Book review: ADAM KIRSCH on Wallace Stevens, the Patron Saint of Inner Lives
Reading Mariani only confirms that Stevens
was a magician, or perhaps a god: Out of what seemed like nothing, he created a
universe.
The Whole Harmonium:
The Life of Wallace Stevens
By Paul Mariani
Reviewed by ADAM KIRSCH
How to live a life “unsponsored” by a
deity, in which we are responsible for inventing our own meanings, was the
great subject of Stevens’s poetry from beginning to end. His answer, as
developed in the long, ruminative poems he wrote from the 1930s onward—in volumes
like Ideas of Order (1936) and The Auroras of Autumn (1950)—was
the same one Matthew Arnold had proposed in the Victorian age: The role that
was once played by religion must now be filled by poetry, or more broadly by
the imagination.
For the modernist
poets who revolutionized American literature in the early 20th century, impersonality
was a kind of mania—and a sign of how seriously they took their artistic
project. The 1910s and ’20s were the palmy days of Greenwich Village, an era of
free love and radical politics. But the greatest poets of that era, the ones
who actually created modernism, kept this kind of bohemian playacting at arm’s
length. Indeed, for most of the modernists, the more revolutionary their
poetics, the more carefully they concealed themselves behind the manners and
professions of the bourgeoisie. T. S. Eliot was a banker when he wrote “The
Waste Land”; William Carlos Williams was a family doctor; Marianne Moore, an
editor, was a devout churchgoer who lived with her mother.
And then there was Wallace Stevens. In
writing The Whole Harmonium, Paul Mariani, who has given us lives
of Williams, Hart Crane, and Robert Lowell, set himself his most difficult
challenge yet, for if ever there was a genius with a short biography, it was
Stevens. The story that Mariani tells in 400 pages could be reduced, in its
essentials, to 400 words. Stevens was born in Reading, Pennsylvania, in 1879 to
a family of Pennsylvania Dutch descent. He went to Harvard, where he took
literature classes and became the president of the literary magazine, The
Advocate. But the need for a more substantial career than writing poetry
led him to New York Law School. He married his first sweetheart, Elsie, and
grew to dislike her; they had one child. In time they moved to Hartford,
Connecticut, where he worked in the insurance business and rose to become the
vice president of Hartford Accident and Indemnity.
He never left North America.
He was casually racist and anti-Semitic. A Hoover Republican, he distrusted
labor unions. He drank too much at parties, to overcome his natural shyness,
and later had to apologize for his boorishness. In the depths of the
Depression, he made $20,000 a year, the equivalent of $350,000 today. Each
detail feels more interest-repelling than the last. If such a man were the
subject of a novel, it would be Babbitt.
lace stevens is beyond
fathoming,” Marianne Moore wrote, comparing him to a person with “a morbid
secret he would rather perish than disclose.” But the secret would out, and in
his poems Stevens revealed it: The bluff American executive had a soul as
baroque and fantastical as an aesthete’s, as profound and brooding as a
philosopher’s. Imagine the surprise of Carl Van Vechten, the writer and
literary impresario, who met Stevens for the first time in 1914, when this
“big, blond, and burly” insurance man handed over the manuscript of “Peter
Quince at the Clavier”:
Just as my fingers on
these keys
Make music, so the self-same sounds
On my spirit make a music too.
Make music, so the self-same sounds
On my spirit make a music too.
Music is feeling,
then, not sound
And thus it is that what I feel
Here in this room, desiring you
And thus it is that what I feel
Here in this room, desiring you
Thinking of your
blue-shadowed silk
Is music.
Is music.
This scene is not
nearly as famous as the scene of T. S. Eliot showing “The Love Song of J.
Alfred Prufrock” to Ezra Pound, but the reader’s surprise must have been even
greater: Stevens, like Eliot, had modernized himself. His first book,Harmonium,
published in 1923, established Stevens as the patron saint of the inner life
held captive by the outer life—a peculiarly American condition. His daily
existence offered no scope for self-expression, but on his walks to and from
work, in the evenings up in his study, he was confronting the ultimate
questions of art and life. How can humanity live without God? Can religion be
replaced with another kind of myth? How does art reflect and transcend reality?
And he was answering in a language at once voluptuous and intellectual, elegant
and eccentric—a language such as no one had spoken before.. read more:
http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2016/04/the-patron-saint-of-inner-lives/471468/
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