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Mariangela
Ian SeedThree texts
Rupert M LoydellVessel
Melita SchaumSome Guts
Simon Collings (with collages by John Goodby)Three Short Fictions
Meg PokrassThe Campus Novel
Peter RobinsonCharlie Boy and Captain Fitz: A One-Act Play
Alan WallSnapshot, Sachsenhausen and three more poems
Peter BlairSeven short poems
Lucian Staiano-DanielsFour prose poems
Olivia TuckThe Back of Beyond and two more prose poems
Tony KittTwo poems
Moriana Delgadofrom Reverse | Inverse
Lucy HamiltonSix haibun
Sheila E. MurphyKingfishers and cobblestones and five more new poems
Kitty HawkinsZion Offramp 76–78
Mark ScrogginsCome dancing with me and two more new poems
Marc VincenzPlease swipe right
Chloe Phillips‘Three Postcards’ and a prose poem
Linda BlackStill life
Melita SchaumIn memory of
John Taylor with drawings by Sam ForderImmortal wreckage
Will StoneNew in Translation
Snowdrifts
Marina Tsvetaeva, trans. by Belinda CookePoems from Prière (1924)
Pierre Jean Jouve, trans. by Will StoneSix prose poems
Pietro di Marchi, trans. by Peter RobinsonThe goddess of emptiness.
Jean Frémon, trans. by John Taylor -
A new Review of John Matthias’s Some Words on Those Wars by Garin Cycholl.
Anthony Howell’s review, A Clutch of Ingenious Authors: Michelene Wandor Four Times EightyOne: Bespoke Stories | Annabel Dover Florilegia | Sharon Kivland Abécédaire
Essays by Alan Wall
· ‘King of Infinite Space’: The Virtue of Uncertainty
· AI: Signs of the Times
· The Lad from Stratford
· Stanley Kubrick: Sex in the CinemaWill Stone’s Missing in Mechelen and At Risk of Interment
G. Kim Blank’s Civilizing, Selling, and T. S. Eliot Curled Up behind the Encyclopædia Britannica
Tronn Overend’s Samuel Alexander on Beauty
AND Conor Robin Madigan’s Master Singer, Simon Collings’s Robert Desnos, Screenwriter, and Igor Webb’s Never Again
Simon Collings, Carrying the past: The Afterlight by Charlie Shackleton.
New Fortnightly Serials
from The Runiad
Anthony Howellfrom White Ivory
Alan Walland much more below this column.
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Audio archive: Two poems, with an audio track, from Heart Monologues by Jasmina Bolfek-Radovani | Daragh Breen’s Aural Triptych | Hayden Carruth reads Contra Mortem and Journey to a Known Place | Anthony Howell reads three new poems | James Laughlin reads Easter in Pittsburgh and five more | Peter Robinson reads Manifestos for a lost cause, Dreamt Affections, Blind Summits and Oblique Lights
Previous Serials
2011: Golden-beak in eight parts. By George Basset (H. R. Haxton).
2012: The Invention of the Modern World in 18 parts. By Alan Macfarlane.
2013: Helen in three long parts. By Oswald Valentine Sickert.
2016: The Survival Manual by Alan Macfarlane. In eight parts.
2018: After the Snowbird, Comes the Whale, by Tom Lowenstein.
LONDON
Readings in The Room: 33 Holcombe Road, Tottenham Hale, London N17 9AS – £5 entry plus donation for refreshments. All enquiries: 0208 801 8577
Poetry London: Current listings here.
Shearsman readings: 7:30pm at Swedenborg Hall, 20/21 Bloomsbury Way, London WC1. Further details here.NEW YORK
10 reliable poetry venues in NYC.
· The funeral of Isaac Albéniz
· Coleridge, poetry and the ‘rage for disorder’
· Otto Rank
· Patrons and toadying · Rejection before slips
· Cut with a dull blade
· Into the woods, everybody.
· Thought Leaders and Ted Talks
· How Mary Oliver ‘found love in a breathing machine.’
AND read here:
· James Thomson [B.V.]
A dilemma for educators:
Philosophy and the public impact.
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Michelene Wandor on Derek Walcott and the T.S. Eliot Prize.
.Nick Lowe: the true-blue Basher shows up for a friend.
Anthony Howell: The new libertine in exile.
Kate Hoyland: Inventing Asia, with Joseph Conrad and a Bible for tourists.
Who is Bruce Springsteen? by Peter Knobler.
Martin Sorrell on John Ashbery’s illumination of Arthur Rimbaud.
The beauty of Quantitative Easing.
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The Hills and the Desert.
Claude Vigée and Edmond Jabès.
By ANTHONY RUDOLF.
1.
WHEN I WAS young, I was involved in polemics in Stand, in PNR, in MPT, in European Judaism and elsewhere. Looking back, I feel that my polemics were underpowered and exhibitionistic. I should have stuck with what I most wanted to do: write, translate, read and edit myself into a life that would honour my principles and theories. Needy for attention (an attendant lord seeking to rise above his station), thanks to deep-seated flaws in my character, I side-tracked myself to the point of self-sabotage and did not focus enough on the essential. I find myself now aged nearly eighty with too many uncompleted projects. For example, I would like to collect my Bonnefoy translations made over nearly sixty years. I want to collect my best essays on literature, politics and religion, many of which antedate the easier access of computer archive. I want to revise the latest draft of my book about Paula Rego. I want to sort out my papers and get them out of the flat. I want to complete some new essays and stories. I want then to retire from the fray and relax — but it is not possible. I have miles to go before I sleep and cannot see a clear way forward. My recent essay in Stand is an honest and sincere but idealised account of my life, carefully curated to create pattern and meaning where in reality there was chaos. At the time, I could cope with the chaos because life was interesting and serious, and one day — if this ever occurred to me — there would be time to make sense of it, wouldn’t there? But there isn’t.
Narratives of one’s writerly readings are complicated by separating out the components. Or you could call it simplification. Or clarification.
The following account of two major figures in my life nowhere mentions “my” third great French poet: Yves Bonnefoy. I knew him even better and longer and translated him earlier and in greater quantity than Jabès and Vigée. There is, of course, no mention of my Anglophone influences: Donald Davie, George Oppen, Laura Riding, or of non-French foreign-language writers I revere: Borges, Paz, Primo Levi, Seferis. This proves that narratives of one’s writerly readings are complicated by separating out the components. Or you could call it simplification. Or clarification. Thus: where do Michel Deguy and other poets I translated or co-translated fit into the pattern? What pattern? There is no pattern. Long ago, I got on my bicycle and rode off in all directions.
2.
I HAD THE privilege of being the friend and translator of two great French or francophone Jewish poets, perhaps the two greatest in terms of the quality and quantity of their attention to Jewishness and Judaism. I am speaking of Edmond Jabès (1912-1991) and Claude Vigée, who died on October 2, 2020, aged nearly 100. I once ventured to mention the name of each to the other and was rewarded with what felt like a lack of interest, if not hostility. But that might be my febrile imagination and a projection of my sense that I was being bigamous: translation of poetry is an intimate activity and marital metaphors spring to mind. How could I be “faithful” to both? Jabès and Vigée never met, never corresponded, never wrote about the other. And yet the psychoanalyst Steven Jaron tells me that he met Claude Vigée at a conference on Jabès in Jerusalem and that Vigée manifested curiosity about his fellow poet. I suspect too that there was interest in the other direction. But if you read both of them carefully you can easily construct a caricature of what separated them.
In general terms, and hopefully not caricatural concerning either of them, Edmond Jabès was a meta-writer, a very readable and unprecious meta-writer, but a meta-writer for whom Judaism and writing were the “same waiting, the same hope, the same wearing out”. Jacques Derrida wrote a major essay on him, which he would never do on Vigée. Jabès was a hyper-modernist, a lineal descendent of Mallarmé but also of the kabbalists as language sophisticates.
Claude Vigée was absolutely not a meta-writer. Sophisticated and brilliant and learned in literature and Judaism, eloquent and sometimes rhapsodic, he was a completely modern but never modernist as Tel Quel and Derrida would understand the term. If Jabès hails from the Talmud (his imaginary rabbis, collectively critiquing dogma and frozen thought, are among the glories of French literature), Vigée hails from the Bible and invented the term “judan” (coined after “roman”, the word for “novel”) for the totality of his work, and in particular his descriptive prose, again a glory of French literature, which among many themes explores, as he did, the hills of Israel. For Jabès, in particular, Judaism was a kind of poetics. For Vigée too, but the poetics was less explicit.
Here is another difference between these two writers: Claude Vigée, professor of comparative literature at Brandeis and later at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem, had a dual oeuvre in prose – literary and bible criticism, journals and “judans” — and verse. Often, however, we find poems and prose in the same book, the former generating the latter—La Faille du regard, for example. In Le Livre des Marges, Edmond Jabès, a stockbroker when he was younger, wrote about his intervolvement with the work of fellow writers such as Celan and Lévinas. But he wrote no other criticism and published no journals. His major poetry is the prose of Le Livre des Questions, where all genres are mixed in an unprecedented way, rather than the lyrical poetry and teasing aphorisms of Je bâtis ma demeure, which preceded his major work. Jabès became a kind of classical writer; Vigée was more romantic, as an immersion in his enormous collected poems, Jusqu’à l’aube future, reveals. Both, however, were poets of exile, and both were haunted by World War Two and the Shoah. Jabès left Egypt for Paris after Suez. Vigée, after almost a year in the Jewish Resistance based in Toulouse (he was the last survivor), left for the USA where, as a French poet, he was an exile. Even his years in Israel were exile, again as a poet who continued to write his literary works in French. He was the last living speaker of Alsatian Yiddish.
In later years, Vigée too lived in Paris, but neither Claude nor Edmond was entirely at home in the city. Claude was an authentic and latterly honoured Alsatian, from a Jewish family whose ancestors lived in the region for three hundred years. With one foot in the hills of Israel and the other in his village of Bischwiller, his true home was the French language. (He reminds me a bit of his contemporary Dannie Abse, who was Welsh, Jewish and British: Anglophone but not English). Jabès, the Cairo sophisticate, was a son of the Egyptian desert, a powerful image of emptiness and negativity, and one dimension of his books reflect this. His true home too was the French language. The two men had powerful and supportive wives, traditional in some ways but always ready to tease and criticise the great man when this was required. When I was young I tore myself in knots trying to decide which of the two poets was more important to me. “Turn it and turn it, for everything is in it”, says Rabbi Ben-Bag Bag in the Pirke Avoth, that much loved book of the Talmud known to both writers. Maybe I finally grew up, maybe I became my own kind of (Jewish?) writer, when I realised I could love both of them, and their two great oeuvres, juxtaposed and separately.
♦
ANTHONY RUDOLF is the author of Silent Conversations: A Reader’s Life (Seagull Books/University of Chicago Press, 2013), European Hours: Collected Poems (Carcanet Press, 2017) and the translator of Yesterday’s Wilderness Kingdom by Yves Bonnefoy (MPT Books, 2003). Odd Volumes, the Fortnightly‘s imprint, recently published Anthony Rudolf’s Pedraterra & Angleterre: Two Fables.
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