Monday

Mar. 21, 2011

Excerpts from Ode on Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood

by William Wordsworth

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight
               To me did seem
           Apparelled in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it hath been of yore;--
            Turn wheresoe'er I may,
            By night or day,
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

            The rainbow comes and goes,
            And lovely is the rose;
            The moon doth with delight
     Look round her when the heavens are bare;
            Waters on a starry night
            Are beautiful and fair;
     The sunshine is a glorious birth;
     But yet I know, where'er I go,
That there hath past away a glory from the earth.
...
What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight,
      Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
    We will grieve not, rather find
    Strength in what remains behind;
    In the primal sympathy
    Which having been must ever be;
    In the soothing thoughts that spring
    Out of human suffering;
    In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.

Excerpts from "Ode on Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood" by William Wordsworth. Public domain. (buy now)

It was on this day in 1678 that The London Gazette offered a reward to anyone who could identify the author of a pamphlet containing "seditious and scandalous libels." The pamphlet was written by the Andrew Marvell — during his lifetime, he was known more for his prose writing than his poetry.

The pamphlet was called "An Account of the Growth of Popery and Arbitrary Government in England." It had some nasty caricatures of prominent government officials, and suggested that the King of England was a tyrant who was trying to make the Protestant religion more Catholic. Unsurprisingly, "An Account of the Growth of Popery" was not popular with the government and its sympathizers. The London Gazette offered rewards of 50 pounds to anyone who could identify the publisher, and 100 pounds if someone knew the author. In private circles, the stakes were even higher.

Andrew Marvell had been a member of Parliament since 1659, an outspoken critic of the government, and was known for his prose satires, so there were rumors that he had written the pamphlet. Several people were questioned, and other writers referenced him as the author in their own writings, but no one ever directly accused him. He died in 1678, just five months after the Gazette put out their call for information on the author of the scandalous pamphlets.

After Marvell's death, his housekeeper, Mary Palmer, announced that she was in fact Mary Marvell, his secret wife. As his so-called wife, she was able to keep Marvell's estate together, and she helped publish his writing. Most scholars think that Mary was probably just posing as Marvell's wife in order to protect his estate, but no one knows for sure. Either way, it is Mary we have to thank for publishing the first collection of his poems, Miscellaneous Poems (1681), and establishing Marvell's reputation as a poet. By the 1750s, he was heralded as the "poet laureate of the dissenters."

It's the birthday of a writer who loved the suburbs, Phyllis McGinley, (books by this author) born in Ontario, Oregon (1905). In "Suburbia, To Thee I Sing," she wrote: "Deluded people that we are, we do not realize how mediocre it all seems. We will eat our undistinguished meal, probably without even a cocktail to enliven it. We will drink our coffee at the table, not carry it into the living room. If a husband changes for dinner here it is into old trousers and more comfortable shoes. The children will then go through the childhood routine — complain about their homework, grumble about going to bed, and finally accomplish both ordeals. Perhaps later the Gerard Joneses will drop in. We will talk a great deal of unimportant chatter and compare notes on food prices; will discuss the headlines and disagree. We will all have one highball and the Joneses will leave early. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow the pattern will be repeated. This is Suburbia. But I think that someday people will look back on our Spruce Manor way of life with nostalgia and respect. In a world of terrible extremes it will stand out as the important medium. Suburbia, of thee I sing!"

It's the birthday of the man who said: "Deprivation often makes a writer." That's Ved Mehta, (books by this author) born in Lahore, India (now Pakistan) in 1934. When he was four years old, he contracted a form of meningitis that caused him to go blind. He said: "In India, one of the poorest countries the world has ever known, the lot of the blind was to beg with a walking stick in one hand and an alms bowl in the other. Hindus consider blindness a punishment for sins committed in a previous incarnation." But his father was a doctor who thought that his son should have the same opportunities as everyone else, so he sent him to schools that served blind people. One of these was a school for soldiers who had been recently blinded during World War II, and there, Mehta learned to type. With this new skill, he sent letters to every school he could find in England and the United States, and the Arkansas School for the Blind accepted him.

So he left India at the age of 15, and he ended up getting scholarships and attending Pomona, Oxford, and Harvard. While he was at Harvard, someone offered to introduce him to William Shawn, the editor of The New Yorker. Mehta wasn't really sure what The New Yorker was but he decided to have tea with Shawn, who ended up inviting the 25-year-old to write an article for the magazine. Mehta gave up his fellowship at Harvard to become a staff writer for The New Yorker, where he stayed for almost 35 years.

From the beginning, he was enamored of Shawn, and years later, after his mentor's death, he published Remembering Mr. Shawn's New Yorker (1998), a memoir of his years there. In it, he wrote about Shawn: "I fell completely under the spell of his manner — kind, courtly, respectful, and patient. The editing process was arduous and time-consuming, since there was hardly a paragraph that was not touched. Yet he made our work, which could so easily have degenerated into a power play, intensely pleasurable. All the while, I felt that he was sensitizing me to the force and the importance of each word — to its weight, tone, and texture — and was teaching me new ways not only of writing but also of thinking, feeling, and speaking."

Ved Mehta is the author of many books, including Face to Face (1957), Mahatma Gandhi and His Apostles (1977), and most recently, All For Love (2002), a memoir of sorts about his love affairs with four different women.

He said, "I didn't want to be a blind writer. I wanted to be a writer who is blind."

From the archives:

It's the birthday of Johann Sebastian Bach, born in Eisenach, Germany (1685). He came from a family that had produced musicians for seven generations. Both his parents had died by the time he was 10, so he was taken in by his older brother, a professional organist who taught him to play a variety of keyboard instruments. He attended the local music school, where he sang in the boys' choir, and by the time he was 18 he got his first job as a church organist.

But he often got in trouble for wandering off to nearby towns so that he could hear the performances of other famous organ players. He had a short temper, and once got into a swordfight after calling one of the players in his orchestra a "nanny-goat bassoonist." Members of his congregation were annoyed by his habit of improvising while playing hymns, which made it difficult for people to sing along.

He eventually left his first job and spent several years traveling around Germany, giving performances and winning competitions. Bach spent several years as the court organist at Weimar. When he decided he wasn't happy and tried to resign, the Duke had him thrown into prison for four weeks. He eventually moved to Leipzig, where he worked as the city's director of church music for the rest of his life, and where he composed most of his major works.

Bach earned a decent living in Leipzig, but he had a grueling workload. He had to write a cantata every month, so to get ahead of the deadlines, he wrote one every week for the first two years. In addition to serving as organist and musical director at church services, he had to teach a boys' class in Latin and music, and he was frustrated by the undisciplined students and inexperienced musicians.

Despite all his difficulties, he managed to compose some great works of music, including The Passion According to St. John (1723), The Passion According to St. Matthew (1729), Mass in B minor (1733), and the Goldberg Variations (1742). He was composing baroque music just as baroque music was going out of style, and people considered him hopelessly old-fashioned. When he died in 1750, he was hailed as a great virtuoso on the organ but not a great composer.

In 1829, the composer Felix Mendelssohn staged a revival performance of The Passion According to St. Matthew, and Bach finally began to be appreciated. Later, Robert Schumann helped to publish Bach's complete works, and people realized that even the stylistic exercises he wrote for his music students were masterpieces.

Johann Sebastian Bach said, "Music ... should have no other end and aim than the glory of God and the recreation of the soul; where this is not kept in mind there is no true music, but only an infernal clamor and ranting."

And, "There's nothing remarkable about it. All one has to do is hit the right keys at the right time and the instrument plays itself."

Be well, do good work, and keep in touch.®

 









«

»

  • “Writers end up writing stories—or rather, stories' shadows—and they're grateful if they can, but it is not enough. Nothing the writer can do is ever enough” —Joy Williams
  • “I want to live other lives. I've never quite believed that one chance is all I get. Writing is my way of making other chances.” —Anne Tyler
  • “Writing is a performance, like singing an aria or dancing a jig” —Stephen Greenblatt
  • “All good writing is swimming under water and holding your breath.” —F. Scott Fitzgerald
  • “Good writing is always about things that are important to you, things that are scary to you, things that eat you up.” —John Edgar Wideman
  • “In certain ways writing is a form of prayer.” —Denise Levertov
  • “Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia.” —E.L. Doctorow
  • “Writing is like driving at night in the fog. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.” —E.L. Doctorow
  • “Let's face it, writing is hell.” —William Styron
  • “A writer is someone for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.” —Thomas Mann
  • “Writing is 90 percent procrastination: reading magazines, eating cereal out of the box, watching infomercials.” —Paul Rudnick
  • “Writing is a failure. Writing is not only useless, it's spoiled paper.” —Padget Powell
  • “Writing is very hard work and knowing what you're doing the whole time.” —Shelby Foote
  • “I think all writing is a disease. You can't stop it.” —William Carlos Williams
  • “Writing is like getting married. One should never commit oneself until one is amazed at one's luck.” —Iris Murdoch
  • “The less conscious one is of being ‘a writer,’ the better the writing.” —Pico Iyer
  • “Writing is…that oddest of anomalies: an intimate letter to a stranger.” —Pico Iyer
  • “Writing is my dharma.” —Raja Rao
  • “Writing is a combination of intangible creative fantasy and appallingly hard work.” —Anthony Powell
  • “I think writing is, by definition, an optimistic act.” —Michael Cunningham
The Writer's Almanac on Facebook


The Writer's Almanac on Twitter

Subscribe to our daily newsletter for poems, prose and literary history every morning
An interview with Sharon Olds at The Writer's Almanac Bookshelf
Current Faves - Learn more about poets featured frequently on the show
O, What a Luxury

Although he has edited several anthologies of his favorite poems, O, What a Luxury: Verses Lyrical, Vulgar, Pathetic & Profound forges a new path for Garrison Keillor, as a poet of light verse. Purchase O, What a Luxury »