In this article I will discuss a harrowing, strangely beautiful poem by Delmore Schwartz. Since this once very celebrated poet is all but forgotten now, I will begin with some biographical information, which is essential to the interpretation of the poem.
1. Delmore Schwartz (1913-1966)
With the publication of his first book, In Dreams Begin Responsibilities, Schwartz shot across the literary scene like a comet, outshining for a while most contemporary stars. The story that gave the title to the book is indeed a classic, and deserves to be treated as such. It is completely autobiographical, but told in such an objective way--for instance, no names are given--that it could have been a pure invention by a first-rate, less confessional artist. The protagonist of the story watches a movie of how his parents met. The father, twenty-nine at the time, decides it is time to marry. He proposes to his future bride at Coney Island; she cries. There is no mention of love. When they are about to agree to marry, their future son jumps from his seat in the theater and shouts: "Don't do it. It's not too late to change your mind, both of you. Nothing good will come of it, only remorse, hatred, scandal, and two children whose characters are monstrous." It would have been better not to have been born; it is the cri du coeur of a broken life.
Schwartz was as talented as he was precocious; In Dreams Begin Responsibilities was written when he was twenty-one. The memorable last sentence of the story gives a good indication of his talent: (The usher is ejecting him from the theater due to the disturbance caused by his outburst.)
"'You can't carry on like this, it is not right, you will find out soon enough, everything you do matters too much,' and as he said that, dragging me out through the lobby of the theater into the cold light, I woke up into the bleak winter morning of my twenty-first birthday, the windowsill shining with its lip of snow, and the morning already begun."
The lovely image of the "lip of snow" on the windowsill, instantly recognizable by anyone who has lived in a New York City tenement, has remained with me for nearly fifty years.
What was the source of Schwartz's despair? Much of it could be traced to his horrible childhood. Neither parent seemed to care much for the future poet. The father was a philanderer, the mother wildly jealous. It was a very dysfunctional family. One day, with the young Delmore in hand, she discovered her husband in a restaurant with a person she referred to as a whore. She proceeded to scream at her husband, as if Delmore wasn't there. Recalling humiliations of my own childhood, I know exactly how Schwartz must have felt: lost, vulnerable, floating through space with the sign of Cain branded on his forehead. The father abandoned the family when Delmore was ten; the increasingly reduced circumstances of the isolated family, now headed by an increasingly moody mother, must have weighed heavily on both children.
Things got much better before they got much worse. As already mentioned, he had become quite famous at an early age. Critics hailed him as a potentially great writer; one referred to him as the "new Chekhov." He studied at various universities; he attended Harvard for several years, but never received a graduate degree. Schwartz became the editor of the renowned Partisan Review. He taught at many prestigious places, but never remained at one of them for long.
Inner peace was elusive, however, as this excerpt from his poem, All Night, All Night, indicates:
"O your life, your lonely life,
What have you ever done with it,
And done with the great gift of consciousness
What will you ever do with your life before death's knife
Provides the answer ultimate and appropriate?"
This excerpt gives another good indication of Schwartz's talent; it evinces a perfect marriage of music and meaning, the mark of a true poet. The meaning, however, is hopelessly bleak, another version of "It would have been better if I hadn't been born."
Feeling worthless at his core, Schwartz sought fame at the surface. This is a common strategy of those who are both broken and ambitious; it doesn't work. In 1943, Schwartz published what he thought would be his major work. He expected it to rival Eliot's Wasteland as a modern classic. He named the 261-page poem "Genesis, Book One." Was Schwartz playing God in order to silence his inner critic forever? This is what he said of it, "I fear that it is so good, that I, mere I, am not the author, but rather a team of inspired poets." Few agreed. One critic was downright hostile:"Who, except at gunpoint, would read Delmore Schwartz's autobiographical epic, Genesis, Book One--Book One!"
Schwartz's tragedy is that he became famous at an early age, and was never able to revisit his early success.
After the failure of his second marriage, which, like his first one, ended in divorce, Schwartz deteriorated rapidly. For the last nine years of his life, the once famous poet lived as a recluse. He ended up in a seedy hotel near Times Square. His addiction to alcohol and barbiturates, an attempt to relieve the symptoms of his mental illness, was destroying him. One day, after emptying garbage, he collapsed in the elevator of the hotel. His body lay in the morgue for two days before it was identified.
2. Delmore Schwarz and José Garcia Villa
José Garcia Villa, (1908-1997), my mentor in poetry, was Schwartz's contemporary. I think it appropriate here to contrast and compare their careers. Villa's first book, a collection of stories entitled Footnote to Youth, was published in 1933, when Villa was twenty-four. Sherwood Anderson praised the book highly. Villa, however, soon realized that his gift was in poetry; his first book of poems, Have Come Am Here, which was published by Viking Press in 1942, received great critical acclaim. He was awarded many prizes, including the prestigious Bollingen award--Schwartz, by the way, was the youngest person ever to receive a Bollingen award. He published two subsequent volumes of poetry, for which the critics as a whole were supportive but less enthusiastic. In the 1950s he wrote a long poem, The Anchored Angel, which appeared in the Times Literary Supplement. After this, he stopped writing poetry and turned to teaching.
Schwartz and Villa had very different styles. Villa concentrated on language: his verse is tighter and more lyrical. His range, however, is more limited than Schwartz's. Villa tried to write the best poetry he could, and seemed satisfied with the acclaim he received; he was much less hungry for approval. Unlike Schwartz, Villa never considered himself to be a failure.
Both writers became very well known at the publication of an early work; neither was able to repeat their initial success. Each has fallen into obscurity. (A few years ago, Penguin published Villa's collected works; it did not receive much interest.)
Schwartz and Villa were very similar in some ways, very different in others; the differences, perhaps, enabled Villa to live well into old age. Both had difficult childhoods. Villa's family, however, was wealthy. His father was the personal physician of the president of the Philippines; his mother came from a family of landowners. Villa had a terrible conflict with his father; he hated him. José told me on one occasion that his father threw him out of the house naked, at a time when the latter was just entering puberty. José was almost in tears when he told me this. This humiliation, I think, trumps Schwartz's, which I described earlier. When his father died, Villa was completely indifferent. To say "my father died" was too kind; Villa referred to his death with the following words, "he finally dropped off."
The main difference in the personalities of the two poets was that Schwartz reacted to his difficulties with inward aggression, while Villa"s defense was aggression against others. Villa could be wildly erratic, combative and cruel. Like Schwartz, however, he was also a great teacher and conversationalist. On the inside, he was isolated and conflicted; he remained social, however, to the end. He had many devoted followers and acquaintances, if not friends. Villa was also much less ambitious than Schwartz. One day he told me that when he was young he wanted a lot; now, at the cusp of old age, he was content "with a few drops of syrup on (his) pancake." Although writers and critics continued to contact him, he withdrew from the poetry scene and did not push his own poetry. He truly enjoyed teaching, however, especially during the seminars he held in his home. He was a first-rate teacher. Villa's personality allowed him to survive, in contrast to Schwartz's.
The two poets knew each other. Villa once poignantly recounted Schwartz's death to us, his circle of students in the early 70s, They both were frequent attendees of the famed gatherings of poets at the White Horse Tavern in Greenwich Village.
This is a famous group photo of poets gathered at the Gotham Book Mart in New York City to honor Edith Sitwell--a great admirer of Villa, by the way--on November 8, 1948:
Villa, the only non-European American of the entire group, is in the background; Schwartz is in the foreground to the right. Villa looks serious and shy--he was indeed, despite his outbursts, shy when one was alone with him. Schwartz is doing his best to look content; the puffiness of his face is perhaps an indication of the mental illness that would eventually consume him.
Some time thereafter, the poet and anthologist Oscar Williams, (forgotten today as well), put together a paperback collection entitled, "Modern American Poetry," Villa told me that he had had a big row with Williams at a party--he probably told him what he thought of his poetry. (At one time, Alan Ginsburg bowed down before Villa, acknowledging him as the master. Villa accepted his obeisance.) After the argument, which had disrupted the party, Williams told Villa that he no longer intended to publish Villa's poems in the anthology. He did, however, choose a few by Schwartz. The anthology includes his poem, "The Starlight's Intuitions Pierced the Twelve." This poem impressed me then and impresses me now. The last section of this essay is an interpretation of this strange, haunting poem.
4. Starlight Like Intuition Pierced the Twelve
The starlight's intuitions pierced the twelve,
The brittle night sky sparkled like a tune
Tinkled and tapped out on the xylophone.
Empty and vain, a glittering dune, the moon
Arose too big, and, in the mood which ruled,
Seemed like a useless beauty in a pit;
And then one said, after he carefully spat,
"No matter what we do, he looks at it!"
"I cannot see a child or find a girl
Beyond his smile which glows like that spring moon."
--"Nothing no more the same," the second said,
"Though all may be forgiven never quite healed
The wound I bear as witness, standing by,
No ceremony surely appropriate,
Nor secret love, escape or sleep because
No matter what I do, he looks at it--"
"Now," said the third, "no thing will be the same;
I am as one who never shuts his eyes,
The sea and sky no more are marvelous,
I know no more true freshness or surprise!"
"Now," said the fourth, "nothing will be enough,
--I heard his voice accompanying all wit;
No word can be unsaid, no deed withdrawn,
--No matter what is said he measures it!"
"Vision, imagination, hope or dream,
Believed, denied, the scene we wished to see?
It does not matter in the least; for what
Is altered, if it is not true? That we saw
Goodness as it is, this is the awe
And the abyss which we will not forget,
His story now the sky which holds all thought:
No matter what I think, I think of it!"
"And I will never be what I once was,"
Said one for long as narrow as a knife,
"And we will never be what we once were;
We have died once; this is a second life."
"My mind is spilled in moral chaos," one
Righteous as Job exclaimed; "now infinite
Suspicion of my heart stems what I will
--No matter what I choose, he stares at it!"
'I am as one native in summer places
--Ten weeks' excitement paid for by the rich;
Debauched by that and then all winter bored,"
The sixth declared. "His peak left us a ditch!"
"He came to make this life more difficult."
The seventh said, "No one will ever fit
His measure's heights; all is inadequate;
No matter what I do, what good is it?"
"He gave forgiveness to us--what a gift!"
The eighth chimed in. But now we know much
Must be forgiven. But if forgiven, what?
The crime that was will be; and the last touch
Revives the memory: what is forgiveness worth?"
The ninth spoke thus: "Who now will ever sit
At ease in Zion at the Easter feast?
No matter what the place, he touches it!"
"And I will always stammer, since he spoke,"
One who had been most eloquent said, stammering.
"I looked too much at the sun; like too much light,
So too much goodness is a boomerang,"
Laughed the eleventh of the troop. "I must
Try what he tried: I saw the infinite
Who walked the lake and raised the hopeless dead:
No matter what the feat, he first accomplished it!"
So spoke the twelfth, and then the twelve in chorus:
"Unspeakable unnatural goodness is
Risen and shines, and never will ignore us;
He glows forever in all consciousness;
Forgiveness, love and hope possess the pit,
And bring our endless guilt, like shadow's bars;
No matter what we do he stares at it!
What pity then deny? what debt defer?
We know he looks at us like all the stars,
And we shall never be as we once were,
This life will never be as once it was."
This poem appeared in the Kenyon Review in 1944, a year after the unfavorably reviewed "Genesis: Book One," which Schwartz had believed to be his masterwork. The poem is far from being technically perfect; it is, however, memorable--even haunting and powerful, when one considers the biographical aspects. Schwartz usually wrote about himself, and this poem is no exception--it is a confessional poem without the "I"--the third person gives the poem as semblance of objectivity, but the poem is as autobiographical as anything that Plath ever wrote.
It should be clear to the reader, but in case it isn't: this poem, despite its Christian symbolism, has nothing to do with Christianity. Schwartz was a secular Jew and, to my knowledge, was never tempted to turn to religion in his distress. If he did, he would have very likely have become an observant Jew, since being Jewish was very much part of his identity. If the poem merely utilizes Christian symbolism, what is its theme?
The poem takes place shortly after the Resurrection. The poem turns the Easter message upside down: the twelve disciples, once content, are now miserable. Christ has become the Eye of God, watching and judging their every move. Only now do they realize: "No one will ever fit/His measure's heights; all is inadequate/No matter what (we) do, what good is it?"
If Christ isn't Christ in the poem, who is he? He is Shakespeare, he is Eliot, he is Schwartz's ideal image of himself. Schwartz felt he had to be great; this was the only way he knew to silence inner demons. It didn't work. It is no coincidence that this poem came after the failure of his epic, which he thought would rival Eliot's "Wasteland."
One can only imagine how Schwartz felt. He obviously put tremendous effort into "Genesis." He expected a glorious "Ah!" from the world and received a dismissive "what?" It had to be devastating for one so dependent on critical praise.
Shakespeare is great. Schwartz isn't Shakespeare. Therefore, Schwartz is an utter failure. This marks another return to the outburst in his first short story--It would have been better not to have been born.
This poem can be viewed as the beginning of Schwartz's severe mental illness. The Eye of God is here a very paranoid image; there is no escape from the gaze who watches and condemns every move he makes. Schwartz's tragic illness is what gives this poem its power. It is a classic poem of paranoia, just as Plath's "I Am Vertical" is a classic poem of depression. Both poems elicit--or should elicit--great compassion in the reader for both (self?)- tortured poets.
Villa once told me that it is the cumulative effect of Whitman's poetry that made it so great, not every line, This is very true of this poem as well. Schwartz often wrote long, sometimes very long poems. He was almost always unable to sustain artistry throughout an entire poem; technical mastery is attained in lines scattered throughout a much weaker whole. In this poem, for instance, the serious Greek chorus-type ending loses some of its effect when one recalls an earlier line, "...The eighth chimed in." Can you imagine Aeschylus ever having written a Greek equivalent of "Then Orestes chimed in?"
Sometimes a bad line is especially revelatory of what a poet really feels or believes. (A poet should never forget Dickinson's line: "Tell all the Truth but tell it slant." Sometimes, however, they do.) We have such an example of unslanted truth in this poem: "My mind is spilled in moral chaos"--undoubtedly a heart-felt self-assessment, part of Schwartz's ongoing, increasingly desperate monologue.
About fifteen years later, Schwartz was convinced that the Pope was plotting against him. The early signs of his paranoia are clearly evident in this poem. If one has some understanding of the devastation that mental illness often causes, or has witnessed a mind succumbing to paranoia, this poem is especially unforgettable. Without this knowledge, the poem is weirdly beautiful; with it it is much more poignant, powerful, even haunting.
Despite its defects, this is a great poem, a great poem with a warning. A good life necessitates that everything in this upside-down poem be turned around again. What is life without joy and love? Schwartz's tragic life is an answer to that question.
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