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试译：睡岸上的芙蓉 |
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http://blog.xatson.com
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Hermes Trismegistus
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Hermes Trismegistus
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Hermes Trismegistus
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http://blog.artintern.net/blogs/index/zhaoyuan
http://blog.sina.com.cn/greenchrysanthemum |
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我沉默的时候,我感到充实;
我将开口,同时感到空虚。
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发表于 2007-8-4 13:59:17
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发表于 2007-8-4 13:59:18
ure Poetry and Mr. Wallace Stevens</p><p>By PERCY HUTCHISON</p>More than one critic, and not a few poets, have toyed with the idea of what has been termed :pure poetry," which is to say, a poetry which should depend for its effectiveness on its rhythms and the tonal values of the words employed with as complete a dissociation from ideational content as may be humanly possible. Those who have argued for such "pure poetry" have frequently, if not always, been obsessed with some hazy notion of an analogy between music and poetry. As a shining example of this school take Sidney Lanier, who was a skilled musician as well as a notable poet. Lanier advanced the theory that every vowel has its color value. This was not an association of ideas; the letter "e" was not red because it is in the word red, or green because it is in the word green, but the hearer, experiencing the word should, on Lanier\'s theory, experience, simultaneously with the sound, a distinct sensation of color. In the second decade of this century--the movement began in the first decade--numerous poetic schools drove theory hard. Perhaps none strove especially to carry out Lanier\'s color hypothesis, but there were the Imagists, and there was Vorticism and Cubism, and many more "isms" besides. For the most part, these schools have died the death which could have been prophesied for them. Poetry is founded in ideas; to be effective and lasting, poetry must be based on life, it must touch and vitalize emotion. For proof, one has but to turn to the poetry that has endured. In poetry, doctrinaire composition has no permanent place. <p></p><p>Hence, unpleasant as it is to record such a conclusion, the very remarkable work of Wallace Stevens cannot endure. The verses which go to make up the volume "Harmonium" are as close to "pure poetry" as one could expect to come. And so far as rhythms and vowels and consonants may be substituted for musical notes, the volume is an achievement. But the achievement is not poetry, it is a tour de force, a "stunt" in the fantastic and the bizarre. <strong>From one end of the book to the other there is not an idea that can vitally affect the mind, there is not a word that can arouse emotion. The volume is a glittering edifice of icicles.</strong> Brilliant as the moon, the book is equally dead. Only when Stevens goes over to the Chinese does he score, and then not completely, for with all the virtuosity that his verse displays he fails quite to attain the lacquer finish of his Oriental masters. The following, <strong>"Hibiscus on the Sleeping Shores," is the piece that comes nearest to the Chinese, and this is marred by the intrusion in the last line of the critical adjective "stupid."</strong><br/> </p><ul><p></p><p>I say now, Fernando, that on that day<br/>The mind roamed as a moth roams,<br/>Among the blooms beyond the open sand;<br/>And that whatever noise the motion of the waves<br/>Made on the sea-weeds and the covered stones<br/>Disturbed not even the most idle ear<br/>Then it was that the monstered moth<br/>Which had lain folded against the blue<br/>And the colored purple of the lazy sea,<br/>And which had drowsed along the bony shores,<br/>Shut to the blather that the water made,<br/>Rose up besprent and sought the flaming red<br/>Dabbled with yellow pollen-red as red<br/>As the flag above the old cafe--<br/>And roamed there all the stupid afternoon.</p></ul><p></p><p>For the full tonal and rhythmic effect of this it must be read aloud, chanted, as Tennyson and Swinburne chanted their verses. Then, within its limits, its very narrow limits, "Hibiscus" will be found to be a musical attainment not before guessed at. But it is not poetry in the larger meaning of the term. And it is not actually music that one has here, but an imitation of music. And if there is a mood conveyed, the mood could have been equally as well conveyed by other lines equally languid of rhythm. No doubt the theorists in poetry have enriched their craft, but at a disservice to themselves. Wallace Stevens is a martyr to a lost cause.</p></span></div>