Tuesday, July 14, 2009

Good News, from the 19th Century!


It's 1am and I had a revelation. It was revealed to me that I should study late 19th century British novels.

It might seem silly that I am so excited to have chosen a time period and genre on which to focus my studies. But that is what we do here in Englishland. I know it is just as (or more) important to keep reading for those GREs, to keep thinking of critical questions and practicing at criticism, to keep writing that senior project so I can harvest a sample out of it . . . these are all things that will help me get into grad school. But knowing what the hell I want to do might help too. I've known for some time I will be spending a lot of time with theory, that a straight literature track isn't what I'm headed down. However, for my own motivation and my own confidence about what I'm doing with myself and the literature itself, I needed to chose a period and not just a way of thinking about it.

Sure there are other periods I dig. Some that are quite related to the 19th century Brits, like 20th century Brits and Americans. And some that I will have trouble reconciling, like medieval Brits. I desperately and perhaps unnecessarily want to learn Old English. And lets not even get into where the continental dudes fit in. But now I know with near certainty that OE and Beowulf and the like are bound to be more like hobbies than serious work. Being in love with those things will help me teach them better someday. But being completely head over heels for Victorian lady writers will help me write, teach, and publish on them, and all in all make a better "career" out of Englishing.

Now that you've caught a glimpse of the unfocus that was going on in my plans, here's a better picture of the new focus I've found. The particular angle I'm interested in as far as that long, tumultous century goes is the mid- to late-century novel angle. I want to compare the language and style as found in similarly themed novels by men and women.

Before those of you who know how I avoid the cultural studies cry out "Gender studier! Feminist!" let it be known that I am not so much interested in WHY women write differently but HOW they write differently. I don't wish to compare their conditions or income or familial status. Besides, most of the women I would write about had nearly as many comforts and supports as their male counterparts. That's how they got published. I'm more interested in how men and women portray each other, how each paints a picture with that rich palette they both made use of in those days.

This is almost a stylistics angle. I'm not above doing word counts. I have been toying with studying stylistics, but only for literary analysis. Not any of that forensic stuff. I wouldn't get along with the linguists. Before I sound unfocused again let me continue.

This came to me as I was reading (or rather doing some bedtime reflecting on) Middlemarch. Mulling over some of George Eliot's flaws that popped up in chapter 7, I realized I was still totally enthralled with her despite what some critics say, despite what the apologetic introduction writer had to say. I enjoy myself so thoroughly when I read these Victorian gems such as Wuthering Heights, Jane Eyre, and The Well Beloved. Yes, I enjoy reading the men too. Yet somehow the women of the 19th century gained a lead or an advantage over the men. Normally I am in awe of the male genius, in all other time periods and genres. It gives me that anxiety of influence as I both consciously and accidentally mimic it. Maybe that's why this lady-literature of Victoria's age stands out. It's us girls at our best. And it doesn't even make me anxious.

I could read all of these novels over and over, and find so much in every line. I feel like I could never exhaust that dense, filligreed, controlled prose. I wrote about the words themselves last year, after reading Heights and Tess in one day. I admitted I was no student of the Victorian, that I merely loved the language. Now I'm in it for the whole package.

I do have some problems with the word Victorian. It has a lot of connotations of stuffiness and fashionability, and it conjures certain images. Plus I don't see how it's all that helpful this late in the game to define a literary period by a queen's reign. I think Elizabethan means a lot more for literature than "Victorian" ever can. We can sift out the issues and separate threads of culture in the 19th century. It doesn't need quite a blanket-y, political term. But that beef's for another day.

Today I am just incredibly excited to have given myself over to this period and genre, and finally to a body of women's writing that I can truly look up to. My senior project has nothing to do with this and there's no changing it now. I'm writing about the Beats. And the mid 20th century is one of those periods in which I am in awe of the men. However, I feel like knowing my focus for my future academic goals has given me the power to focus for this project as well. I felt like I was getting nowhere after writing two vague proposals for the final paper. I am supposed to be working on a focused one, an outline really, to have ready by the end of July. The good news from the 19th century is that I'm ready to get back to work -- without the unfocus, and without the anxiety.

And all this on the night after Bastille Day, a day that ended the 18th century for some intents and purposes. Oh brave new 19th century that has such novels in't . . . in it!

Tuesday, June 30, 2009

The Literary "Idea," Goethe, and Me


I took up Goethe's Faust again today, summertime style. Last summer I stumbled through a frilly translation that didn't quite stick, then in the fall I tackled Marlowe's Doctor with some success. But according to almost everyone, Goethe seems to be the man to go to for a good Fausty story. So I thought I should give him another go. Today I stuck my feet in the kiddie pool, popped open a beer, and flipped to the yellowed intro pages of a crusty 1963 Walter Kaufmann translation.

Since I haven't made it to the text yet, I want to talk about some fun things that came up in the introduction, the most fun of the things being a critique of that very German quest for ideas and profundity, and how this relates to creating and discussing literature. Both Goethe and Kaufmann have a laugh at their fellow, more-serious Germans, and Kaufmann offers insight and a little twentieth century revision on Goethe's conversations.

There are many excerpts from conversations with Goethe in the intro -- apparently he was such an amazing conversationalist that his friends often wrote down everything he said. Here is one on literary ideas in his work:

"[People] come and ask me what idea I sought to embody in my Faust. As if I myself knew that and could express it! 'From heaven through the world to hell,' one might say in a pinch; but that is no idea but the course of action . . . Indeed, that would have been a fine thing, had I wanted to string such a rich, variegated, and extremely versatile life, as I have represented in Faust, on the meager thread of a single central idea! It was altogether not my manner as a poet to strive for the embodiment of something abstract. I received impressions -- impressions that were sensuous, vital, lovely, motley, hundredfold -- whatever a lively power of imagination offered me; and as a poet I did not have to do anything but round out and inform such visions and impressions artistically, and to present them in such a live manner that others would receive the same impressions when hearing or reading what I offered . . . My opinion is rather this: The more incommensurable and incomprehensible for the understanding a poetic creation may be, the better."

As a long time student of literature who has always been interested in criticism, and as a recent acquaintance with a lot of those profound Germans, I have been wondering the past year or so how all these ideas are supposed to end up in the literature. Are they put there consciously? Most wouldn't think so, but they ask the author (if he or she is alive) about it, just the same. They look to his life and the life of his mind for clues. Are they just "there" in every text? Those critics who stay "within the text" also expect something to sort of magically happen in there; to jump out at them or point to some universal big picture. Why should they think there is something there at all besides what Goethe calls "impressions"?

I love the search for answers and profundity myself (Ha, I love that word "profundity"-- it almost makes fun of itself), and while it would be prudent and wise to continue to analyze criticism from this point of view (to prove to myself it's what I'd like to do maybe?), I want to go a different direction.

Goethe's little mini-speech here is profound in that it is a writer talking about writing, and perhaps no one understands what he is saying here better than another writer. A creative, poetic, imaginative sort of writer that is -- not a critic or a scholar. (Sorry if this hurts the feelings of any academic writers out there, but we all read that stuff in the journals and you can't tell me it's creative or impressionistic!)

So I write these stories and poems, and I never think to myself, "Ah yes this is symbolic of the American Dream" or "How do I make this more like a descent into hell?" Who does that? (Hacks, maybe.) So I can see why Goethe finds it so funny that anyone would ever suspect that writers write to fulfill some profundity quota.

When I write I think "How do I explain this weird guy I saw at the diner?" or "How do I get across the smell of this kitchen?" Whether I write a woman giving birth, a dog chewing a cow pie, or a man eating a taco, I'm concerned with that specific impression that I have of the way that person or thing is, and I'm concerned with adding up the words to equal something like that impression, so that the reader can see the same thing.

I have so much more to say about this but I see it's July now. and I started this thought on June 22. I'll come back for more soon. My own profundity perversion keeps me from publishing in a timely manner.

Thursday, June 11, 2009

Ideas and Shit

Back in April I started a list of ideas, and having only done about two (about) of them, I'll post the rest here to kick myself in the corduroy blog-pants.

Defense of Rock series: Dionysian/Wagnerian music as per the Nietzschean definition of good tunes, rock studies v. theater studies/film studies/etc

Ada Lovelace Apology (I was supposed to write about a woman in technology on Ada Lovelace day, but I am just not enthused about such things. Though I'd really like to write about Ada herself! Lord Byron connection, you know...)

More rock philosophy on: the grand illusion, money

The philosophic background -- philosophy in the curriculum

Academic guilt anonymous

A year of S/Z

Humor in Philosophy

------------------------------------------------------

And for your entertainment (since I am still not productive after the Euro trip) here is a conversation about romance novels and pasta:
10:41pmRobyn

making fun of romance novels came up in todays blog post

10:41pmHenry

I saw that, haven't read the whole thing

10:42pmRobyn

and then when i searched for covers on the net, i found that there all kinds of are people making joke covers

10:42pmHenry

oh those are great

10:42pmRobyn

i wanted a scottish one, and sure enough, there was "For the Love of Scottie McMullet"

10:43pmHenry

HA

10:43pmRobyn

:D :D Made my day

10:44pmHenry

http://worldoflongmire.com/features/romance_novels/

did you see this site?

10:45pmRobyn

Sex train. HA

I found a blog where a girl posted up three real covers that were just as sick

10:46pmHenry

really?

10:47pmRobyn

http://thelitconnection.wordpress.com/2008/02/26/3-cheesy-romance-novel-covers/

heart mate rocks my world

10:48pm>Henry

that's some cat on that cover

10:49pmRobyn

the guy is not even a romance novel cover guy

hes like a math teacher or something

who goes clubbing with his cat on weekends

10:49pmHenry

maybe a D&D nerd

brb

10:50pmRobyn

k. the author of heart mate actually left a comment on the blog and she wasn't mad at all

10:53pmHenry

I completely forgot to start the pasta first :(:(

oh well

10:54pmRobyn

i thought you had the water on already?

10:54pmHenry

it was boiling

just without the pasta

10:54pmRobyn

im sorry, i distracted you with rippling muscles

10:55pmRobyn

im reading an exerpt of heart mate now

it is unbelievably bad

i have read romance novels that were at least funny

this is unreadable

10:56pmHenry

what's the setting?

10:56pmRobyn

there isnt one

10:57pmHenry

I was hoping it would be a math class

10:57pmRobyn

its a burly magical guy rolling a set of dice

he owns a magic shop

or some shit

-------------------------------------------------------------------
The publisher must have read some of the online complaints and laughs about this cover, because they updated it to a close-up of the sinewy tattooed arm of a leather-vested hunk.

Monday, May 18, 2009

Addicted to "Addicted to Love"


I'm gonna have to face it. I'm not addicted to love. I'm addicted to the song.

I recently changed my facebook "music" info to include: "My current guilty pleasure is Robert Palmer." It was important (or intense) enough that I make that change.

My passion is the 1970s. I love sloppy rocking Zepplin. I adore smooth ironic Dan. I go head over heels for over-commercial Boston and their ilk. However, the seventies, no matter where you start, are still so deep!

Sometimes (only sometimes) when I'm station surfing -- because I think the radio is the best way to hear tunes if you've got good stations in your area -- I have a dilemma on my hands (or on my finger). I toggle between some seventies ballad or another on station one and two, and lately, unavoidably, station three offers up some eighties treat that I just can't resist. The draw of the drum machine and the superficial coked-up messages are the exciting alternative to those old seventies tunes that always seem to want to talk about our "relationship."

Maybe I've been spending too much time and effort on the seventies. Maybe we need a breather. No, that can't be! I just need a little eighties action on the side once in a while.

The '80s don't require any effort or thought. The drum machines do the work for me. The synthesizers, now aided by something almost like a computer, punch at just the right time. It's easy and it feels good, so why put all that work into whoever's on the other station?

Robert Palmer knows he is talking to you, and he doesn't care that much about the message he's sending. The keyboard doesn't care whether it's making a pleasing sound. It flatly introduces a soulful voice fronting a "one-track mind." Palmer, always aloof, doesn't admit he's got a personal role in the song until the second verse. It sounds like a condemnation or advice to a friend -- until he mentions "you'll be mine." He's addicted too. That's when things heat up, and someone starts craving "oblivion." Pretty intense for this song. But then we're back to the comfort of synth and completely detached and careless ooooh yeahs. Bridge. WHACK. More detached oooh yeahs. And ride it out on the repetition of that fucking sexy hook!

I don't think I'm going to stop thinking about it (or listening to it) anytime soon. At least not for...a week or so. See 70s? You've really got nothing to worry about! This? Ha, this. It doesn't mean anything.

I admit I can't draw a solid line where the "real" music ends and the cheap thrills begin. There are some '80s outliers that still inspire that '70s romanticism despite their synth-heavy compositions and staccato back-beats. The Talking Heads have immense depth, with an '80s sheen on their ripply surface. The Cars are hangers-on; decade straddlers. These bands fall in line with my true loves of yore. They just look a little blinged out by comparison.

Robert Palmer, however, is the prime example of the kind of eighties music that gives the best of the cheap thrills. There is nothing to be said for his music's depth or lyrical qualities, at least nothing positive about life-changing or society-commentating or otherwise moving capabilities in any of it. The only thing it moves are asses. It snags some unthinking, addictive! part of the brain, that silly part alerts the whole, always-addictive body, and you're stuck listening to repetitive but somehow brilliantly empty music, maybe even for a whole summer.

Ahhh, yeah.

Saturday, May 16, 2009

Library, Sweet Library


I'm at the library. I feel like I belong here.

The people who work here are nice to me. The books are all accessible to me. I have a dollar or so in fines but no one cares that I haven't paid them. There are high ceilings, comfortable chairs, free computers, wifi, and big studying tables in here. They let you sit on the floor. People actually look at each other between the stacks. There are three bike racks and a reading garden outside. A coffee shop in the lobby makes fancy things and gives out free samples. And even if my local library were not so well-funded (like the linoleum-covered, crusty-booked library at school) I would love it just the same, because:

"There is not such a cradle of democracy upon the earth as the Free Public Library, this republic of letters, where neither rank, office, nor wealth receives the slightest consideration."

That's what Carnegie said.

I had a shitty day of bank tellers treating me like crap, yuppies in stores sneering at my clothes or youth or whatever they didn't approve of, administrative ladies talking to me like I'm ten, and gas pumps that didn't like my debit card. I cursed a lot in the car between all of these places.

And now I'm at the library. I'm myself again.

Friday, May 15, 2009

"Supposing that writing exists": My First Derridaversary


During finals week, I promised myself a "reading treat" once all the papers were in. I wasn't gazing and sighing all week at a shelf full of juicy unread novels (there are many of those), nor was I gearing up for the poetry studies I'd planned for long summer nights. For some sick reason I decided my treat was going to be "Signature Event Context."

I have Limited, Inc. (the Derrida book out of which SEC is a chapter) sitting with all my hard-to-read books on a single long shelf. Because of their concentrated menacing presence, and my concentrated menacing workload, I haven't pulled any of them out since last summer. But my philosophy professor gave the class a thin Derrida packet. "You have this already," he tells me. I took one anyway, because I thought this was just the opportunity to ease myself into reading the hard-to-read books again, and to make that area of the bookshelf populated by poststructuralists, semioticians, and philosopher-critics look as friendly and inviting as it did last year.

So here I am again stumbling over parentheses and em dashes and coined words. Don't ask me why I let his orthography get in the way of his meaning. It's just what I notice when I first jump in.

I started reading Derrida a year ago, not because of deconstruction, his most well-known claim to fame, but because of something related to deconstruction yet much more specific -- the speech/writing hierarchy. Of course from the get-go I was on Derrida's side, the "Yo speech! Writin' ain't yo bitch no mo!" side. I honestly can't remember how I came across that problem (I'm fairly certain in wasn't in those exact words), but I remember once I knew someone was writing about it I was enamored. I got a pile of Derrida off of Amazon and began skimming this and that, not committing to reading anything in particular because I instantly saw how turgid it was. After a visit with my philo prof, we decided that if speech/writing was my thing, that I should read Plato's Phaedrus and then Derrida's reading of the Phaedrus, "Plato's Pharmacy."

Several months and a few boxes of post-it flags later, I'd nearly conquered reading Derrida. But not without the help of two books on how to read Derrida, and another book that's really a transcript of his talk at Villanova in 1994 called "Deconstruction in a Nutshell"(as if reading him talking is any easier than reading him writing, speech/writing hierarchy beefs aside). If they had published a Derrida for Dummies, I might have gotten that too. But now I think that would void part of the purpose of reading Derrida. And I don't think anyone who really appreciates him would ever write such a thing.

This was the first time I'd read something that I needed to read more than once, something I couldn't read right before bed, or right before class. Granted, I hadn't taken any upper level philosophy yet, and now I know there are many things that must be re-read. (My other buddy Barthes tells us "A first reading is to remind us of what we know. Re-reading is to show us what we don't know.") But even after reading modern Germans like Heidegger and Adorno, and hundreds of pages of long-winded old guys like Hegel, Derrida still wins the turgidity prize.

(Don't get me wrong about my liking difficult writing and reading -- it only works when it's part of the process of the meaning transfer or semiolinguistic communication or whatever moniker floats your boat. It does not work when you are trying to communicate something that's actually pretty simple to the general population -- then it just looks like a cover-up or like the Dr. hired to do the writing must have defended his or her sloppily written dissertation by simply befuddling the committee. Please see my "A Tour of Corporate Speak" from last year. Similarly, language that is too transparent can cause too many problems to get into here.)

I remember going chapter by chapter through "Plato's Pharmacy" and getting very excited when things started to click. I read each chapter three times before moving to the next one. Notes in pencil because I knew what I thought was important might not really be that important. That was my system. Little did I know my devotion to these complicated pages would lead to a period of isolation and lack of personal direction.

My confidence increased, I went online to buy more used books (more purposeful buying, less willy-nilly), and I noticed a bunch of them were coming from the same guy. I ventured to ask a question about Derrida (assuming he'd read all these things), and after making me apologize for bringing up such an intellectual sore spot with him, he told me what he understood about Derrida, which wasn't much more than I understood so far, in several lecture-ish emails. He was getting rid of all his books because he had quit grad school in English. He didn't have much else to say, so after clearing his shelves of the literature he no longer had any use for, I returned to my lonely studies and conversed instead with the post-it flags for the remainder of the summer.

When school started again in the fall, I told some of my English professors what I'd been reading. They all gagged. Even a philosophy professor said to me, "Derrida!? I've read two or three of his words..." And with regard to my senior project that I'd hoped to do on Derrida, I was respectfully directed away from dark waters of decon, and led into the safety zone of more purely literary topics. Considering my own doubts at understanding the material, and the nearly palpable waters of complex thought closing over my head, I climbed onto the literary lifeboat I'd been offered and redirected my project entirely.

A year later, as I work on that completely over-hauled project (now something having to do with American mythologies in literature informed by Barthes' Mythologies -- won't get into it here, and you can tell how non-committal I am) I think I really could now handle the kind of rigorous thinking and writing that my original speech/writing topic would have required. I'm not upset though, as producing a more literary writing sample is probably a good thing. I just don't want to leave that first project idea behind.

Though I still struggle with this kind of stuff, I get a sort of sick pleasure out of it too. I once offered up the term "word pervert" which my friend Henry latched onto, and then he painted a verbal picture of us word pervs as greasy library lurkers trading enseamed volumes under back-corner desks. It hasn't gotten to that point for me, but Derrida has definitely perverted my brain just a little.

And today, in reading "Signature Event Context" I'm reliving the pain and excitement of understanding (sometimes after only two readings, but three is safer), and I'm enjoying the deconstruction of the speech/writing problematic again. After a semester of linguistics, reading Habermas on universal pragmatics, and dealing with contradictions in how I think about writing and speech outside of literature (particularly in politics and history), I've got a whole new model of what a "discourse" looks like. In light of these new and varied tools for thinking about words and meanings (and now, contexts), I am excited to visit that mentally blocked off portion of the bookcase and see what I might find there with a different eye.

In Europe next week I hope to find some Derrida in French to liven up the book pile (or perhaps make it even more frightening).

It just seems very silly looking back on this past year (Has it only been a year?/Jesus it's been a whole year!) since I got so excited about Derrida. Silly because it was love-at-first-read simply because he's another person who supposes that writing exists.

Sunday, May 10, 2009

Comfortably, Wordsworth


While doing some menial task at work -- a spreadsheet I think -- and listening to some music on headphones, I was stunned into consciousness by an unexpected association between what I was hearing and what I'd been reading.

"Comfortably Numb" had lulled me into this place of (perceived) clarity when, suddenly, during the second chorus, as Waters sang "When I was a child I caught a fleeting glimpse" I heard an echo of Wordsworth's question: "Whither has fled that visionary gleam?" It didn't seem a coincidence or a loose association. I thought there must be a reason for it.

After comparing the lyrics to "Ode: Intimations of Immortality," I decided that the themes of "Numb" and "Ode" are but one theme. It is not a theme that hasn't been repeated elsewhere, nor was Wordsworth the first to explore it. But parallels in the lyrics and the poem still seemed significant.

Wordsworth's observations about the "prison-house" and "yoke" of adulthood reflect an early sort of cynicism, which would be fully developed by the time rock musicians were writing reflectively. Wordsworth's little bit of jadedness, however, is tempered throughout the poem by his period fascination with the positive effects of nature on the soul, and nearly sentimental (but never giving over completely to sentimentality in Wordsworth) dwelling on the joys of youth. Pink Floyd carries out the life-cynicism without as much of an attempt to overcome it (Wordsworth repeatedly calls himself back to the beauty of the day, and chides himself for disgracing it with sadness) -- we don't expect Wordsworth's positivity in post-modernity, even with qualifications.

To further the association, Wordsworth's romantically rhythmic and rhymed lines seemed to match the cadence and mood of "Numb." In other well-known poems he often employed a blank verse that trailed on in natural speech patterns ("Tintern Abbey," The Prelude), instead of this anisometric verse with varied line lengths. The choice to use rhyme in "Ode" lends a song-like quality to it. In fact it was set to music several times before Waters and Gilmour got the idea (Waters actually wrote the lyrics and gave Gilmour feedback on the music).

Before I get into the line by line comparisons, I want to note one major difference between the poem and the song. Waters uses a sort of dialog to unfold the story. The first voice we hear, the semi-whispering deceptively friendly voice, is the antagonist (a doctor?) and the second voice -- high and mellow, accompanied by synth strings -- that begins with the first chorus is our speaker. The doctor (society? adulthood?) interviews the speaker who has begun to feel the emptiness of life ("Hello, is there anybody in there?") and of forgetting. When asked "where it hurts" and the speaker realizes he does not actually have any pain, just a numbness (the same thing?), the doctor ensures that the numbness will continue, and at a level where no doubts or memories can creep to the surface. As the doctor does his work ("Ok. Just a little pinprick.") the speaker desperately tries to remember what childhood meant to him, and who he was before the numbness set in, but he "can't explain it" and the doctor "would not understand" anyway. The speaker, unable to express himself, gives up and gives over to the comfort of numbness, and the song ends with his pain never having been felt ("There is no pain") and his exploration of the origins of his numbness incomplete. He is an ironic tragic hero, who faces an end very different from death, and faces it without anything like valiance.

I know "doctor" is too literal of an explication for what's going on in these lyrics but for the sake of explaining the dialog, I cast a person for the part.

Wordsworth does not carry on a dialog with anyone but himself. He also does not necessarily lay the blame for the "forgetting" outside of himself. For Wordsworth, the forgetting is a natural process and a spiritual maturing that is to be expected. The "trailing clouds of glory"(line 65) we bring with us from heaven are sure to dissolve as the sun rises on adulthood, and though youth's "vision splendid" (line 74) will "fade to the common light of day" (line 77), it brings a sadness and a loss, but not tragedy. Wordsworth ends the poem on a somewhat optimistic (but still poignant) note in fact, because, as he suggests throughout the ode, a child is the "best philosopher," but the wisdom of adulthood brings out a new sort of philosopher in the man, a "philosophic mind" (line 191) (rather than soul?) with a new view "that looks through death" (line 190), and can appreciate the beauty and ephemerality of everything the joy-drinking child takes for granted.

Despite this difference in format, the thematic similarities remain, as well as some very close textual similarities. Some lines I found strikingly close (Wordsworth in green, Floyd in pink, of course) are listed here with explanation. Some are repeated, as Waters' much shorter lyrics match up with several lines in the long "Ode," and sometimes, conversely, whole "stanzas" of the song are explorations of a line in the poem.

These are the lines that woke me from work-stupor:

"Where is it now the glory and the dream?" (line 59)
"The child is grown, the dream is gone."

The above lines encapsulate the theme the two works share. I scribbled on a yellow legal pad "Comfortably Numb....Intimations!?"

The below lines show Waters elaborating on an idea that Wordsworth danced around.

"Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting" (line 59)
and "The things which I have seen I now can see no more." (line 9)
"When I was a child I caught a fleeting glimpse out of the corner of my eye. When I turned to look it was gone. I cannot put my finger on it now."

The forgetting seems to be an important notion, but it fades away in the poem. Waters' speaker seems to struggle with this more than Wordsworth does. He desperately tries to recall the vision, to articulate what has gone missing. The message of the "Ode" is the same as the message of "Numb," insofar as the vision is something the child takes for granted or never looks at full-on. Once he gains the self-consciousness to look for the source of the vision, it moves away from him. But Wordsworth shows the ramifications of all this indirectly, and keeps calling his own attention back to the May day, making himself delight in the children he is observing rather than deal with his loss and forgetting on a personal level.

I picture Wordsworth on a green hill shaking his head at the view and the kids. "Mmm-mmm. Isn't that something. You can never go back to it." I picture Waters' speaker on a cold metal table waffling between misery and acceptance, desperate to cry out but muted by forgetfulness and an inability to articulate what there are no words for (though Wordsworth did his best to find substitutes) in the language of Man. The word I keep returning to for "Numb" is "desperate." Wordsworth is not desperate, only contemplative. Or if he is desperate, he hides it well.


"The homely nurse doth all she can/To make her foster-child, her Inmate Man/Forget the glories he hath known" (lines 82-4)
"Well I can ease your pain, get you on your feet again."
and all the doctoring lines about fixing him up

The above lines make reference to the forces and niceties of the Earth that keep us in line, keep us accepting of the numbness and of the trappings of adulthood. This is a far bigger fish to fry for Waters' twentieth century speaker than it was for Wordsworth, who was lulled into numbness by the "meanest" things in nature! This bigger conflict for Waters' speaker would explain the dialogic framework (them v. me) of the Pink Floyd song and the locus of the pain/numbess being outside of the Man.

"To me alone there came a thought of grief"
(line 22)
"Now I've got that feeling once again...I can't explain, you would not understand."

The above lines show that both speakers are outsiders. They are alone in their feeling grief at this situation that faces every man. Wordsworth is sure no one else beholding that pastoral scene has any unrest in his heart. Waters' speaker is sure the doctor could not understand what he is yearning for, even if he could explain it.

Didn't find a direct match in Wordsworth, but this line kills me!
"When I was a child I had a fever. My hands felt just like two balloons."


There are quite a few lines in "Ode" having to do with the child's light-infused vision of the world, his fresh and dazzling perspective on sunsets, lambs, mothers, everything. I think the word "fever
" catches my eye in the Floyd line; the fever being the altered vision, the heat and energy of youth. It could be both Wordsworth's fever and an actual childhood fever, giving it a place in Water's speaker's mind where it would be vividly remembered, so that it calls him back to his childlike way of seeing. The balloons are hard to figure -- but I think they are a distinctly child-like interpretation of a physical sensation. Also, it is a comforting thing for a feverish child to have such happy thoughts -- his perception of his body's changes in sickness remind him of balloons, rather than frightening him. All he has to judge the situation by are "fragment[s] of his dream of human life" (line 92).

"The little actor cons another part"
(line 103)
"As if his whole vocation/Were endless imitation." (lines 107-8)
"Both of them speak of something that is gone" (line 54)
"This is not how I am."

The above lines show the speakers struggling with who they are at that moment. Waters' speaker remembers his childhood self, and denies the man he has become. Wordsworth, lost in brief reflection on trees and flowers, is brought back to his speculations in line 54 because of he way a tree and a field refuse to interact with him the same as they had in his youth. He is in limbo between his selves. Lines 103 and 107-8 are Wordsworth's description of a child growing up, as he learns by imitation. However, many critics have wondered at this entire stanza on the child growing up, and some call it superfluous (See Cleanth Brooks, "Wordsworth and the Paradox of the Imagination"). These last lines add ambiguity to the poem, because the adult-making process is described differently than elsewhere. Could it be that the little boy who learns to play his part becomes a man who is always merely playing? Wordsworth wonders what Waters' speaker states without question: "IS this how I am?"

"Whither has fled that visionary gleam?" (line 58)
"And custom lie upon thee [me] with a weight/Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!" (132-3)
"At length the Man perceives it die away/And fade into the light of common day."
(lines 76-7)
"I have become comfortably numb."

The above Wordsworth lines and many, many more can be summed up by Waters' ingenious title-giving phrase, "comfortably numb."

Perhaps, is the below line the key to Wordsworth's actual suffering, which he manages to hide better than Waters' speaker?

"A timely utterance gave that thought [of grief] relief,/And again I am strong."
(lines 23-4)
"Just a little pinprick...I do believe it's working, good. That'll keep you going for the show."

Whereas this renewed strength may be a kind of denial for Wordsworth, Waters acknowledges the pain/numbness as something he has succumbed to, and that the pure numbness he gets a shot of is (like Wordsworth's shot of strength from a jangling tambor) merely to keep him operating as a human. Despite his doubts and fears, the show must go on. Again Waters presents a far more cynical approach to "the show" than Wordsworth many have even been capable of. The angriest Wordsworth gets at society is when he complains of "custom."

The above lines also call us back to the aforementioned lines about the "little actor."

Finally, there is no direct and meaningful correllation here, but I find the below lines to be imagistically similar.

"Though far inland we be/Our souls have sight of that Immortal sea...And see the children sport upon the shore/And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore."
(lines 167-172)
"A distant ship's smoke on the horizon. You are only coming through in waves. You lips move but I can't hear what you're saying."


Wordsworth has inspired two centuries of poets and artists, and I think we can count Pink Floyd among them. It is not only amazing to see what Waters may have borrowed from this epic theme done Wordsworth style, but to see how the song can even illuminate a poem that was written over 170 years before anyone ever got stoned to The Wall.

P.S. In case you thought I missed a line, I'll tell you I could probably write a whole new entry just on "You are receding." But I'll save that for later. (That's why I didn't open that can of worms during the comparison.)