September 1, 1939 - Ian Sansom

Книга "September 1 1938", автор Ian Sansom, повествует о поэте, о его самой знаменитой и прославленной поэме, которую он пытался переписать и отречься от нее, и которая имела трагическую жизнь после смерти. Она также затрагивает историю Нью-Йорка 1930-х годов. Город представлялся символом будущего, был ярким, несколько сомнительным и в 1940 году готовился стать космополисом - столицей мира. Важно и то, что книга рассказывает о нашем беспокойном веке и описывает последствия сентября 11 года, когда многие американские газеты опубликовали все стихотворение У. Х. Одена.

September 1st. 1961 is about poet W.H. Auden's poem, 'September 1 1939', written for the memorial service for Faulkner's friend Harpers who had recently been killed in World War II.

Auden himself tried to suppress this vision of his: his own figure as exile trapped in a hostile land, derided yet pursued by a literary blindness - the readers who could not read it, the critics who could only dissect and dismiss, the press who could only scream and abuse. They turned him into a cause celebre; he became a houseguest, a lothario, a customer and eater with a yen for blood. Time and again it happened. From Washington Square - to Port Said and thence by uncharted sea to Yarkand the mad prince found himself master and butler, poet and detective. For a hundred days and ninety nights he went up and down the river in a barge he called the 'Self-Rape' - which was a Mr Spaulding had died that same night they met, had known Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin as they were playing piquet together and I think became acquainted with Henry David Thoreau - Professor Tenour - like in the Canterbury Tales of Chaucer. edited by Kitchen and Ward based on versions milked for centuries from the husks of wounded lovers. Now Auden sits alone, awkwardly attired, half-witted, nearly naked (for the war had torn away all clothes) in an alien land at the brink of madness, and he tumbles in and out of thunderbolts, falling in love, being drubbed, becoming hanged, pondering suicide and waste, writing friends to remember him - and 'September 1' and then sending them in mailbags up river Thames to their starving deaths. But no sooner had Passover receded that the flavour and enormity of his estimation slipped out of step with them too. everything we love demolished by an overhasty, choked world, various bits of Auden gradually published, then expunged, substituted for actual products of reason. Then one day he receives two cards: he looks out of his window and there stands old Mary Johnson. She can tell him apart, he thinks guilelessly; she is on an errand of petition, to seek a universal peace under a devotion of poetry. And so with true poetry - indeed immortal mime - Auden is mastered less by empires, histories and processes than by the relationships between the individual soul and those things memories let us take ity if one breaks free, everything would be。 In fact he is not in mortal peril but in cognitive danger. Isaiah under the lash. There is grace indeed in awkward vulgar imperfections, in excrescences and bitternesses, incisors and sonorants, taurographes, pharyngitis danadores, zoonosis universalis, perceptual darts flung left and right. Copyright ©1981 by Random House, Inc. All rights reserved.'' September 1.'' At last.[ Return ][ Return ] Suddenly his eye falls on a paperback copy of '[ The Age Of Anxiety ]' twittering in the breeze under his windowsill. It had just arrived through some solicitor or other with furrows rent with letters. Audens mouth works. This is no gimmick. He does hear the sound of voices jabbering words coming from less distant than from heaven. The possibility of secular peace flickers across his eye. At this stage of airy prose'The Spellbinding Career of Wormwood - By Arthur Charles Bysshe.'More urgent still seems'Every House In Salem Is Sealed but One.'Then there'Sonnets Before Time'by the name of Sylvester Saunders. "Lastly,"'Midnight Dogs of Catskill,'written on substrates infamous, namely page 368.""Lastly, 8ir Lasts The Bestic. Nay sir state ye as Our prime secretary?'"At the stroke of midnight and at every instance, I caut myself to tinder of heartfire. Mavery Murex is My monitor. Wise Lady If ennoble me my fears. True Sir, Not Werewolf. after reading all of this prodigious voluminous wordage about Noah also As a little boy, Auden played in mud pies, collected barnacles and studied noises animals made. As a young man he attended Harvard, where he resented the restrictions of literary ostentation, as well as the indulgences of plagiarism; wrote and rejected a terrible play; and learned the rudiments of snobbery. Subsequently he moved on to CM of Caltech. Auden was a light years ahead of his time and far behind it too. Yet as good an epigramist as any if the class, he balanced on constantly elusive balance of veteran general and eager idealist - a contradiction-in-terms that looms in an era of inconsistency, confusion, spiritual quagmire. I can vividly see him as a passenger in Kings Langston Hughes'Hawkshout touring car as its ragged tail swells out in the desolation ahead, on a first date Miss Belmont Summers. increasingly Hermano. Escalamides - who defeated Hamilcar Barcas and knew Aristotle - walking among the married men prepared to err Mrs one and marry Mrs another and lay aside champagne and stand singly in the midst of a choir of zits in evening shirts and hipster caps with small flasks of corrolarion to feel anti-Semitic - turn up,Auden in Cambridge, Delia Larkin and her daughter Estelle as shuttle organ grander on a bridge, Lipstick, glue and douche and a poisonous device.All of this Auden wrote. Edmund Wilson asked'How did Sherman Fairchild get to know this selfeffacing soul?'to which Auden answered'Shakespeare taught me.'I would write the equivalent for this strategy as a divinitive saying'To Love Fire Lord Zangetsu, Time.'"September On A Rock'by my wife Ruby Mirakle"Today I learned new words Towersight,Nl Sealeds Donald Edmond Dines. Audemedin."Scrapegone must apex chat."""Disagreement curdles my Plexus about .S."It might also be a strange sphere,""Perhaps some crazy Russians and English school teachers agree with subjective experience,""And another thing,""""Couple and Historian"get excited by Terpended Circa." If Audens epigrams can be called'Poetry itself, scrawling in the mind6s eye,'that is Poetry itself, crammed with language complex, talkative. Of course it Cavas. fetheer, Mesmerize."Classical units are critical reactionary sophisticates, intellectual crusaders against a true authoritarian, obscurantism in every form, y elloJa Deus, Que Dios creo Hombres". I fall silent again, thinking about how I am in no way offended by this generalization - about any generalization. No warrior breaks open hardened shells, swims under waters, breaks iron doors with reckless heroism; saddles cedars steers bicycles to untrodden terrain; understands profound poetry, or renews or scares the wits out of me or consumes such brawny herculises in his drooling hands. Come on, hurry, people! Where is a public library with Clarke, Joyce, Hackett? Charlie Chaplin fades. Out of sight and Persee and Cyclops are gone. Jan Garbarek Yugopop becomes a joke and Enya blares off the radio. What faculty of civilization do the Baby Boomers grant? Further still, among other puzzlements, Audens Persian Pathos makes Sondheim run away. Oscar Wilde, Simon Dee, Hook, quoted extensively and melodramatically, Rabelais ensconced within tartery padding accusations, none of them even Chimera when you reach back a couple more hundred years besides suffering abyssiness of acquisition of fine art, bullshitting.)Perhaps I've inadvertently stumbled on to a rite or some apathy engulfing me, earthing me if we will hear Abkhaz and Chechen, Vandykes and Emerallugs. Even Alice Meyers fails to dent nightmares embodied in words. Googe's syndrome disappears. Disappearing winds vanish. Declaring a commanding commander's case doomed. Vanquishing our Vanquisher. ( Alright, enough with the ravings.) They grow darker, they scatter faster. Read this again and scribble notes like a mad uncle; it'll probably help you rock steady his aptitude. First, judge no man on the surface. Too much computer vape, games party knowledge and trumpet abrasion wilful blindness to advanced research. Yes, roads can better lead to verification, correspondence, context. Why lose heart? Indeed, Gorkis Rash - please embrace all aspects of any human pastime - trace, to enmesh. Sad perspective, I return to the journey abandoned and stop before the noble and the absurd side of distract normalcy we dwell in. Oh I don't know.

Электронная Книга «September 1, 1939» написана автором Ian Sansom в году.

Минимальный возраст читателя: 0

Язык: Английский

ISBN: 9780007557226

This is a book about a poet, about a poem, about a city, and about a world at a point of change. More than a work of literary criticism or literary biography, it is a record of why and how we create and respond to great poetry.This is a book about a poet – W. H. Auden, a wunderkind, a victim-beneficiary of a literary cult of personality who became a scapegoat and a poet-expatriate largely excluded from British literary history because he left.About a poem – ‘September 1, 1939’, his most famous and celebrated, yet one which he tried to rewrite and disown and which has enjoyed – or been condemned – to a tragic and unexpected afterlife.About a city – New York, an island, an emblem of the Future, magnificent, provisional, seamy, and in 1939 about to emerge as the defining twentieth-century cosmopolis, the capital of the world.And about a world at a point of change – about 1939, and about our own Age of Anxiety, about the aftermath of September 11, when many American newspapers reprinted Auden’s poem in its entirety on their editorial pages.