Toes will be stepped on...
I take my time reading. I’d like to say the reason for this is because I pick apart every sentence and word, paying attention to detail with a surgeon’s care. But I’d be lying. The truth is that I get three pages into a story, essay, or epic poem and realize the piece is not about me striking out the side in the top of the ninth at Wrigley Field to win the World Series for the Cubs. Because that’s where my mind tends to go when I read. So I start over, concentrating on the words, seeing the images move in my mind. Then I get to page three again and read the words that caused me to snap out of my daydream the first time around. And I resume my previous daydream.
Now, this doesn’t happen with every book or story or poem I read. But it happens more often than I’d like to admit. Especially when I read stream of consciousness writing. We’re reading Ginsberg in Contemporary Poetry—specifically, “Kaddish.” I’m not smart enough to decipher whether this piece is beyond my realm of comprehension, or if it should be renamed, “Ka-Shit.” The fragmented thoughts—whether they’re supposed to mirror Ginsberg’s shoddy memory, voluntary repression, or feelings of guilt that he didn’t take care of/do enough for his mother—annoy me. The lack of articles—maybe an emulation of the way his mother, a Russian immigrant, spoke—frustrates me. The arbitrary indents and em dashes baffle me. All of these things (repeated over the course of 19+ pages) distract me from the narrative to the point where I don’t even know what Ginsberg is talking about.
And I’m trying to understand. I didn’t give up reading the poem, and I didn’t give up reading On the Road when the same things occurred. The difference between “Kaddish” and OtR, for me, is that the former piece had some compelling ideas and images—mom having seizures and fits of dementia compared to repeatedly being told how great all of the Beats were, how broke they were, how much they drank, and how every time they were down and out they decided to embark on a road trip; but both works were muddied by the rough prose. I’m not saying that if a piece of literature is not polished and lyrical, it’s not art. I’m saying poetry and prose that reads like random thoughts scribbled on post-its feels like bullshit bullshit bullshit. Typing Typing Typing. Not Not Not. Writing Writing Writing.
Maybe it’s A.D.D., or maybe I’m unwilling to get past the stream of consciousness style/technique/gimmick. I read Baxter’s essay on Dysfunctional Narrative and can’t help but apply that label to the Beats. Could be their point—fighting the mainstream, the conventional—but that’s not enough to make me want to explore more titles in the future.
6 comments:
It's really too bad that the Beat generation's literature is best remembered as Kerouac and Ginsberg. I really like Snyder, but not everyone has read him. And he was a Beat Poet.
Anyway, as for Ginsberg, and Kerouac to an extent, I agree with you. It's frustrating. There are very, very, very few Ginsberg poems I can stand. One that I detest (though I understand it's importance) is Howl. I just don't like that poem.
But so it goes. They were important dudes in the writing history of the USA.
I've never been able to finish OtR.
Like Jorge, I believe the works are important to at least try to read, to take note of the history of writing and all that these writers were trying to do, and so I try and I try and then I pick up something else, something I love and read that.
Dan, I have the same problem with T.S. Eliot. What in God's name am I supposed to do with "The Wasteland?" That poem makes me so angry! It makes no sense! (However, "Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats" is what I would call Eliot's masterpiece.) I suspect part of the problem with Ginsberg is that in order to understand it, you have to be able to share in some of the experiences the poem is trying to relate. It read like a memoir to me, a mix of "this is what happened" with authorial confession. It demands patience, too. What else? I don't know.
I dislike the majority of Beat pieces that I have come across with the exception of On the Road. I actually like Keroauc's prose style, although I wouldn't stick to it exclusively. But I do understand where you are coming from: he definitely breaks a lot of the traditional rules of literature.
I guess I've always been more of a theme guy though. I actually hate it when writers write things in a style that is just about impossible for the average person to understand, seemingly just to prove that they can do so. Seems pompous.
That being said, James Joyce has recently become my favorite writer, so...go figure that one.
Also, I should note that I have always been suspicious that I am mentally handicapped in some way, and that no one has ever told me because they are afraid that it would be awkward.
Joe, I feel the same exact way.
Well, as you know, I'm an admirer of los Beats. My faves of Ginsberg's are Howl, Wichita Vortex Sutra, Entering Kansas City High, and A Supermarket in California. Kerouac's Dharma Bums and On the Road mean a lot to me. These works, for me, are so much more than typing typing typing (just as Charlie Parker's music is so much more than the sqauwking sqauwking sqauwking many ears hear). I know I'm in the minority around these parts, but I think Ginsberg and Kerouac are timeless, even as they are of their time. Like Parker, we needed them to get here. I agree with Jorge that Snyder deserves more praise. And I think Ferlinghetti should be beatified for creating City Lights Books and for writing A Coney Island of the Mind, a book that became a good friend of mine in the summer of 1991.
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