he’s a Language writer,” said WBAI’s Janet Coleman to me. She was speaking of a writer she liked. In a way, that statement is odd. What we call “Language writing” arose out of a discussion—often a fierce and heated discussion—conducted by a group of writers located primarily in California and New York. Lyn Hejinian told me that Bob Perelman’s “Talks” series was instituted as a forum for the presentation, discussion and criticism of the work these writers were producing. I am not speaking here of criticism of Language poetry from poets outside the group. I am speaking of criticism of Language poetry from poets within the group. Language poetry arose out of an argument people were having about the nature of poetry. Now, it seems, Language poetry has become a style of writing which anyone can adopt—without debate or discussion. You can say, “She’s a Language writer” and expect to be understood. Doesn’t that mean that the movement as a movement—something in motion—is over? Isn’t that the shift from something deeply in question—argued about by the participants—into something fixed: a style, a way of writing? You might as well be writing sonnets.
2
I think the concept of “honesty” arises out of various puritanical impulses. Puritans want people to choose one thing or another—indeed, at the expense of another. The great Puritan epic, Paradise Lost, is all about a wrong choice. I think this is tied to “honesty”: “What I really feel is this...”—and you leave out all the things that glimmer around a subject and perhaps contradict it. It is of course good form in our society to be on the side of “honesty”—emotional and intellectual. No one would tell you that honesty isn’t a wonderful thing. And yet: is it? Does it hide something which might call it into question? Is there a sense in which it is a denial and not an affirmation? Nietzsche is one of the very few who would attack honesty in the name of healthy lying. I’m afraid—to be as honest as I can possibly be—I agree with him. “Honesty” demolishes fictions: fictions, I think, are life. Puritans like nothing more than to demolish fictions, to destroy myths. But I think that myth is the only adequate way to understand the world—and that the Puritan position is itself in fact (what else?) a fiction, though it is a fiction claiming a moral superiority which it does not actually possess. It is the supreme arrogance of Puritanism that it believes its one fiction takes utter precedence over all other fictions: Puritan “honesty” is thus a kind of monotheism. The question is not whether one supports lies (“evasiveness”) or truth (“honesty”): the question is what kinds of fictions give life, what kinds give death?...
To a friend: People tend to believe in “honesty” as an absolute: it’s always a good thing. And people get praised for their “honesty”—not necessarily for any particular kind of honesty, simply for being “honest.” But, if there are no absolutes, it’s possible that the virtue of honesty has its limitations, even its negations—especially when it becomes anti-mythology. I do think it’s a Puritan virtue, and I have a deep distrust of things Puritan—not to mention things everybody praises. In at least some senses, “honesty” is anti imagination: tell the truth, be honest, don’t lie. To praise “honesty” is to praise not making fictions. Is that what we wish to tell our poets? Is that any way to arrive at new myths? Isn't “honesty” an aspect of the Puritan distrust of the imagination—the impulse that made them close down the theaters in Shakespeare's time?
3
Do tough guys in Brooklyn still say dese and dose for these and those? The Greek words for god and goddess are, respectively, theos and thea. The Roman words are deus and dea. The Romans were tough guys, too.
4
When I was in New York over forty years ago—1960? 1961?—I wished to make a journal like this but had great difficulty doing it. Now, the words flow forth. Adelle says, “That’s because, then, you wanted to be a writer. Now, you are a writer.” Undoubtedly, I lacked confidence then. But, even more, I lacked subject matter. Now, I have subjects aplenty. If you are lucky, time will give you subjects—a great gift—and these will form the base of your perceptions. Never—or only rarely—fully conscious, subject matter will nudge you into language. It constantly colors your words, making your words mean more than they seem to initially. The word “dark” in Dana Gioia’s work is subject matter. And subject matter is history.
5
Collage has been called, by Jerome Rothenberg and others, the art form of the twentieth century, and collage by its very nature moves against the idea of private property. Did T.S. Eliot ask permission of all the people he quoted in The Waste Land? The possible hazards of the collagist’s sometimes cavalier appropriation of materials were demonstrated when San Francisco artist Jess sent his “Tricky Cad”—an homage to/surrealist parody of “Dick Tracy”—to “Dick Tracy”’s creator, Chester Gould. Gould was furious and threatened legal action. Jess hastily removed the “Tricky Cad” section from his book O! (1960).
6
“Poet, / Be like God” (Jack Spicer, “Imaginary Elegies”). The problem with this formulation—hardly original with Spicer—lies in the notions of “world” and “creativity.” God creates ex nihilo, out of nothing: there is no “world” until God “creates” it. The poet’s “creativity” is not like that. The poet inhabits a world which is always impinging upon him/her. The poet “creates” from that world, not from nothing. Consequently, the poet’s “creativity” is significantly different from God’s; it is closer to that of the jazz musician who is always reacting to something given: a set of chords, a tune. But Spicer’s line expresses the desire to forget that fact, to imagine oneself as without precedent, without history.
*
I heard a woman sobbing Outside my window Late last night But when I went to look She’d gone I heard a woman Weeping But could Not find her I heard a woman wailing As if she felt The weight Of everything As she passed by My window Open to the dark She was it seemed Beyond Any Possibility of consolation In desolate Constringency As she gave herself to Sorrow Weeping For no reason I could know or see© Jack Foley