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To return to my December 2002 Barbaric Yawp interview with John Berbrich, click here.
To read our original 2001 interview, click here.
William Michaelian: Well, as usual, we’ve been talking about some strange and interesting things. At the end of the previous page, we briefly discussed Things About to Disappear, a fine new chapbook of poems by Don Winter. Nothing strange about that. The book was just released by Mr. Berbrich’s MuscleHead Press, which is the chapbook division of his world-famous BoneWorld Publishing empire. Meanwhile, Mr. Berbrich and I have both started reading James Joyce’s Ulysses. Obviously, it will take us awhile to get through this 900-page tome. But if any of you listening in has read or is in the process of reading Ulysses, please don’t hesitate to give us your impressions. Another thing on my own personal agenda was to read the latest issue of Barbaric Yawp, beginning with the poems. I was hoping to do that last night, and indeed I made a beginning, but something else came up and I haven’t been able to get back to it yet. But while I was paging through the issue, J.B., I came across the strangest cartoon. In it, Walt Whitman is dressed as a lumpy old Tarzan, and he has apparently lost his barbaric yawp. I remember that cover Bert “Edgar Rice” Johnson did for the October 2004 issue. It seems he has a thing about old Walt. Amazing.
John Berbrich: Yes, Bert Johnson is amazing. Some of his cartoons are hilarious. I really don’t know if he’s tailoring these drawings to the obvious Whitman influence inherent in Barbaric Yawp or if he simply has an interest in old Walter. Either way, it all fits together quite nicely. Serendipitous, you might say. Right now I’m reading, among other things, Les Chants de Maldoror by Comte de Lautreamont. The author has a really poor attitude. Some of the images are incredibly vulgar. He was a hero of both the Surrealists and the Dadaists.
William Michaelian: This came about, I just read, because André Breton stumbled across the book over twenty years after the author, whose real name was Isidore Ducasse, died at the age of twenty-four. Fascinating. Ducasse was born in Montevideo, Uruguay, in 1846. My god, man, what will you get into next?
John Berbrich: Not sure, but there are certainly many wild regions to explore. The French have this mania for ideas, at least in literature. So many seem obsessed, demented. Radical French litterateurs, insanely fixated upon certain lines. Breton writes in the First Surrealist Manifesto: “The mere word ‘freedom’ is the only one that still excites me. I deem it capable of indefinitely sustaining the old human fanaticism.” . . . “To reduce the imagination to a state of slavery is to betray all sense of absolute justice within oneself.” . . . “I could spend my whole life prying loose the secrets of the insane.” . . . “Christopher Columbus should have set out to discover America with a boatload of madmen.” From Crisis of the Object: “The mad beast of custom must be hunted down.” And from the poem “On the Road to San Romano,” a few lines:
The embrace of poetry like the embrace of the naked body
Protects while it lasts
Against all access by the misery of the world
William Michaelian: Potent, crazy stuff. Partly due to my strange and comical upbringing, I’ve always had a soft spot for people who express themselves with confidence in absolute terms. There is an added element of visual shock in Breton’s words that’s refreshing, as when he says custom is a mad beast that must be hunted down. I can understand the desire to pull up language by the roots and to turn everything upside down. And I can certainly appreciate the opposite, if indeed an opposite exists — the calm smile of wise simplicity that understands the volumes that are spoken in a single word or phrase, or conveyed by a nod. It’s hard to say whether the Surrealists or Dadaists or anyone else really invented anything new. All movements are born of their time, and express another facet of our strange humanity.
John Berbrich: And no one knows which way it’s headed next. It’s all a grand comedy, a Divine Comedy, you might say. Here’s another bit of Breton, before we move along. I got these books out of a library years ago, books that included the Surrealist manifestos and other writings. I copied down my favorite passages. Here’s that bit of Breton: “SURREALISM, n. Psychic automatism in its pure state, by which one proposes to express — verbally, by means of the written word, or in any other manner — the actual functioning of thought. Dictated by thought, in the absence of any control exercised by reason, exempt from any aesthetic or moral concern.” From the first Surrealist Manifesto.
William Michaelian: It amazes me how people arrive at these ideas. It’s great. Breton sounds delirious and drunk, as if he is speaking from a place somewhere between wakefulness and sleep. We could spend hours examining his definition of Surrealism alone. What a tangle it is. Psychic automatism is one thing, but then we have “in its pure state.” Let us be clear about this, he insists, let us not dabble in psychic automatism in any of its more common adulterated forms. And let us also assume that Reason, which normally exercises control of thought, is derived from a source other than thought. Now, with Reason swept aside, thought is free to express itself, its actual functioning. The result? Why, thought, of course. And the thought that after the Surrealistic exercise is over, if indeed it ever ends, thought will be able to tell the difference. At long last, this is Surrealism!
John Berbrich: Quite remarkable. The First Surrealist Manifesto was full of great stuff like this. The Second Manifesto was comparatively dull. I can’t remember how many manifestos Breton wrote. It’s a great word though, manifesto. It’s like you are making this strong statement and watch out world cuz you’re willing to implement it. We should write a manifesto about something, don’t you think?
William Michaelian: Absolutely. But I should warn you, my Manifesto Generator isn’t quite perfected. Every once in awhile, it spits out coherent phrases. I should probably try a better grade of coffee. Of course, we could wing it — you know, actually write it out or type it by hand. Do you have anything particular in mind? Anything deep and volcanic you’d like to dredge up from the bowels of your unspoken experience and drag kicking and screaming into the light? Anything that would baffle the pundits and turn our bleak literary landscape into a raging forest teeming with creative life?
John Berbrich: I don’t know for sure. Sometimes I think I do. Sometimes I know I do. But why do things always get in the way, Willie? Why doesn’t it all flow the way I feel that it can? Why is this river dammed, no pun intended?
William Michaelian: Why? Why? Because you, my friend, need a manifesto! Why suffer with the phlegm of indecision when you can flush it all away with Blind Certainty? Not just you, but everyone. We all need a manifesto. Oh, waiter — I’ll take the manifesto, with plenty of mushroom and garlic. By the way, I got a kick out of a poem I found in Barbaric Yawp. I love it — “Epitaph,” by Mary Rudbeck Stanko:
Epitaph
She never
gave up—
in fact,
she’s
probably
digging
her way out
right now.
Not quite a manifesto, but a pleasant thing to happen upon late at night long after one’s sanity has fled. I also liked “Heart Like a Frog,” by David Carpenter. He made excellent use of the word “ribbit,” and the line “where gadwalls gabble quackhappy in her waters” sounds like something you might run across in Ulysses. I love the compound words Joyce comes up with. Quackhappy fits right in.
John Berbrich: Yeah, Carpenter’s frog poem is remarkable. Did you happen to notice the poem we paired on the page with “Epitaph?” Quite a contrast, and quite deliberate. Some people never give up while others hardly even try. You’re right, of course, about the need for a personal manifesto. That’s why they make bumper-stickers. And t-shirts with messages on them. So people know where we stand. Few things are as terrifying to me as blind certainty. Sounds, looks, tastes, feels, and smells like fanaticism.
William Michaelian: Are you certain of that? I did notice “Salt and Lemon” on the “Epitath” page. Disgusting. The words just sort of pooled on the page in a pointless, rancid-looking gel. Speaking of things with messages on them, I like the signs they have when you emerge from a road construction area that say, “End Road Work.” For some reason, I always picture an angry population up in arms, demanding an end to road work. Isn’t that ridiculous?
John Berbrich: Well, of course, but the ridiculous gives life its charm. When I see a box of those big stick kitchen matches with the words “Strike Anywhere” on the side, I always think of union activists. And a “No Smoking Allowed” sign suggests to me that it is allowable not to smoke in the area, while implying that of course it is preferable to smoke. How about “Fine for Littering” or “Fine for Speeding”? I mean, they are encouraging law breakers.
William Michaelian: Yes, especially because in some cases, they post an actual amount, like “$500 Fine for Littering.” It’s a tempting offer. So, besides Ulysses and Les Chants de Maldoror, what else are you reading?
John Berbrich: A book of difficult essays by George Steiner entitled On Difficulty and other essays. Steiner is one of those fellows whose writing is hard to understand, yet it seems as though he knows everything. I’ve seen his name quoted as a reliable source in several places so I figured that I should check out his work personally. These essays were written back in the 70’s, yet already he was wondering about the effects of technology on the brain and thought-processes. In one piece he says that in the past people carried on an interior-dialogue w/ themselves, a kind of filtering and organizing process. Today, w/ the constant bombardment of our ears by the messages of electronic media, this internal dialogue may be in danger — & who knows how vital it really is to our functioning as complete people. Anyway, try writing an erudite 35-page essay on that topic.
William Michaelian: I doubt I could do that on any topic. In fact, isn’t erudite on the Periodic Table of Elements? Steiner was addressing quite a subject. People think constantly, but who knows how much thinking has changed? From what I gather — not being a very effective thinker myself — thinking can be an incredibly repetitive process. When you mentioned interior dialogue, the first thing that sprang to mind was Nathaniel Hawthorne. I remember reading somewhere that he used to take long walks, during which he’d talk his way through parts of stories. Next, I visualized a child playing alone, creating entire worlds in he mind and using a stick to scratch strange and meaningful symbols in the dust. What happens to this child’s natural ability to imagine when he is bombarded with electronic nonsense? It’s a serious question.
John Berbrich: Yeah, it is. When I was a kid we used to play outside — games like cowboys & Indians, World War 2 games, space monsters, pirates. All completely from the imagination. You might have a stick for a gun; a finger would work just as well. No batteries, no electronic music. No real goal, you just played until you tired of the game or someone’s mother called them in. I remember a few years ago talking to the son of a woman I know, telling him about these imaginary games. He said, “What do you mean, to imagine?”
William Michaelian: That’s one of the saddest things I’ve ever heard. I, too, was involved in endless adventures, just as you’ve described. And I spent a lot of time alone, building odds and ends out of scrap materials, digging holes and living in them, playing entire baseball games against myself, making plans, carrying out secret missions. To a great extent, I still live this way, although my hole-digging has temporarily fallen by the wayside. I could never give it up permanently. It’s interesting. In an hour’s time, I can drift so far into the realm of imagination that coming back again requires real effort on my part. And the feeling often carries over. Certainly, TV is one of the most mind-crippling things for children, and for adults as well. Even so-called “quality” television puts the mind to sleep.
John Berbrich: We don’t get television. A little bit of it is okay, I suppose, but it has this power to suck people in. I agree, TV is generally so boring & numbing. And how can people bear to watch reality shows? I don’t know; I don’t get it. A different generation, I’m left out, left behind, I don’t care. That’s not true of course, I do care. But what can you do? Become a wide-eyed radical like the Surrealists? Say, here’s where our Manifesto comes in. This will be one long raging rant. First we need a Manifesto of destruction, then one of construction. We’ll bring in thoughts from all the great thinkers of the world. I have the feeling that we’ll be doing more destroying than building. “Too much of nothing,” said Bob Dylan, and he was never more accurate.
William Michaelian: Too much of nothing, in every flavor but real. This manifesto talk gives me an idea. All graduates of junior high school, high school, and college should be required to write a manifesto. The very fact that they haven’t already written a manifesto, and in almost all cases aren’t interested in writing one, if they even know what a manifesto is, proves what an important, worthwhile project it is.
John Berbrich: Hmmmm. Interesting. Are you suggesting that every student should want to change the world? At least perhaps they’d put their spines into their writing. Would be fascinating reading for a teacher. And the girls could write womanifestos. Those too should prove interesting.
William Michaelian: Yes, and if they wrote songs, they could be collected into hymnals and hernals. And in this scenario, teachers wouldn’t be hired until they wrote a manifesto. School names would also have to be changed. Imagine watching a football game between the Fighting Surrealists and the Dada Lions. At the start of the game, the two teams rush onto the field and gather around tables in a café set up at the fifty-yard line, where they proceed to argue about the meaning of football.
John Berbrich: Willie, that is beautiful! The contest could never take place as the opposing sides would be unable to agree on the rules, if they had any at all. André Breton would definitely play quarterback, with Paul Eluard lining up as wide receiver. Louis Aragon, the Communist, would wear a red uniform and Phillipe Soupault would be a blocking back. Tristan Tzara would run the Dada Lions and order the tearing down of the goal posts. Marcel Duchamp would make new goal posts out of hair-pins and clothes-hangers. Salvador Dali would provide halftime entertainment.
William Michaelian: Score at the end of the third half — Surrealists 5, Dada Lions, 1. I picture the entire crowd facing backward in the stands, busily scribbling away at manifestos. Who will provide commentary? Some crusty old artist who paints his comments rather than speaking them?
John Berbrich: Maybe Picasso, who said that he painted with his penis. Willie, Willie, Willie. Sometimes I don’t know about you. The Surrealists would lead the league in Manifestos. The commentator would speak in glossolalia and strangely enough everyone would understand him. “And suddenly, breaking onto the field, it’s, it’s, it’s Dr.Farrago and his mad henchman Muddle. Now the game is getting really interesting, folks.”
William Michaelian: What do you mean, you don’t know about me? Just remember, this whole thing was Jian Brichiam’s idea. In fact, there he is now, selling programs in the crowd. Of course, being Brichiam, the programs are windows to other worlds.
John Berbrich: Hey-hey, I’m waking up. Looks like the whole thing was a dream. I sigh and look out the window, glad to be back in sane reality, although I’m a bit sad at leaving Brichiam’s fantasy world. Then I see the newspaper headline in the sports section: SURREALISTS HOLD OFF LATE RALLY TO DEFEAT DADA LIONS 6-5.
William Michaelian: And that, my well-read and delirious friend, is the beauty of Brichiam. This is the point I’ve been trying to make all along, even when I had no idea I was trying to make it — the difference between fantasy and reality is all in the mind. They are one and the same, part of the same, same of the same. Brichiam hands you a program with a smile. You take it and pass eagerly through its misty portal. Once inside, you meet Brichiam after Brichiam, each time passing through more portals. You take a highway and come to a sign: “Dada Next 10 Exits.” You take the first exit, only to find it’s an entrance. They’re all entrances. Up ahead, wildmen in berets are blasting their way through mountains of Reason. You slam on your brakes just in time to avoid an avalanche of Institutionalized Religion. That was close!
John Berbrich: You avoided the religion, fortunately, but now you are stuck with 4 flat tires. And the gas gauge is on E. And the alternator is losing spunk. Where the heck is Mobius with that bus when you need him? Willie, Willie. The landscape doesn’t look anything like the map, someone says, and then you realize that the map is slowly changing, the lines and colors blending in a weird sort of waltz. You ask an old prospector for directions and he shouts “you can’t get there from here,” and then you realize that you have no destination anyway, so at least you can’t get lost. Fortunately I bet on the Surrealists.
William Michaelian: Sure, wise guy. But look at your tires. And those peanut shells in your beard. That was one heck of a game, unscheduled and out of season, yet played before a record-breaking crowd. One good thing — the value of our manifesto cards has already gone up. Everybody’s a winner! And don’t forget to tune in to next week’s game, between the Anarchists and the Dead Russian Authors. Pushkin Field is beautiful in the snow, and the halftime show will feature a re-enactment of his fatal duel. By the way, you’re holding the map upside down. The rivers are running off the page.
John Berbrich: That’s Kool-Aid, my friend. I’m not sure, but I think Brichiam’s working on an opus. That could be good for us, or bad, depending on just what he has in mind. Maybe we can talk him into making us characters in a cheesy 50’s sci-fi novel. Or a Western, we’ll be gun-slingers! Or two sleazy dudes living the low life in L.A., seducing young starlets and getting beat up in tavern brawls. If anyone can write the true story of Farrago and Muddle, it’s Brichiam.
William Michaelian: Opus Sedgewick, private eye. Opus Hollander. Opus Barbecue Sauce. Careful, you almost drove us off a treble clef. Wow. When you said the map was changing like a waltz, you really meant it, didn’t you? But that’s fine, because in a strange, roundabout way, this brings us to Anatole France, another famous author whose work I’ve never read. Real name: Jacques Anatole Francois Thibault. When France won the 1921 Nobel Prize, the committee cited his “nobility of style, a profound human sympathy, grace, and a true Gallic temperament.” But when he died in 1924, his funeral became the target of André Breton and the Surrealists — almost sounds like a band name — who used the public event as their first orchestrated scandal. I’m getting this from
Today in Literature, by the way. The Surrealists first asked for official permission to open the casket and slap the corpse. When this was denied, they distributed a pamphlet entitled “The Corpse” to the crowd of approximately 200,000 people. I don’t know. Maybe you’ve read about this already. In “The Corpse,” Breton said, among other things, “Let it be a holiday when we bury trickery, tradition, patriotism, opportunism, skepticism, and heartlessness. . . . His corpse should be put in an empty quayside box of the old books which he loved so much and thrown into the Seine. Dead, this man must produce dust no longer.” Hmm. I see here that in his first manifesto, which Breton published three days after France’s funeral, Breton said he that he wanted to be taken to the cemetery in a moving van. Do you happen to know how he did end up?
John Berbrich: Sorry but I don’t. See what I mean about these guys — they were totally outrageous. But smart too, not late-night TV dummies. For the Surrealists, at least some of them, art really meant something. Too bad they didn’t really create more. Now you’ve got me thinking about these characters again. They occasionally inspire me with their antics and pronouncements.
William Michaelian: It’s interesting that their antics and pronouncements would be remembered more than their art. I wonder what that means. That their art was the antics and pronouncements?
John Berbrich: That’s pretty close to the truth. Heck, it may be the truth. Their whole life was art, without a canvas, without a quill and paper. I heard of an artist, a woman, who was chained by the ankle to her boyfriend for a year with a 5-foot chain. Reporters followed them around. I guess this was some kind of life-art, although I don’t know why she was considered the artist and not him, unless it was her idea. Be tough playing soccer.
William Michaelian: But no one could touch them in a three-legged race. I suppose it’s the spirit behind the thing. If it was merely for publicity, that could drain the life right out of it, or reduce it to mere entertainment. Even if it wasn’t just for publicity, in this day and age, it would almost inevitably end up being treated and trivialized as such. Anymore, even noble causes end up sounding cheap in the hands of the media — clever soundbites between blaring advertisements for pills and cell phones.
John Berbrich: Yeah, but I don’t see how you could pull off the chain-gang duo with any real dignity. Which reminds me of these cuffs, Anita, if you’re listening. I suppose this is another form of art, albeit the aesthetic value of it escapes me. Who was the first person to consider any object as worthy of non-utilitarian scrutiny, the value of the inessential and the nonproductive? Who was the first being to notice a red sunset and consider the beauty and wonder of it, rather than thinking that it was merely time for bed?
William Michaelian: Jian Brichiam, of course. I like that — you’re reminded of the cuffs. You’ve been locked up in them for weeks, but now suddenly you’re reminded that you still have them on. At this rate, pretty soon, you won’t notice them at all. Meanwhile, you’ve brought up an interesting point. I can’t imagine viewing things in a strictly utilitarian light.
John Berbrich: I’m assuming there occurred a crossover point somewhere and somewhen. Before that, all humans were grubbing exclusively for existence all day: food, a dry cave, and so on. Then one day someone saw or felt something new and tried to transmit it, and we know the rest: he was either considered a visionary and raised to the status of prophet or they ripped him to pieces. And the twain developed into different societies accordingly. Or perhaps all people were crazy clumsy poets at one time until about 12,000 years ago when big agriculture began. Or maybe even sooner, and they learned the mixed blessings of a grim calculated materialism. Wonder which way we’re heading. . . .
William Michaelian: The sad truth is, millions of people on this earth are, in fact, grubbing exclusively for existence all day. For we all need a dry doorway to sleep in, a vermin-infested blanket to drape around our shoulders as we try to imagine the pleasure-taste-aroma of a simple cup of hot coffee. And how many of us who have coffee in abundance actually taste it? And do non-tasters-experiencers really see the beauty and wonder in things? Yes. Sometimes. In fleeting, haunting glimpses. While waiting at a stoplight, perhaps, or when looking in on a sick child or dying loved one and listening to them breathe. Yesterday morning, I was outside when several hundred geese flew over, calling to one another in the gray sky. It’s hard to believe there was a time when a human being could look up at such a sight and think only of food. But maybe there was such a time. Maybe the time is now, and always has been and will be now.
John Berbrich: Yeah, I said earlier that sometimes I don’t believe in Progress at all, at least not overall. A step forward here is a step backward there. Poverty and its attendant ills ain’t much fun. I often consider the most important word in all of these philosophical ramblings to be “Optimum.” I don’t want to live like a total savage in the forest, although a primitive life has its charms and its rewards. I don’t want to live in an over-sophisticated city, but certain advances are quite wondrous and satisfying. Usually the balance point is somewhere in the middle, although that specific point will vary according to the individual. And that balance point is the optimum, the point you shoot for. This is why fanatics appear distasteful, despite their clownish and inspirational qualities. The Surrealists are great fun to read about, but to hang out with them would be exhausting. And dangerous. Again, what a wonderful world this is, despite the horrors of it. I’m happy to be where I am, a balance point. Optimum living.
William Michaelian: If it’s not too personal a question, how long have you lived in Russell? I know there’s a fascinating story behind it, a long road with many turns, as your 2003 chapbook, Balancing Act, so wonderfully suggests.
John Berbrich: Russell? Thirteen years. Lucky number.
William Michaelian: Well, in this case I guess it really is. We’ve been in Salem for a little over eighteen. Unfortunately, increasing population and the construction of that new shopping center I mentioned a few cyber-weeks ago have wiped out the charm of our little neighborhood. We used to have a little forest of oaks and firs at the end of the street; only a few isolated trees remain. The road that led past the neighborhood died in a beautiful patch of weeds; now it’s wide and continues on through several acres of dull-looking houses, cement, and lawns. Will you be publishing another of your own chapbooks anytime soon, or is your slate full of other projects?
John Berbrich: Well, the slate is full, but I have two thematic poetry collections nearing completion. One is Tour of Africa, which really is finished, except for the cover & final packaging. The other is entitled The Adventures of Kim the Blow-Up Doll. That one requires a little more research. Of course I have several short prose projects stumbling along. Each would fill a 30-50 page chapbook. We have a lamentable backlog of chaps for other authors, which I plan to mop up over the next few months. After that, we’ll publish chapbooks only sporadically, maybe two per year. These projects require a tremendous amount of effort & way too much time. Did you find any more gems in the Yawp?
William Michaelian: I’ve been so busy I still haven’t read the stories. Wait, I take that back. I read “Rinse After Use,” by Loren Buettner. Right away, I went to the store and bought a new toothbrush. And I read Mel Ubik’s commentary, which is always enjoyable, as is your introduction. Your lunchtime run-in with a TV “journalist” sounds like it was an educational experience. I was very disappointed to hear that you support harsher penalties. I really don’t think they would do much good. Robert Dawson’s poem, “Song of the Vacant Lot,” is nice. “Thistles and bedsprings,” you know, “pipe gods, seed gods, mud gods.” He had something going there. But I confess I wasn’t crazy about his reference to poems near the end and at the end of the poem. The last reference I can live with, the first one I can do without. As for your publishing projects, I think the time is definitely coming when your own work will have to take precedence over the work of others. This is only natural.
John Berbrich: Well it’s hard to let go. Perhaps I’ll merely loosen my grip a little. It’s fun and stimulating of course to meet other writers and to communicate with them. Helps one to feel part of a community, not quite so alone. Do you envision Salem getting so bad that you have to pull up stakes and move on? What a shame, a calamity, a way of life can be.
William Michaelian: In all likelihood, we’ll stay here for a long time. We like Salem and the area in general, the weather, the surrounding countryside. We just need to get into a more rural setting, and that isn’t something we’re able to do at the moment. Unfortunately, some moments go on for years. But, then again, things do change. It would help if more people sent me money — a dollar apiece once or twice a year should do it. No need to be extravagant. Meanwhile, I agree with you completely about communicating with writers, and also with readers. It’s a true delight. I don’t really feel the need to be part of a community in any organized sense, but I do enjoy corresponding and hearing what others have to say. Quite often, it jars my thinking and sends me off in new directions. Time is the big thing. Years ago, I learned that the only way to get my work done is to actually sit down and do it. In my case, this has meant turning my back on living a practical life. Of course, if you ask Dollface, she’ll say I’ve always approached things this way. And she’ll be right. Heaven knows how that good woman has suffered because of my starry-eyed stupidity!
John Berbrich: I’m sure she’s been somehow compensated for the imbecility of your celestial orbs. How many crazy men have been supported by a good solid woman? I could probably send you a buck each year, if you think it would make that much difference in your circumstances. I’m a sucker for hard-luck stories like yours, Willie. What do you think about the Ulysses page? Seems like it’s just you & me.
William Michaelian: On second thought, you’d better send the money to Dollface. Then it won’t be wasted on some hair-brained scheme. I’ve been wondering about that Ulysses page myself. It seems things were going along fine until two or three days ago, when I joined in. Since then, you’re the only one who has responded. Were my comments really that bad? Oh — by the way, for those wondering what the heck we’re talking about, J.B. and I have been participating in a private little forum, in which he and I and three others are reading and discussing James Joyce’s Ulysses. It’s fun. Of course, we can also talk about Ulysses here, as I suggested some time back. It’s a great book.
John Berbrich: Yes, it is — and nothing like I expected. I feared a dry and dusty tome, the sense of which is completely elusive. Thus far, Ulysses is anything but! However, I suspect Joyce will be tossing curves soon.
William Michaelian: If the whole book isn’t a curve, that is. I really had no expectations. The only Joyce I read was his early story collection, Dubliners, which was written, I think, when he was around twenty-two. Correct me if I’m wrong. Those stories were very nice and fairly straightforward. I noticed in the other forum that you and the others had briefly discussed A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. I don’t know when that was written, or how it plays language-wise compared to the inventive, free-flowing, poetic prose of Ulysses — or how it relates to the book, for that matter. And then there’s Finnegans Wake, which I have to believe I will tackle once I finish Ulysses. I’ve read a little general background information about Joyce, but no criticism, as you have.
John Berbrich: A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man was written after Dubliners and before Ulysses. The writing is more along the lines of Dubliners but with some mental rambling. It’s worth reading. Finnegans Wake I’ve never read. If you want to experience a few daunting moments, pick up a copy and leaf through it. You will understand only a fraction of the words. I once read a short story collection by Dylan Thomas called A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Dog. That was an excellent book. The cover featured a black & white photo of a dog with a cigarette dangling from its mouth. Beautiful! Great stories of a young man at loose ends.
William Michaelian: I’ve been wanting to read Dylan Thomas for a long time. It’s like this: I go to a used book store with certain authors or books in mind, then when I get there I immediately forget what I came in for and end up bringing home something else. This could be solved by bringing a list, but that’s something I never do. As a matter of fact, I’ve picked up a copy of Finnegans Wake several times, just as you suggested. I think it will best be approached as a delirious monk shut away in his cell, while his fellow monks mill around outside in the corridor, sweeping with invisible brooms. Certainly one can’t sit down and simply read the book. Hmm. This makes me wonder. What if some of the hieroglyphics we study with such solemnity and wonder were really meant as a joke?
John Berbrich: A good question. I really don’t know if we can ever be certain. I have a theory. For hundreds of years, the majority of European households contained very few books, but most families had a big old Bible on the shelf. Now if there was ever a book that is solemn, it’s the Bible. I wonder if over those hundreds of years of reading little but Scripture and scriptural supplements, people developed the attitude that reading, any reading, was both a sacred and a solemn activity. And especially any ancient writing would be regarded with reverence. You wouldn’t be looking for jokes, hence you wouldn’t find them The Greeks had a sense of humor, that we know. What a riotous crew their gods were. So much like people. Actually so much like children.
William Michaelian: Definitely — what a refreshing cast of characters. A much better crowd to have around than the Surrealists. Your theory makes good sense. Add to this the whole evolution of reading. While monks were busy studying and illuminating manuscripts, people in the countryside were exhausted from building monasteries and raising food. Reading was a mysterious activity. And when we think of the various cultures of the past, the inventors of lost alphabets, we also have to wonder how they viewed their literature, what it was for, and so on. Was it done partly as propaganda and partly to appease the gods? Was it meant to entertain ego-mad kings and queens? Who read those hieroglyphics? And do they really represent entire peoples, or only tiny fragments of the population? Imagine judging any culture by just one book, or by a single passage carved into a wall. What if the book were Finnegans Wake?
John Berbrich: Ha-ha-ha. Good one. They’d figure the whole planet was mad. Say, maybe we have something here. Finnegans Wake as Scripture. Prophecy and depth psychology. Exploratory Scripture. Life as a wild sensual dream. Mythology oozing on everyday people. Cosmic breakfast. Freud as Sunday School. Towers, lighthouses, electric guitars — forcible phallic freedom. The alien scientists ask: What killed these people off?
William Michaelian: Maybe nothing. Maybe they simply moved on. Maybe they’re here now, only we can’t see them, or we think that what we do see is something else — rocks, birds, leaves. The whole thing is a vibration, a hum, and the alien scientists are merely the thought projections of young children exercising their burgeoning powers.
John Berbrich: Sounds like that Jian Brichiam thing again. Or that old philosophical idea that all of creation is a sort of projection from the mind of God — none of it is real, you see. I think ’twas Bishop Berkeley said that. People come up with these amazing theories, but you know one of them could be true. Maybe more than one of them could be true. It’s all too big for me, Willie. I feel like a scab on the skin of a wart on the belly of a pig. Know what I mean?
William Michaelian: I think so. But now I’m thinking of the view from there. And being no ordinary scab, I picture you making notes as you ride along, viewing the passing terrain upside down. Then, all of a sudden — splat! your host plows into a refreshing mud hole. Later, the pig is sunning himself against an old stone wall in the village, and you can feel yourself stretching as you dry out, and you think you might burst open. Near the pig’s ear on the wall itself are — you guessed it — strange writings . . . writings no one has noticed before.
John Berbrich: Funny, but the pig can read them. The language is Olde Porkish, a variant of the Hamitic languages. It appears to be an assortment of authentic alchemical formulae written by Roger Bacon, the 13th century philosopher and scientist. Something to do with eggs and hash browns, but the remainder of the inscription is smudged beyond decipherment.
William Michaelian: Hmm. . . . “The Village Pig” would make a good story. Instead of a having a wise old man who knows all, villagers would consult the pig. And everyone would maintain their own enticing mud hole, hoping to win the pig’s favor. Or they offer their daughters in marriage. It doesn’t explain the smudged inscription, but who knows, in time we might find out. Speaking of finding out, I heard from my old friend Chris on the subject of Brichiam. He said in passing that he saw a seven-hour program on the Nascar Network on the life and times of Brichiam, but that six hours of the show were Nestle’s Quik commercials. The program was called “Brichiam: A Life Best Forgotten.” Apparently someone had uncovered a Brichiam story called “Hey! Nice Shoes!”
John Berbrich: I’ve never heard of that one. It probably derives from that crazy shoe-lace fetish he had as a lad. Although, when you really stop to think about it all, it just could be that someone is “uncovering” original Brichiam manuscripts that really aren’t old at all. And aren’t really Brichiam’s. That would be a fascinating subject for study and a book — famous and not-so-famous literary hoaxes.
William Michaelian: Good idea. The book itself could be a hoax, filled with other Jianistic hoaxes. I think I remember reading somewhere that there was quite a market for artificially aged “originals” once upon a time, maybe two or three centuries ago. You and that guy you know with the printing press ought to get something going, at least as a sideline.
John Berbrich: Why not? Love to invent a whole world in literature. A world to rival the real. Went to a poetry reading last night at one of the local colleges. Stephen Lewandowski read from his latest collection. Had some bright spots, particularly the poem where Orpheus and Eurydice wind up getting married in the end and living happily together in Hell. Had a nice talk with Mr. Lewandowski afterwards and even sold him a one-year subscription to Barbaric Yawp. Nice guy.
William Michaelian: That’s good to hear. Maybe he’ll be able to go to your first get-together at the Partridge. Isn’t that just a week away? I haven’t heard of Mr. Lewandowski. I assume he had some books on hand for sale.
John Berbrich: No, he didn’t. Here’s the story: Lewandowski is in his mid-50’s I’d estimate. He started publishing poetry collections about 35 years ago, around 1970. He had roughly a half-dozen published, but then quit for some private reason, he didn’t really say why. He kept writing, though, & getting published in small journals. Now he’s put together an 80-page collection of prose and poetry, which he’s thinking of sending out to various publishers. I expect he’ll send some poems to the Yawp for our eminent perusal. Something sad is lurking behind him, I can feel it. Some kind of loneliness. He has a clear, pleasant voice, something like the professional singsong of a veteran Catholic priest, and I often found myself listening to his voice and missing the words.
William Michaelian: Well, as my wife’s little brother used to say, Sanctum benedictorum Dominos rectum colon. Sounds like you met a very interesting person. I hope we hear more from him. I expect he will tell us in his work what he wants us to know about himself, and the rest he will keep private. And of course the private will inform his words, and light them from within. Is he from your area, or was he just passing through?
John Berbrich: It’s about a 2 1/2 hour drive southwest of here. He came up as a special favor to an old friend, Dr. Maurice Kenny, who organized the reading. Dr. Kenny is quite a character and has published a number of collections of prose and poetry as well. He’s an irascible fellow, bald as a peach. His office at the college is across the hall from Nancy’s; she brings him fresh tomatoes from our garden so he’s nice to her. He’s a jolly sort; he tells me that he hates introducing people at readings yet I’ve seen him do it a number of times and believe me he undertakes the task with relish and good humor. And always he’s surrounded by a host of girl poets.
William Michaelian: Fascinating. Girl poets, eh? I can see him in a crosswalk now, his bald head bobbing along, the rest of him obscured by laughing girls with piercing eyes. Are readings there generally well attended?
John Berbrich: Oh yes — Dr. Kenny forces his students to attend, which sort of artificially swells attendance. Plus curiosity-seekers always show up. And as you say if you scan the attendees you always spot some with “piercing eyes.” Those are the avid writers, the ones for whom writing is of primary importance, a compulsion. I hope to get some of those at the Partridge readings, which by the way have yet to be scheduled.
William Michaelian: Maybe they shouldn’t be scheduled. Maybe they should be impromptu outbursts, ecstatic eruptions over coffee, unrehearsed expressions of the moment. I’ve seen this happen in bars and coffee houses, the spirit stealing upon the clientele and loosening their tongues in painless childlike utterance. Sometimes entire poems are in the form of laughter. Such poetry is exhilarating and impossible to imitate. Even so-called inanimate objects join in the dance, shimmering with light and responding to cosmic vibration.
John Berbrich: Things must be different out in Oregon. That sort of thing seldom happens in New York. Inanimate objects stay where you put them, unless of course they are acted upon by an outside force, like someone throwing a brick at you. Things may loosen up when Luke gets his beer & wine license. Letting the Muse out of the bottle and all of that. Ecstasy, epiphany, sweet delirium. Our old friend Chesterton wrote: “No animal ever invented anything so bad as drunkenness — or so good as drink.” It’s a strange paradox, yet it’s true.
William Michaelian: Were those things invented? I thought they were naturally occuring. And I didn’t say objects actually move. They don’t, at least in the obvious coarse physical sense. You walk into a place and there’s an ashtray sitting on a beer-stained table, or a pool cue leaning against a wall, and unless someone moves them they stay put all evening. This however does not diminish their capacity to feel and respond, warmed as they are by talk and smoke and the caress of fingertips. Animate and inanimate are convenient distinctions, or assumptions. I think it might be worth our while to view them in a different light.
John Berbrich: Ah, the cosmic dance. Reminds me of the chapbook we published for Mike Kriesel a couple of years ago, Matter Ballet. Think of it, that beautiful slow dance of molecules. Of course our crude senses fail to register the delicate rhythms of the ashtray and the pool cue. The Greeks had a word for it, hylozoism I believe, the idea that all forms of matter have life, energy. You’re quite right, Willie. If people could look at the world in this manner, perhaps it would be a less violent place, filled with cynicism and irreverence. Joseph Campbell used to say that we need to address nature, the world, not as it but as thou. Think of the psychological transformation.
William Michaelian: It’s like walking through an open door that’s been there all along, but gone unnoticed. Earlier today, I asked myself this question: If a tree is used to make lumber and books, does it then cease to be a tree? I’m inclined to answer no.
John Berbrich: I don’t know about that one. As far as a tree is concerned, part of its essence has to do with its form. As a table, it is no longer in the form of a tree. It’s like squashing a spider, smearing it to a yellow and black paste, rolling the paste into something resembling a stick, freezing it in the ice-box, and calling it a spider. Well, it all depends upon how you define things. Nature doesn’t define, it simply is. However, humans define our world and really therefore can define it any way we want. Warping a definition can allow us to see things in different ways, nothing wrong with that. The tree is at least a noble ancestor of the book. Imagine chopping up a forest to print manuals of DMV regulations. Sickening.
William Michaelian: I’ve thought of that many times. It turns my stomach. It’s a shame the manuals don’t suddenly take root in the night. Imagine people showing up at local DMV offices to find the windows broken out by saplings, and that moss has taken over the flooring. Again, I think it’s a matter of seeing more, or beyond, and also of remembering. Of course a tree ceases to be a tree when it’s cut down and used to make other things. But it would do us good to remember the tree when we are safe in our wooden shelter at night, holding a book. Another thing I often think of when sitting by a fire and watching the flames is that the fire itself is the sun’s energy, which was accumulated and stored inside the tree. In that case, it really does seem that the sun never stopped being what it is. What it amounts to is that everything is related. When we don’t realize this, we are more likely to abuse nature and ourselves.
John Berbrich: That’s absolutely true. And when we do realize it, we are poets and mystics. There’s a bit of the mystic in you, Willie. However, I still think of you as a Scotsman for some reason — a dour, canny, clannish son of Glasgow. Without the kilt. And yet you are a jolly mystic, tickling the soles of the feet of God. You have many divine attributes, my friend.
William Michaelian: Ah. Well, you’re right about the kilt, anyway. I have nothing against them, but I could never wear one myself. I can, however, imagine God wearing one as He strolls about the Scottish countryside, drawing stares from old women who are taking in their laundry. “Hech, man! There He is again,” says one. “What awful knees are these?”
John Berbrich: This scene takes place on the outskirts of that village where the message is scrawled in Olde Porkish across that wall. No one can read it. I wonder if God can read it. Perhaps He put it there as some kind of test of Faith. A test most people fail, don’t even study for. But that’s an image, God emerging from the fog, wrapped in mist, wearing a crazy plaid kilt, His beard gray and white and fuzzy. I can see these women ignoring Him, turning their bent bony backs to Him, their baskets filled with socks and underwear. Colorless bandanas are tied to their heads. Gnarly fingers point when God asks directions.
William Michaelian: And they all point in different directions — the mischievous hags. Finally, He stumbles over the pig, and the women’s baskets of clothes turn into snails and rocks. “Look at Him lying there,” a blind old man says to his deaf comrade, poking him in the ribs with his elbow. “I say we buy the Old Man a drink. That’ll put wind in His sails.”
John Berbrich: They lead Him into a pub and the festivities begin. God turns out to be a demon at 8-Ball. And no one will arm wrestle Him. There’s a bagpipe punk band playing in the corner. God requests a song, “Sympathy for the Devil” by the Rolling Stones, but the punks don’t know it. Instead they play the Bob Dylan classic, “Knock-Knock-Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door.” After a few beers and some hefty snorts of brandy, God gets nostalgic. He starts talking about the good old days. A gypsy tells His future, reading His palm-lines. “I see a long life,” she says. “And much success. But what’s this — ” a shadow crosses her face. “What is it?” God asks, troubled. “I....cannot say,” the gypsy woman hesitates, then continues: “you’d better start saying your prayers.” God ponders this advice, wondering to whom He should pray. He buys the house a drink. But this display of largesse cannot mask His feelings of confusion.
William Michaelian: God wanders outside, sits on a low stone wall, absentmindedly feels His pocket for tobacco. “I could strike her dead,” he mutters under his breath. “Or turn her into a pillar of salt.” Overhead, a falling star. Crickets at the gate. A fisherman, softly humming, mending his net by lantern-light. From somewhere in the dark, the crying of a newborn. Footsteps on a garden path. Two young girls from the other end of the village approach arm in arm, talking and laughing. When they see Him sitting there alone, they greet him as only young girls can, with music in their voices and mischief in their eyes. He longs to tell them who He is, but only nods and keeps silent instead. They say “good night” and continue on.
John Berbrich: He figures maybe a miracle will help. God glances up to the sky and wiggles His nose; suddenly a brilliant shooting star streaks across the darkness, leaving a bright trail of illumination stretching across the firmament. Before He can smile, God hears the washerwomen scream, “Achh, it’s the end of the world!” They tumble into a cottage and slam the door, causing a bit of turf to fall from the wall. God makes a fish appear in His hand. “This is an old trick,” He mutters to Himself. He then pulls a loaf of bread from the fish’s mouth. The screams from the cottage continue to pour forth into the night. God says “Oh, what the Heaven,” and snaps His fingers. A bottle of expensive French wine appears. He snaps His fingers again: two bottles.
William Michaelian: A table cloth; candles, already lit; a rude waiter; a violinist who looks like the hunchback of Notre Dame. In rapid succession, miracles tumble forth from His timeless hand. Finally, alerted by the women’s screams, a group of men emerge from the pub and come running. They find themselves in the middle of the French Revolution. In the distance, they see God standing alone in the commotion, a mad gleam in His eye. Angrily, they make their way toward Him. Just as they are about to demand an explanation, the waiter steps between them and says, “One moment, m’sieurs. Do you have a reservation?”
John Berbrich: The Scotsmen start speaking gibberish — glossolalia, as it is called. The table is set with exquisite French food — slugs, snails, frogs. The Scots stare in bewilderment and eat nothing, starting instead on the bottles of wine. The waiter flees. One old fellow has a lame leg; God says, “Let me have a look at that....,” and before long the fellow is dancing a jig, saying “Thank Gawd!” The entire village is out in the road now, the stars spinning crazily in the Van Gogh sky like burning pinwheels. Music comes from every direction, bagpipes and drums. The wine is getting low.
William Michaelian: Brilliant! Another miracle? No. Enough. An ocean of wine, a barn full of aromatic corks — impossible to improve on the sweet pleasure of this moment. God wanders off. No one notices. The next morning, all is forgotten. But the crops are bigger, the fishermen more successful. By the way, at this very moment, it’s rather chilly in the house and I’m wearing an oversized black beret. Our youngest son just told me I look like a demented artist. High praise! And I’m glad you mentioned Van Gogh’s stars. It’s always inspiring when people are unafraid to see things as they really are.
John Berbrich: Absolutely! The world as THEY tell it to you is a place of abstracts. We memorize lies and pass them on. Last night we attended a production of Much Ado About Nothing at St. Lawrence University. What an excellent night! The play was gloriously funny, and the tragic scenes towards the end when they think Hero is dead actually edged my eyes with tears. Tomorrow we watch an upbeat version of The Tempest.
William Michaelian: Sounds like you’re getting a good dose of Shakespeare. Several years ago, we watched a production of Much Ado About Nothing on PBS, starring Kenneth Branagh and Emma Thompson as Benedick and Beatrice. It was very enjoyable, a real riot. Last year sometime, I bought an old ten-pound volume of Bill’s works. At first my plan was to read them all. Then it was to read something from each of his major periods. Then it was to read something — anything. So far, I’ve read the lengthy introduction, which tells a lot about the England of his times. Very interesting. The book came out in the Forties. I realize the booming industry of Shakespeare Scholarship has moved forward since then. I confess I’ve never really been too worried about whether or not Shakespeare was the author of his own plays. I should be, I know. There’s a long and rather comical discussion on Shakespeare in Ulysses, by the way. At least I think that’s what they’re talking about. Maybe you’ve read it by now.
John Berbrich: Yeah, I’ve read it. It is pretty funny. At the conclusion, John Eglinton asks Stephen “Do you believe your own theory?” “No,” says Stephen promptly. So what can we make of that? I’m with you about the real author of Shakespeare’s works. The play’s the thing! And I have something written by Ben Jonson about Shakespeare the man, what a good soul he was and so on. Why would Jonson write this if untrue? I mean, was everyone 400 years in on this scam? Why? Who knew Shakespeare would end up famous? It’s like those that say Homer was actually a committee of old academics. What a laugh! And again, really, what does it matter? You’ll never know.
William Michaelian: Exactly. These arguments remind me of Whitman’s poem, “When I Heard the Learn’d Astronomer.”
When I heard the learn’d astronomer;
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me;
When I was shown the charts and the diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them;
When I, sitting, heard the astronomer, where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,
How soon, unaccountable, I became tired and sick;
Till rising and gliding out, I wander’d off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars.
Let others spend their time worrying about Homer and Shakespeare. I’d rather marvel at the fruits of their labor. Meanwhile, Stephen’s “No” was predictable, whether he really felt that way or not. That sort of question demands that sort of answer. But the response also fits his outlook. What does he believe?
John Berbrich: He’s still searching, I’d say. I love that Whitman poem; it’s been one of my favorites for years. Over-analysis can kill anything. Balanced, intelligent people know that. Remember that Leonard Cirino poetry book I was telling you about? I’ve found some good stuff. Here’s a stanza:
Come close, devils: you are frail
In the face of love: true poets defend
Earth with rifles and blood
Faithful to the words of our ancestors.
Here’s another:
I’m dying for autumn when all else
Falls and I come away blooming.
William Michaelian: Ah, yes, Cirino, the Oregon Glossolalia fellow. Very nice. Both stanzas. He holds his head high, does Cirino. Let’s see — that was a fairly thick paperback, as I recall. What did he do for artwork on the cover? And are there any drawings or photos inside?
John Berbrich: Let’s see, the book is 152 pages, with no drawings anywhere. The cover is quite interesting — a dark line of trees that slants about 1/2-way up the page. Up above is a strange sky, twisting white clouds dance against the dark blue. The cover, taken by Bob Walter of Eugene, Oregon, suggests early dusk. And it wraps around to the back cover, on which there’s an inset photo of Cirino, with a mostly bald head and one of those eyes that’s always half-closed. The other eye is wide with intelligence and commitment.
William Michaelian: I’m not surprised, judging by your brief selections. Oddly enough, just a couple of days ago, we had a sky very similar to the one you described. It was late afternoon, and there were two layers of clouds: a uniform layer of deep, dark blue-gray, and drifting beneath at a much lower altitude, small white clouds made extremely bright from the sun. Each layer of clouds intensified the other. From where I was, I couldn’t see the sun. I imagined it far off in the west, looking in at the valley through a window out over the ocean.
John Berbrich: Nice. And your description reminds me of a sky I saw about two weeks ago. I was in Potsdam after finishing up the radio show for the day. I came out of a local art shop when the sky opened up and poured down torrents of ice. It was a wild hailstorm that lasted maybe five minutes. There’s a little lake a few miles out of town. When I arrived, there was still ice in the road, like someone had scattered ice cubes across the pavement. I saw a thick mass of clouds darker than night, set off by fluffs of white clouds like cotton. Patches of brilliant blue firmament peeked through various cracks and fissures. And, seriously, across the lake I saw a rainbow. It was so weird.
William Michaelian: Hmm. Due to the ice, you might not have noticed a seam in the road, at which point you entered a giant painting. These things happen, you know.
John Berbrich: Sure, in Oregon maybe, or a Richard Brautigan story, but not in sane northern New York. Say, we saw the Shakespeare Company again today at St. Lawrence University. It was an odd, brilliant performance. Do you recall a science fiction film from the 50’s or 60’s called Forbidden Planet? Starred Vincent Price and Robbie the Robot.
William Michaelian: I remember the name, but not the movie. Why? Don’t tell me someone in The Tempest reminded you of Vincent Price.
John Berbrich: Well, no. Let me first say that Forbidden Planet is one of the best Sci-fi films of all time. Then a couple of years ago I discovered that its plot was based loosely on The Tempest. In 1985, a fellow named Bob Carlton combined the two in a new mix, emphasizing elements from The Tempest, and added about a dozen rock-n-roll songs, coming up with a thing called Return to the Forbidden Planet, and this is the performance we’ve just seen. It’s an unbelievable and hilarious farce. All the songs were played live by the actors on acoustic instruments — guitars, acoustic bass, flute, concertina, cello, drums, harmonica, and various percussion instruments. They played Elvis Presley, the Animals, the Zombies, lots more. Of course each song fits the plot at the particular moment. I was completely overwhelmed by the skill of the players, their voices, their energy, the zest with which they perform, and their geniality towards the audience. I’ve never had so much fun in the theater. And Shakespeare came across well too.
William Michaelian: Boy, when you have a night out, you really have a night out. Sounds fantastic — a good way to stir up the creative juices. How big is the theater? Were you pretty close to the action?
John Berbrich: The theater is small, seating only about 300. We sat in the second row, center. You don’t want to sit in the first row or in an aisle seat cuz they like to pull audience members up onto the stage. Really, I’m writing a letter to the home office in Virginia to congratulate them on another spectacular show. They come to Canton every year in October. We’ve seen Hamlet, MacBeth, Twelfth Night, Taming of the Shrew, Romeo & Juliet, Comedy of Errors, Mid-Summer’s Night Dream, and more. Plus a few years back they performed Doctor Faustus by Christopher Marlowe, which was equally entertaining. The best thing is that we’ve always brought the kids along. Shakespeare is such a drag in the classroom, but on stage the plays spring to life.
William Michaelian: So many things are a drag in the classroom. Do you know I made it all the way through high school without reading Shakespeare? Now here I am, ignorant as a stump. Oddly enough, though, I read a short article today about two of Shakespeare’s contemporaries, Francis Beaumont and John Fletcher. Apparently they wrote some very popular, witty, and racy stuff. The article said competition for an audience was so heavy that playwrights had to keep outdoing each other to survive. Sounds similar to our current entertainment scene.
John Berbrich: Sounds Darwinian, doesn’t it? I mean, the competition to survive is paralleled by the competition for popularity. Great advances are made while possibly higher forms are eschewed since few understand them. Are higher and lower relative here? Whose scale of value do we utilize? Are the masses always vulgar in their collective taste?
William Michaelian: I don’t know. Maybe it’s just easier to indulge in fluff than in work that questions what we think. And maybe it’s easier to write it and sell it. At the same time, art should be entertaining, even if it’s serious and complex. You were entertained during your recent night out, but what you saw had real content. Look at Ulysses — that crazy book is full of questions and ideas, and yet it’s delightfully entertaining. And Joyce even does well in the sex department. Still, we know how much easier it is for people to go to the movies and watch some trite filth that’s been stamped out of a mould. Or is it mold? I’m forever wondering about those two words. And of course it is all relative. What offended people yesterday makes them laugh today, and vice-versa. And yet it’s all the same stuff, over and over, in different degrees. There are always people who are offended, and people who aren’t. That’s why it was interesting to read about the hullabaloo back in 1611. Four hundred years ago, same subject.
John Berbrich: Fill me in on 1611. I wasn’t around yet.
William Michaelian: Well, it’s pretty sketchy. From what I can make out, 1611 came after 1610, which, as you know, followed 1609. It also preceded 1612. Beyond that, your guess is as good as mine. I wasn’t speaking of any specific hullabaloo, just the simultaneous popularity of, and outrage over, some of Beaumont and Fletcher’s work. The date I pulled out of my hat. I had to, or the wabbit would have eaten it — the wascal. By the way, I’d like to hear your answers to the questions you just asked about the competition for survival and popularity, and the collective taste of the vulgar masses.
John Berbrich: Well, competition in any form is competition — and always one side or the other will win out. And after the fact some critic will tell us exactly why, but the truth is that no one can predict evolutionary changes in our biosphere — it’s all too complicated. The same is true for art. As far as popularity goes, the prevailing notion I believe is to give the people what they want. This goes for all forms of entertainment, not merely “art.” True artists, at least one class of true artists, seem almost demented by particular obsessions. A small percentage of these created obsessions catch on with a segment of the population, an audience is formed, disciples emerge, and we have a new genre. Then critics analyze the antecedents, the sources, the influences. But no one has ever known in advance what will come next. As far as the vulgar masses go, most people don’t like to think very hard and seek their entertainment accordingly.
William Michaelian: Yes, and the result is a multi-billion dollar industry. It’s mind-boggling, especially when you think how many people there are who don’t know where their next meal is coming from. I’m very interested in something else you said, but the time has come to start another new page, so let’s pursue it there, shall we?
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