December 27: Vague and Floating Entities, Obsessions, Annus Mirabilis

Catholic obsession and war on Thomas Merton's mind . . .

Then, of course, I was reading the metaphysical poets once again— especially Crashaw—and studying his life, too, and his conversion. That meant another avenue which led more or less directly to the Jesuits. So in the late August of 1938, and September of that year, my life began to be surrounded, interiorly, by Jesuits. They were the symbols of my new respect for the vitality and coordination of the Catholic Apostolate. Perhaps, in the back of my mind, was my greatest Jesuit hero: the glorious Father Rothschild of Evelyn Waugh’s Vile Bodies, who plotted with all the diplomats, and rode away into the night on a motorcycle when everybody else was exhausted. 

Yet with all this, I was not yet ready to stand beside the font. There was not even any interior debate as to whether I ought to become a Catholic. I was content to stand by and admire. For the rest, I remember one afternoon, when my girl had come in to town to see me, and we were walking around the streets uptown, I subjected her to the rather disappointing entertainment of going to Union Theological Seminary, and asking for a catalogue of their courses which I proceeded to read while we were walking around on Riverside Drive. She was not openly irritated by it: she was a very good and patient girl anyway. But still you could see she was a little bored, walking around with a man who was not sure whether he ought to enter a theological seminary. 

There was nothing very attractive in that catalogue. I was to get much more excited by the article on the Jesuits in the Catholic Encyclopaedia— breathless with the thought of so many novitiates and tertianships and what not—so much scrutiny, so much training. What monsters of efficiency they must be, these Jesuits, I kept thinking to myself, as I read and reread the article. And perhaps, from time to time, I tried to picture myself with my face sharpened by asceticism, its pallor intensified by contrast with a black cassock, and every line of it proclaiming a Jesuit saint, a Jesuit mastermind. And I think the master-mind element was one of the strongest features of this obscure attraction. 

Apart from this foolishness, I came no nearer to the Church, in practice, than adding a “Hail Mary” to my night prayers. I did not even go to Mass again, at once. The following week-end I went to see my girl once again; it was probably after that that I went on the expedition to Philadelphia. It took something that belongs to history to form and vitalize these resolutions that were still only vague and floating entities in my mind and will. 

One of those hot evenings at the end of summer the atmosphere of the city suddenly became terribly tense with some news that came out of the radios. Before I knew what the news was, I began to feel the tension. For I was suddenly aware that the quiet, disparate murmurs of different radios in different houses had imperceptibly merged into one big, ominous unified voice, that moved at you from different directions and followed you down the street, and came to you from another angle as soon as you began to recede from any one of its particular sources. 

I heard “Germany—Hitler—at six o’clock this morning the German Army ... the Nazis...” What had they done? 

Then Joe Roberts came in and said there was about to be a war. The Germans had occupied Czechoslovakia, and there was bound to be a war.

Ominous clouds on the horizon for the world and Merton.  Hitler is on the move in Czechoslovakia, and the world is bracing itself for war.  Of course, Merton also has the ghost of Catholicism Yet to Come haunting him, as well.  He's taken no actual steps toward conversion.  He's simply . . . obsessed with the idea.  And with Jesuits.

Writers understand obsession.  As a poet, I understand it even more.  This Christmas season, my obsession has been Louisa May Alcott and Little Women.  For a few weeks now, I have lived and breathed Jo March and her little family.  They hijacked my annual Christmas essay and became the subject of my dreams.  

Today, I indulged myself, as I have been this whole Christmas week.  I watched Christmas movies (again), read a little bit of a biography of Louisa May Alcott, and then took a nap.  I didn't accomplish a whole lot of anything.  I didn't write anything.  Didn't shovel snow or make dinner.  I just . . . was.

And then I had a Zoom meeting with my book club.  The book was Day of Days, and the author, John Smolens, is a good friend of mine.  He and his beautiful wife joined us, and, for almost two hours, we talked about literature and memory and history and trauma and survivor's guilt.  And everyone laughed and shared.  There is really nothing better than being with a group of people, virtually or in-person, who love to read.  Who are obsessed with good writing.  

After Zoom book club ended, I packed my family in the car, and we drove to a local Christmas lights display.  After being quarantined in my house for the better part of a month, it was wonderful to do something almost normal, even if I was wearing two facemasks.  It was another indulgence of one of my obsessions--Christmas decorations.  

Everyone has obsessions.  They're what get us up in the morning, fuel our days.  Without obsession, the world is monochromatic instead of technicolor.  While I love film noir, I think that I would prefer to live Singin' in the Rain versus Sunset Boulevard.  More song and dance, less betrayal and murder.

Here are some snapshots of this day in quarantine:

• Attended a Zoom church service this morning where Governor Whitmer attended and spoke.  She talked about 2020, using the Latin term annus horribilis (horrible year).  And then she said that every annus horribilis is followed by an annus mirabilis (wonderful year or year of miracles).  
• Took my beautiful puppy for a good long walk in the snow.
• Spent a beautiful afternoon reading and napping.
• Got together with some of my best friends for a Zoom book club.  Beautiful conversation.
• Saw some beautiful Christmas lights with my beautiful family

Movies.  Writers.  Books.  Christmas lights.  Friends.  Family.  These are the things that bring color to my life.  Meaning.  Especially in this annus horribilis where so much has been taken away from so many people.

Saint Marty embraces his obsessions.  And he believes that an annus mirabilis is on the way.

September 30: Poetry Questions, Repeating Myself, Another 8-Ball

I just reread my two posts from this past weekend.  In particular, I reread the poems contained in those posts.  Yesterday, I thought both poems were decent, maybe even good.  Today, I'm not so sure.

I tend to be pretty hard on myself when it comes to my poetry.  I think that's why I don't send my work out for publication more often.  My stuff never seems good enough to me.  In fact, sometimes it seems like I'm writing the same poems over and over and over.  That worked for Walt Whitman.  I don't think it works for me.

I've been following a discussion thread on the World Literature Forum recently.  It concerns possible contenders for the 2013 Nobel Prize for Literature.  It's a lively little debate that often ranges far off topic, as it does every year.  In particular, I'm always struck by the polarizing quality of certain writers.  Philip Roth has a strong contingent of supporters and detractors; the naysayers mostly sing the same song:  Roth's work is lightweight, always focused on the same themes and ideas, misogynistic.  During the Nobel season, Roth is the literary equivalent of liver and onions.  You either love him or hate him.  Certainly Roth's vision of American life (with its antisemitism and racism and sex) is no less valid than Nadine Gordimer's vision of South Africa under apartheid or Mo Yan's vision of communist China.  They all have their writerly obsessions.

Yes, I repeat myself in my poetry.  That's a part of being a poet, I guess.  That's how collections of poems get written.  Obsession is an undeniable part of any writer's make-up.  One of my friends recently spent two years researching a book about the man who discovered the giant squid.  I, myself, spent 47 days writing a book of 47 psalms.  One psalm per day X 47 days = insanity.  At the time, I didn't think I was obsessed.  I thought I was driven.

Maybe I need to cut myself some slack.  After all, writing about the same obsession over and over has worked well for many writers.  Roth.  Morrison.  Faulkner.  Frost.  That's not bad company to be in.  I wonder if Robert Frost ever thought to himself, "Maybe I should stop writing about trees and snow."  I doubt it.

My question for Salinger is silly, but intriguing:

Will I ever win the Nobel Prize in Literature?

And the answer to that question is:

...I didn't say anything, though, naturally.  All I said was English was my best subject...

English is my best subject, but I think that little passage is equivalent to the Magic 8-Ball answer "Try again later."  Holden's not talking.

And neither is Saint Marty.  He's waiting for the call from the Swedish Academy.

Roth--always a bridesmaid...

May 19: The Grocers', Freak, New Cartoon

The Grocers'!  oh the Grocers'!  nearly closed, with perhaps two shutters down, or one; but through those gaps such glimpses!  It was not alone that the scales descending on the counter made a merry sound, or that the twine and roller parted company so briskly, or that the canisters were rattled up and down like juggling tricks, or even that the blended scents of tea and coffee were so grateful to the nose, or even that the raisins were so plentiful and rare, the almonds so extremely  white, the sticks of cinnamon so long and straight, the other spices so delicious, the candied fruits so caked and spotted with molten sugar as to make the coldest lookers-on feel faint and subsequently bilious.  Nor was it that the figs were moist and pulpy, or that the French plums blushed in modest tartness from their highly-decorated boxes, or that everything was good to eat and in its Christmas dress:  but the customers were all so hurried and so eager in the hopeful promise of the day, that they tumbled up against each other at the door, clashing their wicker baskets wildly, and left their purchases upon the counter, and came running back to fetch them, and committed hundreds of the like mistakes in the best humour possible; while the Grocer and his people were so frank and fresh that the polished hearts with which they fastened their aprons behind might have been their own, worn outside for general inspection, and for Christmas daws to peck at if they chose.

I know what you're thinking:  why in the hell did Saint Marty start with this catalogue of Christmas groceries?  It comes in the stave with the Ghost of Christmas Present, a stave that is full of these kinds of descriptions.  Dickens seems obsessed with the culinary details of Christmas.  You might call him a freak for these foods.

I just finished listening to an audio version of Steve Almond's book Candy Freak, which, to this day, still remains one of my favorite books of all time.  In the book, Almond displays his candy obsessions and fetishes in all their weird glory.  For a fellow candy freak like myself, I find in Almond a kindred spirit.  I find the same kind of kindred spirit in Dickens.  In Dickens' paragraphs about sucking pigs and joints of meat and candied fruits and French plums, I find a fellow freak.

I think most writers are freaks about something or other.  Writers are just walking balls of obsessive energy.  It comes with the territory.  If you can commit yourself to writing about candy bars or mental illness or any other subject for a year or so of your life, you are, by definition, a freak.  That's why I love being around writers.  Their preoccupations are consuming, fascinating, and powerful.  Writers can make any subject vivid and living.  Almond does this with chocolate.  Dickens does this with Victorian Christmas menus.

Saint Marty does this with Charles Dickens and Steve Almond and Cheetos.

Confessions of Saint Marty

August 17: Great Night, Good Morning

Last night, my wife and I had dinner with a group of friends (some old, some new) at a friend's house.  It was a lovely evening, full of great stories about world travel, food, writing, poetry, and stealing art work from famous museums.  No, I wasn't dining with international art thieves.  We were discussing obsessions, and all of the people in attendance admitted to coveting paintings and sculptures from places as diverse as the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art to the Louvre.  I myself talked about my very close encounter with a van Gogh.  (It's a long story I may blog about some day.)

We stayed out way too late.  I drank way too much wine.  This morning, I'm really tired, but it's quiet in the office today, and I have time to reflect and recuperate.  I also have time to piece together my syllabus for the mythology class I'm teaching this fall semester.  I've never taught this class before, so it's going to be a steep learning curve for me for the next couple of months.

The summer is drawing to a close, and autumn is almost upon us.  I can feel myself shifting from the lazy-days-of-summer mode to the hectic-days-of-fall mode.  I'm not sure I'm ready for the change, but, as with most things in life, I don't have much of a choice.  Last night, as I drove home from our friend's house, the moon was huge and yellow.  A harvest moon.  It's time to gather the crops of June, July, and August.

Shine on, harvest moon...

Saint Marty has had a pretty good summer.