By Christian Wiman
“Blazing excessive sort” is how The long island Times describes the prose of Christian Wiman, the younger editor who remodeled Poetry, the country’s oldest literary magazine.
Ambition and Survival is a suite of stirring own essays and significant prose on a variety of topics: studying Milton in Guatemala, recalling violent episodes of his early life, and touring in Africa along with his eccentric father, in addition to a sequence of penetrating essays on writers as various as Thomas Hardy and Janet Lewis. The e-book concludes with a portrait of Wiman’s prognosis of a unprecedented type of incurable and deadly melanoma, and the way mortality reignited his spiritual passions.
When i used to be 20 years outdated I got down to be a poet. That seems like i used to be a kind of frigate elevating anchor, and in a fashion i suppose i used to be, notwithstanding vulnerable to the lightest of winds. . . . whilst I learn Samuel Johnson’s remark that any younger guy might make amends for his bad schooling by way of examining 5 hours an afternoon for 5 years, that’s precisely what i attempted to do, virtually surroundings a timer each afternoon to enable me be aware of while the little egg of my mind was once boiled. It’s a small miracle that I didn’t take to donning a cape.
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Extra resources for Ambition and survival: becoming a poet
When I knew I was going to get drunk (a person who carries Milton into a jungle is a person who plans his benders) I’d set various objects around its edges in the hope that a kicked can or bottle top might clatter down into that underworld before I did. My first problem was the light. There wasn’t one. I wasn’t accustomed to going to bed as soon as it got dark, and even if I had been the amount of coffee we drank with every meal would have precluded that. I read by candlelight at first, then later—ingeniously, it seemed to me—by a flashlight hanging from a string.
I was still some years away from finding my way into work that would intensify and confuse these elements utterly for me, as well as make me realize how disorienting and disruptive it could be to one’s life to inhabit that confusion for any length of time. But sometime after that morning I began to take the first steps toward formulating my own version of Blake’s distinction, in which I would come to identify the imagination with art and memory with life. I began to see it as a choice, and to wonder if it were one that I, as my immediate and instinctive answer to that woman’s question revealed, had already made.
Always there are secondary casualties, collateral damages inflicted upon whoever happens to be in the way. To love is to really be in the way. Faulkner once famously said that Keats’s “Ode on a Grecian Urn” was worth any number of old ladies, by which he meant that any enduring work of art has a higher value than any human costs its making may have exacted. I can’t agree. If life is art’s price, if imaginative creation is contingent upon, or even just coincident with, the destruction of reality (“They shall have no other benefit of my estate, they have been very undutiful to me”) or the exploitation of reality (“if I could hear of his death, that would be something”), then art, even the greatest art, just isn’t worth it.
Ambition and survival: becoming a poet by Christian Wiman