Introduction

What is The New Yorker? I know it’s a great magazine and that it’s a tremendous source of pleasure in my life. But what exactly is it? This blog’s premise is that The New Yorker is a work of art, as worthy of comment and analysis as, say, Keats’s “Ode on a Grecian Urn.” Each week I review one or more aspects of the magazine’s latest issue. I suppose it’s possible to describe and analyze an entire issue, but I prefer to keep my reviews brief, and so I usually focus on just one or two pieces, to explore in each the signature style of its author. A piece by Nick Paumgarten is not like a piece by Jill Lepore, and neither is like a piece by Ian Frazier. One could not mistake Collins for Seabrook, or Bilger for Galchen, or Mogelson for Kolbert. Each has found a style, and it is that style that I respond to as I read, and want to understand and describe.

Sunday, October 11, 2020

Vendler on Glück

Louise Glück (Photo by Webb Chappell)














Dwight Garner, in his “Louise Glück, a Nobel Winner Whose Poems Have Abundant Intellect and Deep Feeling” (The New York Times Sunday Book Review, October 8, 2020), quotes my favorite literary critic, Helen Vendler. He says, “Helen Vendler, writing in The New Republic, said that Glück’s poems ‘have achieved the unusual distinction of being neither “confessional” nor “intellectual” in the usual senses of those words.’ ” The quote is from Vendler’s “Flower Power: Louise Glück’s The Wild Iris” (The New Republic, May 24, 1993; included in Vendler’s 1995 Soul Says). 

Vendler wrote another great New Republic piece on Glück – “The Poetry of Louise Glück” (June 17, 1978; collected in Vendler’s 1980 Part of Nature, Part of Us. In this earlier essay, Vendler says of Glück, “She sees experience from very far off, almost through the wrong end of a telescope.” That strikes me as valid. I find Glück’s poetry remote, detached, cold – far removed from what Tolstoy called “the unconscious swarmlike life of mankind.” But as abstraction, it’s exquisite. For example, “Messengers”:

And the deer—
how beautiful they are,
as though their bodies did not impede them.
Slowly they drift into the open
through bronze panels of the sunlight.

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