Why did the maid weep?

Having just returned from my annual Dinner and Christmas Shopping Trip with Lily (I have such a evening with each of the young’ins on a yearly basis), I was about to settle down with the book I am currently reading, but Said Book, while having a content which is inherently interesting, has a that sort of Prose style which causes a new set of one’s brain cells to scream out in death throes with each passing page. (I hear you, Dear Reader, snickering.  No, it is not an economics book.)  I’ll review that book at a later date if the race between my remaining living brain cells and the remaining pages in the book results in a victory for a subset of the former.  But, tonight, I am too tired to read that book, so I figured I might as well write up a review of a book (or more properly a pair of books) which resuscitates dying little grey cells.  (Note, the British spelling of the colour is due to the presence of Dame Agatha on my stack of books awaiting review.)

The tome worth reading:

Stephen Crane, The Black Riders

I’ll also note right away that I have also been reading Crane’s War is Kind and much of what follows applies to that book as well, but the first volume is manifestly superior to the second.  So, if you are going to read one (and you should)—read The Black Riders.

These are books of poetry.  Until a few months ago, I knew very little about Crane’s poetry, but a New Criterion review of a recently published anthology of Crane’s verse (edited by one of MHC’s Own) induced me to purchase the Library of America’s Crane anthology of Prose and Poetry.  I am really glad I did.  The poetry is incredible.  Absolutely incredible.

The poems are all tiny little bits which explode when one starts to pay attention to them.  They are short, very short.  Indeed, they tend to read more like apothegms than Shakespearean sonnets.  At first, they seem just odd or offbeat or disturbing, and then they slowly work their way into the conscious mind revealing themselves as a startling manner of phrasing a Truth, usually about human nature.

Now all of that bit in the last paragraph, let’s face it, just reads like babbling.  So, here is an example:

            A man feared that he might find an assassin;

            Another that he might find a victim.

            One was more wise than the other.

(That’s the whole poem—not just a part of it.  Its number LVI in The Black Riders.)

So, thinking about that poem, which one is the wiser?  It’s obvious that the first is the wiser—after all, being killed is worse than killing someone, right?   But, just as the mind gets set to hasten on to the next poem, it stops.  Why is the assassin afraid of finding a victim?  And, then the poem explodes.  Why be afraid of finding an assassin?  What are the odds of that?  Ah, but on the other hand, how easy is it to find a victim?  And one suddenly hears Paul:

And just as they did not see fit to acknowledge God any longer, God gave them over to a depraved mind, to do those things which are not proper, being filled with all unrighteousness, wickedness, greed, evil; full of envy, murder, strife, deceit, malice; they are gossips, slanderers, haters of God, insolent, arrogant, boastful, inventors of evil, disobedient to parents, without understanding, untrustworthy, unloving, unmerciful; and although they know the ordinance of God, that those who practice such things are worthy of death, they not only do the same, but also give hearty approval to those who practice them.  (Romans 1:28-32, NASB)

 

Who is wiser? The one who sees his own depravity.  He is always in danger of acting according to his nature.  And not “He” in that last sentence.  Me.  And, You.

Crane does this in poem after poem.  The poem looks simple, but it isn’t.

One of the poems in this collection has been forever stamped with a unique and rather odd mental association because of the circumstances in which I discovered Crane’s poetry.  The aforementioned editor of the volume of poetry which was being reviewed in the essay I read is currently the Dean of Faculty at MHC.  (I didn’t actually buy the volume he edited, by the way—I wanted to get all the prose too, so I bought the longer LOA volume.  Sorry, Chris.)  (But, on the other hand, for the rest of you—if you are looking for a great Christmas gift for someone who likes poetry, get the Library of America volume of Crane’s poetry—not the one I bought, but the one Chris edited.)   Anyway, poem number V begins with a man in the first line—that man will forever be Chris acting as Dean of Faculty standing in front of a Faculty Meeting:

Once there came a man
Who said,
"Range me all men of the world in rows."
And instantly
There was terrific clamour among the people
Against being ranged in rows.
There was a loud quarrel, world-wide.
It endured for ages;
And blood was shed
By those who would not stand in rows,
And by those who pined to stand in rows.
Eventually, the man went to death, weeping.
And those who staid in bloody scuffle
Knew not the great simplicity.

(I think Chris, who despite the note above will almost certainly never read this blog post, would be amused by the comparison.)