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That is no country for old men. The young
In one another’s arms, birds in the trees
- Those dying generations – at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.
O sages standing in God’s holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.
Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
-William Butler Yeats
The sixty-one year old Yeats is writing about his desire, in his old age, to leave behind the natural, bodily, sensual delights and values of youth–”the young in one another’s arms,” the “mackerel-crowded seas”–for the “artifice of eternity,” the “monuments of unageing intellect.” Byzantium is his city of the mind, where tender and mutable flesh is shed for the glittering, imperishable gold of artistic creation and intellectual achievement. When his body begins to break down, when he begins to become “a tattered coat upon a stick,” a scarecrow to frighten the young and impetuous, he pleads to be reborn. His heart, “fastened to a dying animal,” is no good to him anymore: he must be exchanged for a golden bird, a clockwork imitation of the natural world that transcends it. He will speak timeless truths from a vantage point that is beyond time.
I love this poem, though I feel as though I’m looking at it curiously, from across a broad gulf. It’s not just that I’m really young, it’s that I’m really into being young at this point: the new love and big plans and nice legs and stupid mistake parts of it. And with this awareness–”wow, it’s really fun being young, actually”–comes the insidious realization that it won’t last forever. I’ve always known that I was going to die, even though the young aren’t supposed to know that. Somehow, though, it’s never occurred to me that I would get old first.
So I like this poem. I like the idea of the old and worn-out body becoming a chrysalis for something altogether new and more splendid. I like the idea that we can transmute ourselves into a pure artistry, that we can transcend what is flesh. Flesh is lovely. Being young is lovely. But this poem speaks to me of something even better–something eternal–and whether that’s religion or art, I’m not sure and I don’t think Yeats is either. As we retreat from our failing bodies, we enter into a deeper knowledge, and we discover that what we have lost is far less than what we have won.
That’s the hope, anyway.
It’s really going to happen, apparently. Sooner than I think, I will be packing all my books into boxes, renting a U-Haul, loading up all of my stuff AGAIN, and driving it to my new, as-yet-unfound apartment. (That’s not even counting the likely move to Williamsburg for the summer.) Only this time, unlike the moves I’ve made every year since I was 14, I will not be trundling up and down the I-95 corridor, but to someplace far stranger and more frightening–South Bend, Indiana. Google Maps tells me that it is 800 miles away, about a 12-hour drive. At current gas prices, that’s about $280 one-way. A round-trip airfare is less than half that. That’s right. I’m moving where it’s officially cheaper to fly to than to drive.
I have–not rituals exactly, but customs–for moving. My books are the first thing I pack and the first thing I unpack. Probably this is just because books are an easy place to start, but I like to think that it’s because home is where my bookshelves are. And certainly I feel more secure, connected, belonging in a place where my books are all out on the shelves. And as soon as I have taken all of my books down and put them away in boxes, I find myself caring less about the space. It is not home any more. There is nothing stopping me from packing the rest.
Also, this time, I’m getting a dog. I’ve wanted a dog or cat (I go back and forth) since I was in college. I wanted one when I moved to Richmond, but ended up renting a place with no pets allowed. This was a good idea this year, since I really haven’t had time for a pet, but it’s gotten past the “that would be really nice” point and to the “I am willing to make major sacrifices and life changes in order to have a dog.” Rent, for instance–I will have to pay a lot more, probably, for a dog. My housing options are limited. I will have to arrange my schedule around spending time with the dog. It will be expensive. Etc., etc. And yet I can’t wait. It’s all I can do to keep myself from smuggling a dog into my apartment right now, much as I tell myself that a cross-country move isn’t exactly the best thing for a new animal.
Big changes ahead. I have the same feeling you get in a canoe as you approach a rapid–you can hear the rapid, but you generally can’t see it, since it’s a downhill drop. All you can see is the smooth calm of the river stretching forward to a foreshortened horizon, and then nothing beyond–only perhaps one or two rocks jutting up, and the occasional flume of spray. All you can do is listen to the roar and try to gauge how big it will be from rapids past (who always sound much quieter by comparison), keep your oar in and dig your paddle deep, agree with your partner on the best-looking V, and go for it.
[Edit: Apparently I need to clarify that rapids are a good thing. Indeed, most of the time they're the high point of the trip.]
Big changes ahead.
So, I have a plea, to people everywhere who may or may not be reading this:
If you are upset with me, please tell me. If you are angry, let me know. If I am making a huge whopping mistake, alert me to it. I am not a person who relishes confrontation (far from it), but I am also someone who cannot read minds. And I hate being put in the position of having to guess whether my actions or words are pissing people off. It pushes all my insecurity buttons, of which I have approximately thirty-seven thousand, at the same time. So most of the time, at least, I just don’t play that game. If you don’t communicate your displeasure to me, I will blithely assume that all is well in our relationship. I will not try to decode your sighs and glances and silences.
This does not mean that I am not receptive to criticism–I think, for the most part, that I do my best to please people, and I will make a decent effort to make any changes that I think are reasonable. I will apologize. I will stop cracking my knuckles. I will try to let you get a word in edgewise. I will stop dismissing your feelings. I will be on time. And I will not hate you for letting me know what I’m doing wrong.
But I am not at all receptive to criticism that is not communicated in some clear way. I do not care about your martyrdom. I would rather make the occasional scene than walk on eggshells. And I will not seek out things about which to be insecure.
This has been a public service announcement from the Society of How to Get Along with Mary. Thank you.
Yes, I know the semicolon is incorrectly used. Sometimes, I feel, a semicolon is just a classy and ambiguous version of an emoticon. Also sometimes I like to pretend that if I know the rules it’s cool when I break them. Makes me feel all dangerous like Virginia Woolf.
Here’s the thing: I have been moping all evening. I’m not going to go into my reasons here–they’re not bad, but the point is, they’re not good enough. I have no excuse for moping. I have a comfortable, one might even say indulgent, lifestyle; I have dear friends and a boyfriend who defies adjectives and an offer from a great grad school. My spiritual life makes me mostly joyful and occasionally uncomfortable; I ran my first 10k last weekend; I am getting my teeth fixed; I am going to be just fine. So stop whining, Mary.
April is Poetry Month. Maybe if I’m feeling especially risk-taking I’ll share some poetry.
“Not Waving But Drowning”
Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much farther out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.
Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he’s dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.
Oh no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.
-Stevie Smith
What I like about this poem is its simple haunting rhythm and the image of the white hand out in the breakers. I like the combination of dialogue that’s attuned to real speech and utter spareness of words, the odd slant rhymes, the lurching meter that nonetheless hits all the right beats. It reminds me of Emily Dickinson. It’s also a poem I connect with personally, which always helps. I rarely need an excuse to feel sorry for myself, and the image of someone drowning and unable to prevent his plea for help from being misinterpreted–well, I like to pretend I understand.
