Irene: I told you why Berryman drank based upon the two biographies I read. They were written by people who had access to information that none of the rest of us on Lit-Ideas has -- at least that's what I thought. But you in effect declare those biographers wrong and make your own pronouncement. Tell me please that you have all Berryman's secret letters, and if not that you were one of Berryman's secret lovers. Assuming just for the sake of discussion that you haven't the foggiest justification for what you are talking about, perhaps you weren't aware that it was commonly believed among poets, painters, and novelists that drinking enhanced one's talent. One could more readily reach one's muse under the influence. In the early days of my poetic considerations I was taught that very thing and tried it out. I have fri3nds who assumed it true. I lost touch with them because they pursued their muses more enthusiastically than I did and lost their jobs. I discovered that I was an aberration, that is, I could write better sober. But none of drank to "numb his pain." We would have laughed at such an idea. Drinking was fun and it enabled one to write better. That's why we drank. But now there is Irene's "one-size-fits-all" reason for why anyone drinks. Gosh, what a bland world you live in. Lawrence _____ From: lit-ideas-bounce@xxxxxxxxxxxxx [mailto:lit-ideas-bounce@xxxxxxxxxxxxx] On Behalf Of Andy Amago Sent: Wednesday, October 11, 2006 6:49 AM To: lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx Subject: [lit-ideas] Re: American poetic scene at the beginning of 72 I don't know that Berryman intentionally gave up his life any more than someone in business intentionally gives up their life for their business. Berryman drank for the same reason anyone drinks, to numb his pain. His pain came out of childhood. His multiple relationships were another way of filling the vacuum left by his parents. He happened to have a talent for poetry and he used it and competed with it. In the end, we're all dead and, eventually, with very very few mythologized exceptions, all forgotten. 15 minutes, 15 years, 150 years, time marches on past everybody. Berryman did well. It's sad that he hurt so much that he killed himself, but ultimately he was like everybody else; he left a body of work that some will admire and others will scorn, and all will eventually forget. ----- Original Message ----- From: Lawrence <mailto:lawrencehelm@xxxxxxxxxxxx> Helm To: lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx Sent: 10/11/2006 1:13:38 AM Subject: [lit-ideas] Re: American poetic scene at the beginning of 72 Interesting idea Mike, but Dream Songs, Berrymans magnum opus, was autobiographical. Henry was a nickname one of his wives, Anne I think, had for him. She called him Henry and he called her Mabel. So if you read the Dream Songs, whatever your poetical philosophy, youll know how it ends. Ages ago poets wrote poems that could be separated from their lives -- at least that is an idea it would be hard to disprove, Iliad, Odyssey, and Beowulf, for example, but consider The Divine Comedy. If we didnt know so much about Dante we might not have realized that some of those in Hell are there because Dante was interested in getting even with them. He was a very vengeful fellow. And of course there was a theory in the early 20th century to the effect that a poets life had nothing to do with his poetry, but that idea, I believe, has long since been abandoned. Now, I believe, most critics think you need to understand a poets bio to understand his poetry. For example, Hugh Ken ner wrote The Pound Era and his insights reawakened an interest in Pound (very difficult to understand without biographical insights). And then there is Stephen Burts Randall Jarrell and his Age. Jarrell was considered a critic primarily except for a few anthologized poems, but Burt opened up his poetry to general appreciation. However, I didnt mean to imply that my opinion of Berrymans poetry was affected by my poor opinion of him, if thats what you were thinking. What I meant to convey was that Berryman gave up his life, in a manner of speaking, for his poetry and when I first read it I thought it was marvelous -- in other words I tended to think it was (arguably) worthwhile to give up a life for such a body of great poetry. When I reread it years later it didnt have the same effect on me. When I first read it I thought Berryman would go down as a major poet. Now I think perhaps not; which, if I am right in my current opinion of him, means he gave up his life for something of minor value, so to speak. So thats one thing I thought. Another is that they (Berryman and his competitors) may not have been in it for the absolute value of their poetry but for the fame. They knew each other. Toward the end it was important to Berryman to be considered king of the poetic hill. Was he king or was it Lowell? Lowell seemed to give up toward the end. Lots of poets seemed to fall by the wayside, and they held grudges, Allen Tate for example. They wanted the poetic prize but couldnt compete, and they were bitter. In other words they werent measuring themselves against any absolute idea of poetic value but against the relative idea of who was to be recognized as the top-dog poet. Lawrence _____ From: lit-ideas-bounce@xxxxxxxxxxxxx [mailto:lit-ideas-bounce@xxxxxxxxxxxxx] On Behalf Of Mike Geary Sent: Tuesday, October 10, 2006 8:28 PM To: lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx Subject: [lit-ideas] Re: American poetic scene at the beginning of 72 Thank you, Lawrence, for that post. From my perspective a writer's personal life has nothing to do with his writings. No more so than any of the equipment I fix everyday has anything to do with my personal life. I learned how to do what I do through my personal life, of course, and maybe some bits of intuition help from time to time -- mechanical intuition, I've often found, is strongest in those more mechanically trained than I am. But the point is that if the best AC man in the city kills himself tonight, it has no reflection on his work -- why then that of an artist? An artist is no different than a mechanic. An artist's work is his work, it's not him. Artists work in paints or stone or words or body movements or sound. AC artists work in metal wear.The inclination to identify an artist with her work is bullshit. Artists are all merchants, don't forget that. Just like preachers. Only Academics are pure souls. And Marines, of course. Mike Geary Memphis ----- Original Message ----- From: Lawrence <mailto:lawrencehelm@xxxxxxxxxxxx> Helm To: lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx Sent: Tuesday, October 10, 2006 9:46 PM Subject: [lit-ideas] American poetic scene at the beginning of 72 -----Original Message----- From: Steve Chilson Subject: [lit-ideas] Re: American poetic scene at the end of 52 thanks for this, Lawrence. I wouldn't mind reading more excerpts of it if you're so inclined... Steve: I finished Berrymans biography yesterday. Berryman became a great success. He won all the prizes, got all the recognition, had women falling all over themselves for him (and he really liked women -- lots of them) and he was famous. Everyone knew who he was. So here he is for us, we poetasters, we who fall short of the real thing. Here is what it would be like to move from amateur to professional: No more money worries, no more worries about having to teach classes he didnt want to. It is all his. He is there. It is January 1972 and he is at the pinnacle of his success: Friday morning, January 7, after another restless night, Berryman told Kate he was going to his office to put his things in order. Kate sent Martha to school, then bundled Sarah to do the shopping. You wont have to worry about me anymore, he told her as she went out. But shed heard that one before too. At half past eight he put on his coat and scarf and walked down to University Avenue. There he caught the shuttle bus heading west toward campus. He passed the stores along the avenue, then got off with the morning crowd at Ford Hall. But instead of going to his office, he walked out onto the upper level of Washington Avenue Bridge. It was bitterly cold, but, rather than use the glass-enclosed walkway, he began waling along the north side of the bridge toward the west-bank campus. Three quarters of the way across, he stopped and stared down. A hundred feet below and to his right rode the river: narrow, gray, and half frozen. In front of him were the snow-covered coal-storage docks, and directly below the winter trees and a slight knoll rising like a grave. So it was still there, waiting. He climbed onto the chest-high metal railing and balanced himself. Several students inside the walkway stopped what they were doing when they saw him and stared in disbelief. He made a gesture as if waving, but he did not look back. From this height, he must have figured, the blade did seem redundant after all. Then he tilted out and let go. Three seconds later his body exploded against the knoll, recoiled from the earth, then rolled gently down the incline. The campus police were the first to arrive and found a package of Tereytons, some change, and a blank check with the name Berryman on it. Inside the left temple of his shattered horn-rimmed glasses they found the name a second time. An ambulance took the body to the Hennepin County Morgue, where Berryman was officially pronounced dead. So, some on Lit-Ideas might ask, what was his problem? Well, we would have to define problem. He could only write well if he was drinking heavily. Not while he was drunk of course but maybe during the first few, and then afterwards when he sobered up and someone told him what he had done the night before and he felt remorse. Remorse is another good subject for poetry. Then too there are the deep psychological problems. His father committed suicide or his mother murdered him, but he mostly thought the former. He always kept going back to that, his fathers suicide, so obviously that was one of his psychological problems. Then there was his mother. She was a dominant lady and when he was losing an argument with her he discovered as a child that passing out always ended the argument so he did that a lot. His wives werent as impressed with that procedure as his mother was. Then too there was his philandering, usually done while drunk. None of his wives appreciated that as much as he did. Perhaps the last wife, Kate, telling him that if he didnt quite drinking and philandering she was really, really, really going to leave him and this time she really, really meant it tipped him over the edge, so to speak. Maybe at his age, 58, he didnt think he had enough energy left to acquire another wife. He was a really, really, really old 58. Ive been rereading the Dream Songs and discover that Im not nearly as impressed with them as when I first read them years ago, when they were first published. Lawrence