the ten books I ended up reading last month, five were appropriate for the season:
Ann Radcliffe: The Italian, or the Confessional of the Black Penitents
Joyce Carol Oates: Cardiff, by the Sea
Thomas Ligotti: The Agonizing Resurrection of Victor Frankenstein and Other Gothic Tales
Edgar Allan Poe: The Portable Poe
Ray Bradbury: The Halloween Tree
They were all pretty good. Not surprisingly, I thought the Poe was best, followed by the Bradbury. That was a surprise, as it was written for the juvenile market, but I enjoyed every minute of it. The Ann Radcliffe was a hoot, as the British tended to think that nothing was spookier than Catholicism, (Maybe it was that thing about the Holy Ghost.)
I liked the Ligotti book because it was a fun way to revisit all the high points of the genre. Cardiff, by the Sea wasn’t technically a Halloween novel, except for the fact that everything Joyce Carol Oates is a bit on the spooky side.
I have always loved the beginning of Tod Browning’s Dracula (1931). It shows Renfield (Dwight Frye) arriving at a Transylvanian village late in the evening at Walpurgis Night, when witches and evil spirits hold sway. Everybody is bemoaning that fact in Hungarian. As a Hungarian-American,I always had a fondness for that scene—rather than for the, I thought, less interesting events in England in the vicinity of Carfax Abbey.
Today I saw bits and pieces of the two original Universal horror classics—Dracula and Frankenstein (both 1931)—on Turner Classic Movies (TCM). There altogether too many large rooms in which too many people, many of them in formal evening attire, confronted one another. I was much happier with James Whale’s The Bride of Frankenstein (1935), which was a much better film than Whale’s original Frankenstein.
I suppose that, in the deepest days of the Great Depression, people had a yearning for actors with British accents dressed in tuxedos. I’ve always thought it was a bit silly.
Still, there were those scenes in which Renfield is working his way to Castle Dracula. They are forever etched in my mind.
Tarnmoor 
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