21.2.07

ΣΑΝ ΣΗΜΕΡΑ : Γ.Χ. ΩΝΤΕΝ

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W. H. Auden(1907-1973)
by Claude J. Summers
Described by Edward Mendelson as "the most inclusive poet of the twentieth century, its most technically skilled, and its most truthful," Auden is the first major poet to incorporate modern psychological insights and paradigms as a natural element of his work and thought. The foremost religious poet of his age, the most variously learned, and the one most preoccupied with existentialism, Auden is also an important love poet.
Although particularly concerned with the relationship of Eros and Agape and characteristically practicing a "poetry of reticence," Auden celebrates erotic love as a significant element in his geography of the heart.
Born into an upper middle-class professional family in York in 1907 and educated at Christ Church College, Oxford, from which he received his B.A. in 1928, Wystan Hugh Auden was the third son of a physician and a nurse, from whom he imbibed scientific, religious, and musical interests and a love of the Norse sagas. Following his graduation, he spent a year in Berlin, where he enjoyed the city's homosexual demimonde and absorbed German culture. He returned to teach in public schools in Scotland and England from 1930 to 1935.
In 1938, he married Erika Mann, daughter of the German novelist Thomas Mann, in order to enable her to obtain a British visa and escape Nazi Germany; the marriage was not consummated. In January 1939, disillusioned with the left-wing politics they had embraced, Auden and his friend and frequent collaborator, Christopher Isherwood, emigrated to the United States.
Settling in New York City, Auden soon fell in love with a precocious eighteen-year-old from Brooklyn, Chester Kallman, with whom he maintained a relationship for the rest of his life, sharing apartments in
New York and, later, summer residences in first Ischia and then Austria. Auden died in Vienna on September 29, 1973.
Auden dominated the British literary scene of the 1930s, quickly emerging as the leading voice of his generation. With the publication of The Orators (1932) and the enlarged edition of Poems (1933), Auden became, by his mid-twenties, firmly established as an important literary presence, the leader of the "Auden Gang" that included Isherwood, Stephen Spender, C. Day Lewis, and Louis MacNeice.
Auden's early poetry breathed an air of revolutionary freshness. In language at once exotic and earthy, alternately banal and elegant, colloquial yet faintly archaic, Auden's verse diagnosed psychic disturbances with an extraordinary resonance. Although most of his early poems have their origins in his personal anxieties, especially those related to his homosexuality and his search for psychic healing, they seemed to voice the fears and uncertainties of his entire generation.
Auden may have initially regarded his gayness as a psychic wound, but he came to see it as a liberating force. In the prose poem "Letter to a Wound" (1932), he writes,
Thanks to you, I have come to see a profound significance in relations I never dreamt of considering before, an old lady's affection for a small dog, the Waterhouses and their retriever, the curious bond between Offal and Snig, the partners in the hardware shop on the front. Even the close-ups in the films no longer disgust nor amuse me. On the contrary, they sometimes make me cry; knowing you has made me understand.
Auden's acceptance of his gayness thus leads him to new insight into the universal impulse to love and enlarges his understanding of all kinds of relationships. At the same time, however, Auden is acutely aware of the limitations of eroticism.
His earliest love poems complain of his lack of sexual success, but his poems from the later 1930s such as "May with its light behaving" lament an emotional isolation that accompanies physical intimacy. In the poem beginning "Easily, my dear, you move," erotic love and feverish political activity are both depicted as expressions of vanity and the desire for power. Auden finally reaches the conclusion that Eros and Agape are interdependent.
Auden's recognition of the interdependence of Eros and Agape is at the heart of perhaps the greatest love poem of the century, the grave and tender "Lullaby" (["Lay your sleeping head"] 1937), which moves so nimbly and with such grace among abstractions evoked so subtly that it may well be regarded as the premiere example of the poet's intellectual lyricism. The luminous moment of fulfillment that the poem celebrates is placed in a context of mutability and decay that poignantly underlines the fragility of a love endangered from within by guilt, promiscuity, and betrayal, and from without by the "pedantic boring cry" of homophobic "fashionable madmen."
Auden's marriage to Kallman was not to prove entirely happy (primarily due to Kallman's promiscuity), but it provided the poet with loving companionship and helped seal the permanence of his self-exile. Auden's first flush of passion for Kallman immediately inspired several poems of fulfilled erotic love, including "The Prophets," "Like a Vocation," "The Riddle," "Law Like Love," and "Heavy Date," in which he tells his lover, "I have / Found myself in you."
Kallman introduced Auden to opera, an interest that would shape the curve of his career. The partners collaborated on several original libretti, including one for Stravinsky's The Rake's Progress (1951), and on translating others.
Auden movingly celebrates his relationship with Kallman in "The Common Life" (1965), which tellingly declares that "every home should be a fortress." Also among Auden's late poems is "Glad," a light but deeply felt account of his relationship with a male hustler, "for a decade now / My bed-visitor, / An unexpected blessing / In a lucky life."
In "Since," a poem probably inspired by his relationship with Kallman, Auden suddenly remembers an August noon thirty years ago and "You as then you were." He juxtaposes the memory of his youthful love-making with an account of the failures of Eros and Agape in the world since then and finds sustenance in the memory: "round your image / there is no fog, and the Earth / can still astonish."
In a remarkable conclusion that bravely faces the issue of aging with unsentimental wit, he concludes, "I at least can learn / to live with obesity / and a little fame." A stunning achievement, "Since" validates the vision of Eros as a life-sustaining experience that can compensate at least in part even for the inevitable failures of Agape.
Auden's homosexuality is also expressed throughout his canon in the camp wit that discerns defensive fun in serious fear, as in the limerick "The Aesthetic Point of View" (1960). Moreover, the humorous self-revelations of the "Shorts" (1960), the "Marginalia" (1969), or "Profile" (1969), as well as the bawdy verse--such as "A Day for a Lay"--circulated among friends, helped establish for Auden a persona that has been particularly influential on younger gay poets, such as James Merrill, Richard Howard, and Howard Moss. In Merrill's series of adventures with the Ouija board, for example, Auden is a ghostly presence, the embodiment of a homosexual artistic sensibility.

3 σχόλια:

  1. Αύριο, Πέμπτη 22 Φεβρ. και ώρα οκτώ παρά τέταρτο το βράδυ, το Αθηναϊκό Κέντρο (Αρχιμήδους 48, Μετς) τιμά την μνήμη του επί επταετία γραμματέα και στενού φίλου του Όντεν, ποιητή Άλαν Άνσεν πέθανε τον Νοέμβρη στην Αθήνα, όπου και ζούσε από το 1958.

    quote: [Settling in New York City, Auden soon fell in love with a precocious eighteen-year-old from Brooklyn, Chester Kallman, with whom he maintained a relationship for the rest of his life..]

    Kαι ο Τσέστερ Κάλμαν (λιμπρετίστας και ποιητής) πέθανε στην Αθήνα, δύο χρόνια μετά τον Όντεν (18 Ιαν.1975).

    The Common Life
    (for Chester Kallman)

    A living-room, the catholic area you
    (Thou, rather) and I may enter
    without knocking, leave without a bow, confronts
    each visitor with a style,

    a secular faith: he compares its dogmas
    with his, and decides whether
    he would like to see more of us. (Spotless rooms
    where nothing's left lying about

    chill me, so do cups used for ash-trays or smeared
    with lip-stick: the homes I warm to,
    though seldom wealthy, always convey a feeling
    of bills being promptly settled

    with cheques that don't bounce.) There's no We at an instant,
    only Thou and I, two regions
    of protestant being which nowhere overlap:
    a room is too small, therefore,

    if its occupants cannot forget at will
    that they are not alone, too big
    if it gives them any excuse in a quarrel
    for raising their voices. What,

    quizzing ours, would Sherlock Holmes infer? Plainly,
    ours is a sitting culture
    in a generation which prefers comfort
    (or is forced to prefer it)

    to command, would rather incline its buttocks
    on a well-upholstered chair
    than the burly back of a slave: a quick glance
    at book-titles would tell him

    that we belong to the clerisy and spend much
    on our food. But could he read
    what our prayers and jokes are about, what creatures
    frighten us most, or what names

    head our roll-call of persons we would least like
    to go to bed with? What draws
    singular lives together in the first place,
    loneliness, lust, ambition,

    or mere convenience, is obvious, why they drop
    or murder one another
    clear enough: how they create, though, a common world
    between them, like Bombelli's

    impossible yet useful numbers, no one
    has yet explained. Still, they do
    manage to forgive impossible behavior,
    to endure by some miracle

    conversational tics and larval habits
    without wincing (were you to die,
    I should miss yours). It's a wonder that neither
    has been butchered by accident,

    or, as lots have, silently vanished into
    History's criminal noise
    unmourned for, but that, after twenty-four years,
    we should sit here in Austria

    as cater-cousins, under the glassy look
    of a Naples Bambino,
    the portrayed regards of Strauss and Stravinsky,
    doing British cross-word puzzles,

    is very odd indeed. I'm glad the builder gave
    our common-room small windows
    through which no observed outsider can observe us:
    every home should be a fortress,

    equipped with all the very latest engines
    for keeping Nature at bay,
    versed in all ancient magic, the arts of quelling
    the Dark Lord and his hungry

    animivorous chimaeras. (Any brute
    can buy a machine in a shop,
    but the sacred spells are secret to the kind,
    and if power is what we wish

    they won't work.) The ogre will come in any case:
    so Joyce has warned us. Howbeit,
    fasting or feasting, we both know this: without
    the Spirit we die, but life

    without the Letter is in the worst of taste,
    and always, though truth and love
    can never really differ, when they seem to,
    the subaltern should be truth.

    1963

    Wystan Hugh Auden



    Ένα ποίημα που έγραψε ο Όντεν στην αρχή της σχέσης του με τον Κάλμαν:

    Slowly we are learning,
    we at least know this much,
    that we have to unlearn
    much that we were taught,
    And are growing chary
    of emphatic dogmas;
    Love like Matter is much
    odder than we thought.

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  2. erva steile mu ena e-mailaki an mporeis, giati de briskw to diko su sto blog su. 8elw na balw ena keimeno su sto BloGR.

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  3. Estupendo Post!!, es bueno recordar a estas grandes personas que nos precedieron y que además han contribuido de una forma tan significativa al mundo de la cultura.

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