Get out of your head with "Beachy Head"

In this post I will expand upon a comment that I made on Danny's very articulate revelation.

As I stated before, Smith is trying to communicate that a life driven by the never-ending quest for reason and knowledge is not the happiest life. Happiness for Smith, "An early worshipper at Nature's shrine," is found in the breathing in of one's natural surroundings and in the overwhelming calm of simplicity that is only found, not with questions, but with pure acceptance (l. 346). The peasants she repeatedly refers to are living this life of acceptance, working with the land, giving back as much as they take, and to Smith, this existence, "Rude, and but just remov'd from savage life," is closest to knowing happiness (l. 207).

Smith knocks those who worship philosophy as some path to salvation with some rather scathing lines: "These are the toys of Nature; and her sport / Of little estimate in Reason's eye: / And they who reason, with abhorrence see / Man, for such gaudes and baubles, violate / The sacred freedom of his fellow man" (ll. 55-59). Yet she does not leave her and her fellow poets fully blame free, she even expresses that art's attempts to recreate the overpowering force of nature's fortuitous beauty are futile: "Ah! hills so early loved!... I breathe your pure keen air; and still behold / those wildly spreading views, mocking alike / The Poet and the Painter's utmost art" (ll. 368-371). She too only knew happiness as a girl who traipsed along downy turf and played in the gay colors of nature; no matter how she tries poetically (and does she try ie. every descriptive line of this poem) to illustrate the feeling that comes with being apart of nature, she will never fully be able to.

I was then led to think about Wordsworth's claim that real life is inevitably more beautiful, closer to actualized beauty, than poetry (although he later turns this around). Reworded with Smith's twist, living life in full acceptance of the ways of nature is more real, therefore more valuable than writing, philosophizing, or questioning life. That is hard to accept, considering that we as humans possess the sometimes irrational urge to question everything. I think Smith may have made a valid point that "More happy is the hind, / Who, with his own hands rears on some black moor," and "Yet they are happy, who have never ask'd / What good or evil means," but in making these comments, intentionally ignored an integral aspect of humanity in these people (ll. 193-194, 259-260). As we just discussed in class, these peasants also are subject to the same natural human inclination to question, so they too will never fully be able to resolve themselves to nature. Our ability to pontificate philosophic macro-views (thanks Janelle for the awesome wordage) will never completely surrender to, nor comprehend the minutiae and indiscriminate core of nature.

The Simple Life - doesn't it look grand?

I must confess that I came to this course as a cynic, as a smug and arrogant, somewhat close-minded literary critic who held the view, as most would, that the Romantics were a bunch of flowery, highfalutin, willy-nilly writers who loved nature to an unhealthy degree. Ignorance and literary blasphemy on my part? Yes and no. My “yes” doesn’t deserve an explanation, for I rightly assume that the brilliant students reading this post know exactly who the Romantics are. However, my “no,” of course, deserves an explanation, a pretty damn good one at that. My stance on literature was closely aligned with the two chief theorists of the New Novel—Alain Robbe-Grillet and Nathalie Sarraute. I, as these theorists, believed that any attempt to control the world by assigning it a meaning is no longer possible, and the idea of human depth should be rejected. I was a child of the Enlightenment; I was an uncompromising, militant rationalist. Reason was the highest good—no questions asked. Here was my quick rule of thumb: if anything opposed reason, it should be mocked, jeered and sneered at, ultimately—not taken seriously. It seems comical now, but the only writers I took seriously were the existentialists. So, I ask: how do you think an individual with an almost infinite appetite for such brutish rationalism think of the Romantics? Not too favorably. Why the change of heart? Only a few but forceful words: The Philosophy of Imagination. It’s the philosophy of animate ideas and unrestrained creativity. In my opinion, Blake writes under this philosophy in “The Marriage of Heaven and Hell.”

As a writer, I’ve been trained to write with economy, brevity, and clarity. And it should come as no surprise that most non-fiction is written in this style. Reading and writing in this manner has shortened my patience for complex, difficult writing with no apparent structure in sight. It has, to say the least, deadened my analytical skills. Mix this with my strict rationalism and you have a literary impoverished combination. Everyone has trouble reading Blake, even scholars (given the creation of his own theology, mysticism, and philosophy, and throwing that on top of biblical theology and other philosophy), but I was having trouble with him beyond imagination. His words, images, and meanings were impalpable, almost non-existent to me. But in class, when I witnessed my professor and my fellow students analyzing “The Marriage of Heaven and Hell,” an analytical self awakened within me, one who loved animate ideas and unrestrained creativity, and one who did not find outlandish spiritual ideas laughable—but beautiful. I had begun to mentally participate in the reading. At once, I forgot how rewarding it was to surgically dissect a poem full of imagination. Oh, the ideas: the Hegelian dialectic, the Miltonian references, the Kantian sublimity. Absolutely beautiful.

Man’s perception is less than acceptable. Unfortunately, his imprisoned senses only allow him to see imitations, never originals. Blake wants to do Man a favor by seeking the original and introducing the “new” to him in order to shock him out of his reality. According to Blake, Man is not only a sense-imprisoned being, but also a source of contraries, institutionalized religion, socially imposed forces, and alterable perception. To combat this, he elects to bring religion, divinity, and unalterable perception of a god figure to the level of Man. Although Man seems hopeless at first glance, an unlikely hero close to Man can help--the child. Given their innocence, children are Blake’s best audience. Unlike adults, they are not shocked into paralysis by the “new.” Rather, they are shocked into motion, for they possess ever-expanding energy, imagination, and a malleable mind. Reform is possible for them since everything hasn’t been imprisoned yet. The child becomes the main image for Blake—an essential role-model for Man. There’s a problem, though. Children cannot put their abilities into reasonable use. But Man can. Thus, Blake writes “The Marriage of Heaven and Hell” to shock man into an intellectual reform.

The title of the poem tells all. The marriage of Heaven and Hell must be initiated by Hell alone since Heaven is unalterable and unchangeable. This statement needs a bit of explaining. Archetypally, Heaven and Hell are polar opposites, a perfect example of opposing forces. In Milton’s epic, Lucifer loses paradise, in other words--Heaven. He doesn’t function by opposing forces as humans, so he is capable of attaining the godhead. But God denies his arrogant grab at the celestial throne and casts him out. As a result, Hell becomes a means for change, a means for progression. Thus, hell is alterable and changeable, becoming a dynamic prototype that Man can perceive. At a time of revolution, everyone wants change. And since Heaven cannot change, it becomes an evil and a weakened entity for people. In typical Blake fashion, he inverts the picture and has Hell write proverbs instead of Heaven. And Man is damned for believing that these proverbs contain great insight. Man’s perception of Hell does not suggest that his world is full of demons. Rather, his world is full of energy, capability, possibility, and change. Blake uses the bible as a work of literature, playing with the contraries (He even takes the idea of correspondences and equilibrium and flips them into contraries). In everyday life, Man thinks contradictions are flaws, logical fallacies. But what about existential contradictions? Blake doesn’t think contradictions are flaws at all. Such a position can cause confusion, but it is Blake’s job as the poetic genius to bring Man out of this confusion and reveal what is hidden beneath.

According to Kantian sublimity, Man can understand that reason is bounded and limited with the help of his imagination. However, imagination’s most important utility is to see that imagination is limited itself. Imagination can see its own limitations, which is the bound of reason. Blake seeks to point out the bounds of reason by giving us the original instead of an imitation like Swedenborg would give. Blake’s poem allowed me to transcend my bias for rationalism alone and appreciate the idea that reason and imagination should exist in harmony. This brief and quaint aphorism should prevail: Reason without imagination is a tragedy.

I went to the park to be inspired

ON SUNDAY MORNING, I typically rise from bed, lace up my sneakers, and set off swiftly for Audubon Park. As far as I’m concerned, my only intention is to run, to expend the energies I’ve recaptured from the week’s tiresome demand. Yet, many times, I find myself returning from the trip and, even before hopping in the shower to cool off, depositing in my journal a collection of thoughts and images that I gleaned throughout the journey.

For example, on many mornings I have noticed an elder, plump man who, day after day, sits on the same bench, performing on the same violin for, I imagine, no particular audience. There is something beautiful about him, about his actions. Perhaps it is not so much the man’s sweet-sounding music but rather his determination. He is, like the trees and the grass, always there, and that’s what makes him special.

On both sides of the trail are the squirrels, galloping freely across the terrain, and amongst them, I sense not innocence, but mischief. They’re always looking to make a gain for themselves, like artful dodgers. And, as I realize this, and the ways in which they complete the image of the park, the ways in which the park is not the same park without them, I also see how insignificant and meaningless they are, how the world would keep on turning without them. A paradoxical thought, yes, but nonetheless, a thought.

Whenever I reflect on one of my experiences running through Audubon Park, I tend to come to the same resolution: that I find beauty in the park because I’m not looking for beauty; that I notice things of import without trying to.

I realize that, because this is a Romanticism course, it seems, in all likelihood, a commonplace to quote Wordsworth. Thus, I should admit beforehand, although it probably goes without saying, that I have a twofold purpose in doing so:

Enough of Science and of Art;

Close up those barren leaves;

Come forth, and bring with you a heart

That watches and receives

In Wordsworth’s passage, I notice a replication of what our class was asked to do, namely, to suspend the day’s formal work in lieu of a lighthearted stroll through the park. Our goal was simple: to find something worth writing about, to try to be inspired.

So, I complied: I showed up; I walked with an open mind; I observed and gathered whatever details I could; and, at the end of the day, I found that I was in no way inspired, that I had nothing to show for the trip, except, perhaps, an empty water bottle.

And with this realization came another: that, in reality, it’s impossible to look or search for beauty in other things. Instead, things are simply beautiful, and we usually come to know that without the intention of doing so. Anything other than this is a contrivance, a fraud, a deceiving of both ourselves and others.

In sum: I went to the park to be inspired, and therefore couldn’t be. I was looking for beauty, and consequently blinded myself to it.

Walking Tour of Audubon Park

The day of the Audubon Park walking tour wasn’t the most beautiful day, it had been somewhat rainy and the air was damp with humidity, not exactly the weather I had been hoping for going into this assignment. I was walking to the park thinking about the multiple times I’ve been there when its nice and wasn’t exactly inclined to walk around just waiting for the skies to open up. But after I got there and began my walk the park seemed more peaceful on that day then it usually does when I’m there. The times I spend at the park are usually on bright sunny days kicking a soccer ball around or going on a run with my room mate, but last Wednesday while I was there without all the distractions I really got a better sense of what the romantics were inspired by. In the quiet park I noticed things I’ve never noticed before, I felt things I’ve never experienced there before. Instead of focusing on myself like I usually am at the park—having fun with friends or running that last sprint—but this time, my senses were on everything surrounding me, making me feel as if I could sit and think about what innocence is for hours. In the time we were at the park I was able to reject thinking about classes and work that I had to go to later, I could just reflect on what I was seeing. One of the things I noticed while sitting on a bench was the way the ducks swam around in the algae. The algae was so thick you couldn’t see the water but as the ducks swam through they left no trail behind them, I would have thought that they would have left swirls around the water, trails of where they’d been, but after watching it was so clear how nature just is, the algae just let the ducks pass without changing. The way nature can just be without complications reminded me of Wordsworth and how we complicate our lives by just being man, but nature just is by just being nature. The thoughts took me back to Wordsworth’s Lines Written in Early Spring, especially the line, “In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts/ Bring sad thoughts to mind.” When I first read that line I didn’t exactly relate, I simply was thinking how when I’m happy I’m happy, but after spending time in the park reflecting I could see how frustrating it is to live in our world of chaos when you connect to nature the way Wordsworth does.

Places

A fountain quite hidden at the back of the park, that one day we/you should visit. One night it had the illusion of being filled with water from far away, yet upon closer inspection it was empty. It reads: Given to the Little Children of New Orleans by Sara Lavinia Hyams. MCMXIV . ((Left))

This is the 'Labyrinth," the "Maze," or the "Mayan Mind Maze," where we witnessed the barefooted woman walking slowly, meditatively, through its twists and curves; along its paths. She seemed to have been worshipping or paying homage to the vegetables in the middle (squash, zucchini.. possibly a Fall harvest prayer). Poems surround. ((Right))

I loved the walking tour of Audubon, it is one of my favorite spots in this city. Every time I go I see new things about the park, as cliche as that sounds. It is such a truly enchanting place, I wish I would go more often. I certainly felt like Wordsworth this particular time I was there; englufed by nature and carrying it with me when I went back to the chaotic world. The walk was certianyl like the escape that Wordsworth spoke about in The Prelude; it brought me back to quiet, serene and slow paced life and simple pleasures. There is no fuss with nature; it just is. This made me think back to a major theme of Medieval poetry (from my Medieval Literature class) of just being. This along with Wordsworth's escapism and englufing feelings are what I thought about the entire walk. Nature is to just be to me; to simply live. I feel like with the fast paced world we live in and my own life most definitely, there is little to no time to just be. I can't remember the last time I could simply sit and reflect about anything and everything. The walk in Audubon for me was a chance to stop time and not necessarily do anything. While many had their notebooks out, I chose to just walk, sit and look. Words scribbled on a paper would never capture what I saw or felt; a memory was much better served for me. I wanted to enjoy the walk and not worry about writing things down, what I would write in my blog or anything else in my life. It was escapism at its best. As I walked back to my house after, I still felt this strong connection to the nature that I had just seen and been in and it reminded me of Wordsworth going to the dance and still feeling so overwhelmed by this nature he had been in earlier. It was something I kept with me for awhile after.

This oak

Wordsworth writes in a way that converges past memories and present circumstance to inspire the formation of something new. Memories are tricky in that they poke their head out when you least expect and at times can be quite baffling. I am revisited by a certain smell, a flash of a woman's face, a broken starfish in my childhood hand. The memories themselves don't always mean anything to me until I connect them, as Wordsworth does, to a current situation. Strolling through Audubon Park my eyes are immediately seduced by oaks. Powerful, peaceful, begging for our limbs to be intertwined as I map out which route I would take to climb her. I always examine the best way to climb a tree upon first meeting. Sit. Lay. Close your eyes. This tree becomes every tree I have ascended before, becomes the cuts and bruises of my youth and the hiding places of my adolescence. I am transported back in time, and I can smell the pages of a new book I just purchased and devoured under an oak in City Park so many years ago. I trace the course bark with delicate fingertips, feel the folds of age upon this tree. This is my tree. Right now this tree exists for me and no one else. I image my hair is Spanish moss, my skin dark and brittle, legs extending below the ground. How sturdy, how certain. I think of those who were here before me, sitting under their tree, reclining to their memories. I am reminded that I am human when a sneeze explodes from my lips. I feel my lips, my face, my skin as I have just done to the oak tree. Lying here, outside my body, I am free to lose myself in a sea of daydreams under the constant shade of this live oak.