Selected Poems (Oxford World's Classics)

Rating:
Summary: Brilliant, but not always
Review: 'The reader seems to have some disaster of far vaster import than he can fathom. That is the mysterious effect of Mallarme's poetry. One gets a strange emotional effect past analysis'. So declares translator C.F. MacIntyre of a typically impenetrable Mallarme sonnet. Unfortunately, it's an effect the non-French reader will never experience. In translation, somebody like Robert Frost once said, what is lost is the poetry, and no other writer exemplifies this truism more clearly than Mallarme. Most translations will at least yield some sort of broad narrative or imagistic or intellectual sense. Mallarme's self-contained, bookish, exquisitely artificial poetry (Borges was a fan) exists on a plane beyond sense. It is an intensely intricate agglomeration of sounds, forms, distorted grammar, codes and riddles whose 'meaning' is not literal. Mallarme is usually compared to a costumier, jeweller or musician, such is this artisan's devotion to the poem as crafted object. The only real way to translate Mallarme is not to find literal English equivalents for his words as printed, but to find new word-constructions with sounds and resonances that transmute the originals' spirit, rather than sense. But if the translator had that kind of gift, s/he wouldn't be wasting it on Mallarme translations. Despite MacIntyre's best efforts, then, literal Mallarme in English sounds like the worst kind of sub-decadent pot-pourri, like the imitations of French Symbolism Oscar Wilde churned out in his youth. Pick a line, any line: 'The sun that is exalted/by its supernatural halt/forthwith redescends/incandescent/I feel how vertebrae/in the dark give way'; 'You know that, amethystine gardens, hidden/without end in dazzling erudite abysses'; 'Just any solitude/with neither swan nor dock/mirrors its desuetude/in my abdicated look'. Etcetera.

This does not mean the volume is useless. French students struggling with the originals can use the translations as a kind of grammatical glossary, and will find MacIntyre's synopses and explanatory notes, with background and critical infomration, helpful, if dated. The casual reader, however, will find much to enjoy. After a few poems (including the famous 'Herodiade' and 'L'apres-mide d'un faune'), I gave up struggling with Mallarme, and gave into the pleasures of MacIntyre's annotations. A real-life Charles Kinbote, he doesn't even seem to like Mallarme very much: one poem 'is built up of so much nothing, like a fragile pastry of whipped cream. It is artful in the worst sense of the word... He should have had a stern editor! (As I have)'; 'Line 4 is particularly good, [a critic] insists, because it suppresses the classic caesura! I don't think many readers would suffer if the whole sonnet had been suppressed'. He refers to Mallarme's art as a 'dead end', execrates 'his miserably bungled up French', and cheerfully admits that he doesn't really understand the poems! So what qualified him to translate them?! A delectable egotism blows through the pages, from its overheated, homoerotic dedication, and the unwarranted, though very welcome, detours into autobiography and war memories, to the Olympian sneers at previous commentators. Published in sexually unliberated 1957, MacIntyre is forced to euphemise Mallarme's detailed and relentless erotics, which leads to some splendid tongue-twisting; the frequent suspicion that MacIntyre himself misses the point of a poem like 'What silk...' ('the mouth will not be sure/in its bite of finding savor,/unless he, your princely lover,/breathe out, diamond-like, in your/considerable tuft the cry/of Glories stifled as they die'), which he says is about a woman brushing her hair at the mirror (!), is quashed by his mocking one persistently misreading critic: 'Really now. I wish I still had Herr Wais's niaive innocence. I really do'. Barmy, endearing and delightful.

Rating:
Summary: Buy it for the bonkers annotation.
Review: 'The reader seems to have some disaster of far vaster import than he can fathom. That is the mysterious effect of Mallarme's poetry. One gets a strange emotional effect past analysis'. So declares translator C.F. MacIntyre of a typically impenetrable Mallarme sonnet. Unfortunately, it's an effect the non-French reader will never experience. In translation, somebody like Robert Frost once said, what is lost is the poetry, and no other writer exemplifies this truism more clearly than Mallarme. Most translations will at least yield some sort of broad narrative or imagistic or intellectual sense. Mallarme's self-contained, bookish, exquisitely artificial poetry (Borges was a fan) exists on a plane beyond sense. It is an intensely intricate agglomeration of sounds, forms, distorted grammar, codes and riddles whose 'meaning' is not literal. Mallarme is usually compared to a costumier, jeweller or musician, such is this artisan's devotion to the poem as crafted object. The only real way to translate Mallarme is not to find literal English equivalents for his words as printed, but to find new word-constructions with sounds and resonances that transmute the originals' spirit, rather than sense. But if the translator had that kind of gift, s/he wouldn't be wasting it on Mallarme translations. Despite MacIntyre's best efforts, then, literal Mallarme in English sounds like the worst kind of sub-decadent pot-pourri, like the imitations of French Symbolism Oscar Wilde churned out in his youth. Pick a line, any line: 'The sun that is exalted/by its supernatural halt/forthwith redescends/incandescent/I feel how vertebrae/in the dark give way'; 'You know that, amethystine gardens, hidden/without end in dazzling erudite abysses'; 'Just any solitude/with neither swan nor dock/mirrors its desuetude/in my abdicated look'. Etcetera.

This does not mean the volume is useless. French students struggling with the originals can use the translations as a kind of grammatical glossary, and will find MacIntyre's synopses and explanatory notes, with background and critical infomration, helpful, if dated. The casual reader, however, will find much to enjoy. After a few poems (including the famous 'Herodiade' and 'L'apres-mide d'un faune'), I gave up struggling with Mallarme, and gave into the pleasures of MacIntyre's annotations. A real-life Charles Kinbote, he doesn't even seem to like Mallarme very much: one poem 'is built up of so much nothing, like a fragile pastry of whipped cream. It is artful in the worst sense of the word... He should have had a stern editor! (As I have)'; 'Line 4 is particularly good, [a critic] insists, because it suppresses the classic caesura! I don't think many readers would suffer if the whole sonnet had been suppressed'. He refers to Mallarme's art as a 'dead end', execrates 'his miserably bungled up French', and cheerfully admits that he doesn't really understand the poems! So what qualified him to translate them?! A delectable egotism blows through the pages, from its overheated, homoerotic dedication, and the unwarranted, though very welcome, detours into autobiography and war memories, to the Olympian sneers at previous commentators. Published in sexually unliberated 1957, MacIntyre is forced to euphemise Mallarme's detailed and relentless erotics, which leads to some splendid tongue-twisting; the frequent suspicion that MacIntyre himself misses the point of a poem like 'What silk...' ('the mouth will not be sure/in its bite of finding savor,/unless he, your princely lover,/breathe out, diamond-like, in your/considerable tuft the cry/of Glories stifled as they die'), which he says is about a woman brushing her hair at the mirror (!), is quashed by his mocking one persistently misreading critic: 'Really now. I wish I still had Herr Wais's niaive innocence. I really do'. Barmy, endearing and delightful.

Rating:
Summary: A Fascinating Meditation on the Relevance of Verlane
Review: As often is the case with general volumes of poetry, or books available in many editions, a good reveiw necessarily consists of two parts: first a review of the original material, and then a review of the specific edition.

For the original material, Verlaine is an amazing poet. He represents possibly the first and greatest lyrical poet to be initiated into modernity. His lyricism is not baroque, whimsical, or decadent - it is haunted and beautifull. It is like the music of Chopin (as it could be said that Rimbaud's is closer to that of Liszt). He represents a unique tract among the many poetic styles gestating in a Paris newly thrust into what we call modernity. There was the cynical and disolute Baudelaire, the ribald and frenzied Rimbaud, and then the melancholy and lyrical Verlaine. These three writers could easily be seen as a trifecta of greatness: they together represent the principal moods that have dominated literature to follow in their tracks.

The editions of a poets works, however, should certainly be considered independent of the poems themselves. Translation and selection of poems from such a broad body of work is both highly prejudicial, and (perhaps as a result) also creates a unique beauty in each seperate edition.

This edition, though, is a stand out among others available. First, because it probably is the largest English collection of Verlaines work (170 poems or so) and second because it's assembly, tranlations, and annotation reveal a very profound thoughtfullness on the part of the translator and editor, Martin Sorrell.

Most selections of Verlaines work are contrite and myopic, pick only certain early poems which have been translated and anthologized ad nauseum with no greater depth than that of a poem-a-day desk calendar or the litterary equivalent of easy listening music. In contrast, Sorrell's presentation is symphonic. The poems he has selected are true to the life of the poet - complete with ragged edges and blissfull moments.

How could one appreciate Verlaine's true genius if he is only shown in an artificial, sacrine, sanatized way? Sorrell boldly includes a large amount of poems from Verlaine's later work, largely disparaged by other critics, and provides very thoughtfull annotations about the inspirations, impacts, and ultimate relevance of each poem.

In this way Sorrell has created a very thoughtfull meditation on the life and work of Verlaine, and shares it with his audience so even a layman can appreciate it.

There is also a parallel French Text, which I find indespensible. Although not all of the translations are done the same way I would, diversity is what makes literature beautifull, and I am very interested to see the relationship between Sorrell's scholarship of Verlaine's life and the way in which he translates Verlaine's verses. This is a valuable tool not found if you were to simply read a French edition of Verlaine's poems or preuse an anthology.

In the end, this book is a excellent illustration of why translations and collections can be usefull even to people who have already read Verlaine in French.

Rating:
Summary: The Beauty of Language
Review: I don't know why Amazon just doesn't throw in the towel and hire someone to edit the reviews (I'll actually volunteer at low wage). This is supposed to be a spot for comments on Verlaine's collection, not French Symbolist poets in general or whatever, particularly not Mallarme (they can't even get the spelling right on this one). At any rate, for those who are not familiar with the movement, I would suggest reading, in this order: Baudelaire, Rimbaud, Verlaine and Mallarme, as that is the sequence in which they came to the fore of French Lit (though you could make the case that Veralaine and Rimbaud were contemporaneous, I would suggest that Verlaine's most important work came after his interchange with Rimbaud). Since these are the most influential French poets of the modern era, and had an impact on every modern "movement" that occured in literature thereafter, you can not go wrong with any of them. There are those who contend that poetry especially is lost in translation. I would agree, yet all these poets are represented by "facing" texts these days. The original text is mirrored by the translation on the opposite page. Oxford and Penguin both are good choices. The translators are uniformally well-educated and erudite, the printing is excellent and the overall scholarhip, including introductions, is top-notch. You can't go wrong with these editions.

Rating:
Summary: Brilliant, but not always
Review: Verlaine is perhaps my favourite poet--many of his poems are exceptionally beautiful, salacious even. However he wrote prolifically, and as is often the case with prolific artists, his work is of uneven quality. Nevertheless, at his best, Paul Verlaine's poetry is among the most remarkable that I've ever read. I highly recommend this collection.