Reading Proust Backwards: Anne Carson at the Geffen
Michael Ondaatje describes her as “The most exciting poet writing in English today.” Susan Sontag admits that if she sees something of hers in a magazine, she “buy[s] it automatically.” Hers is a “new kind of poetry” according to Booklist. It is at once modern but steeped in the classics; experimental yet learned; avant-garde with permission from Sappho, Aeschylus, and Aristophanes. Anti-tradition cloaked in archetypes of the Greek masters. Carson’s impressive resume includes essayist, translator, teacher of classics and comparative literature. She has received the Lannan Literary Award, the Pushcart Prize, a Guggenheim Fellowship, a MacArthur Genius Fellowship, the Griffin Poetry Prize for Men in the Off Hours (Knopf) and the T.S. Eliot Prize for The Beauty of the Husband (Knopf)
First introduced to her work by Terry Wolverton ten years ago, I first read Autobiography of Red: A Novel in Verse (Knopf) and was initially turned off by the extensive notes on Stesichorus and his original poem that the book is based on. I skimmed, skipped, and then arrived at the actual narrative. When finished, I urged every poet I knew to read it. Carson’s imagery tore at my insides, made me writhe in my seat. Such imagination, such unabashed bravado in her metaphors, but they worked! And they were always relevant to the narrative, the adolescent love story of two boys, one representing Herakles, the other the monster Geryon with red wings hidden inside his long coat.
I waited almost a decade to finally meet Carson, so when Red Hen Press produced the Poets Move Language series at the Geffen Playhouse on February 28, and her name was on the ticket, I was ecstatic, digging up every book I had bought, even purchasing Glass, Irony and God, again, in a panic, forgetting that I had packed it away in the middle of a move. Peggy Shumacher was also on the bill, reading from her new book Just Breathe Normally (University Press). The conversation was moderated by Elena Karina Byrne, who had the difficult task of interviewing Carson, a reluctant subject at best. When asked, “How did you decide to subvert the voice in your work?” Carson’s response was at once poetic and flippant. “The self is not the same that writes [the poems]….like doing an autopsy on yourself. That’s why I don’t do interviews.” Byrne’s questions were met with questions, as Carson appeared dismissive, confused, or simply unwilling. While Byrne remained professional and plugged away with optimistic curiosity, Carson seemed aloof, her wariness giving way to exasperation. I wasn’t sure if she was simply shy and awkward or arrogant. It was an uncomfortable exchange.
Blessedly,
