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Dearest You,
If you’ve been here for a while, you know that I get on certain kicks, where I start reading a lot of a particular poet or writer or thinker, and then sharing with you. I think that the last time this happened, I kept sending you Kindred Letters full of Constantine Cavafy poems.
So right now, I’m reading the great anti-totalitarian poet, Czeslaw Milosz, who lived through the various horrors of the 20th century.
Here’s one of his gems:
*
And Yet the Books
And yet the books will be there on the shelves, separate beings,
That appeared once, still wet
As shining chestnuts under a tree in autumn,
And, touched, coddled, began to live
In spite of fires on the horizon, castles blown up,
Tribes on the march, planets in motion.
“We are,” they said, even as their pages
Were being torn out, or a buzzing flame
Licked away their letters. So much more durable
Than we are, whose frail warmth
Cools down with memory, disperses, perishes.
I imagine the earth when I am no more:
Nothing happens, no loss, it’s still a strange pageant,
Women’s dresses, dewy lilacs, a song in the valley.
Yet the books will be there on the shelves, well born,
Derived from people, but also from radiance, heights.
Czeslaw Milosz
*
And oh there’s so much in this poem.
The bemused appreciation of dewy lilacs and songs in valleys. The great love of books, of course, and the great frailty of human society: its impermanence; its imperfections; the way it organizes itself into tribes that blow up the castles of other tribes, that burn their books.
But most of all it’s about the power of books to resist, to overcome, to stubbornly maintain their points of view, to outlive us all.
Because books are the ultimate product of the individual spirit. You can’t write a poem by committee, you can’t write a book by tribe. The more a book reflects the idiosyncratic perspective of its author, the better it will speak to you.
Milosz is often described as a poet of anti-totalitarianism. And totalitarianism, of course, is about many things. The denial of liberty and expression to individuals. The investment of all power in a ruling party or person. The insistence on seeing the whole world through a particular ideological lens, then bending everything to fit that lens. The division of humans into favored and unfavored categories. In Milosz’s time, there was Aryan vs. Jew, and proletariat vs. bourgeoise (where anyone proletariat was good, and anyone bourgeoise – including, in some regimes, the descendants of landowners or just people who happened to wear eyeglasses, which were thought to signify landowner adjacency) – deserved to die or be thrown in prison.
But most of all, totalitarianism is about a belief in the group over the individual. And I don’t know if this is the introvert in me, or something that runs even deeper, but all my life I have intensely loved individuals, and intensely mistrusted groups, specifically their capacity to descend into mob violence.
Of course, groups can do great things too, and of course, we all have our tribal allegiances, via family, religion, nationality, sports team, etc. For better and for worse, that’s part of what it means to be human. The word “kind” derives from “kin.” Humans seem to love their kin above all else. It’s from our kin that we learn how to love in the first place. We enter the world naked and bewildered, and our kin feed us and hug us and keep us warm.
And yet. And yet. And yet. We are first and foremost individuals, we are unique souls, we are made sacred by our very existence, and the books come from this individual spirit; they transcend our earthly tribalisms. They are “separate beings,” as Milosz puts it. Chances are that the books you’ve loved best weren’t written by members of your particular kinship groups. They were written by other humans - their soul direct to yours.
And this is how they can be, as Milosz says, simultaneously “derived from people, but also from radiance, heights.” This is why we love them so.
Before you go, some questions for you:
*What’s your reaction to Milosz’s poem?
*Tell us one or two of your favorite poets.
*My third-grade teacher told us that all storytelling is about the conflict between (a) the individual vs. nature, (b) the individual vs. him/herself, or (c) the individual vs. society. As you can see, I’ve never forgotten this! What do you think?
Please share your thoughts, by entering the comment section!
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para mí los libros son los que tengo que terminar y los que sigo comprando, además de la escritura que es mi forma de expresarme sin profundidad o con ella. Simplemente escribir en todo momento, en todo momento leer y en todo momento observar. Los libros que leo me acompañan como el cuaderno que escribo como si las letras fueran dibujo. La palabra expresada en voz alta es la palabra escrita. Dice García Márquez que el escribía gracias al clima de calor de su país. Se sentía abrigado por ese calor, por sus escritos, sus palabras, su respiración cuando palabra a palabra respiraba y se sentía bien, frase a frase en ese calor se sentía en confort, leía y hablaba y escribía en un medio a su alrededor de calor climático que le impulsaba a no dejar de escribir
As anyone who lives the quiet life I love books. This poem reminds me of the power of the written word and the depths to which it reaches us in our souls. I also love humor and whimsy so one of my favorite poets was Shel Silverstein.
This is my amateurish contribution to honor books.
REQUIEM FOR THE LIBRARY
In times gone by, people of every class
would seek a place to feel some blessed peace.
A date-stamped card became their entry pass
to rest where they could find a sweet release
Bound beauties lined a narrow, cozy nook.
KEEP SILENT was the honored golden rule
but they screamed out, “I am your friend, the book.
I live to serve each villager and school.”
We loved their multicolored leather coats
forming a masterpiece upon the shelves.
Their aging pages filled with wisdom quotes.
Within the covers we could find ourselves.
Hidden in this magical book-tower,
windows gave the sunlight it's admission
and it healed the soul of hardship’s power
as gentle scents showered contemplation.
My private tower lives now in my home.
From it I watch the real world from afar.
It cushions from the pain that others own.
I see each wounded warrior wear a scar.
The Public library, because of them
is owed by me, this humble requiem.