Come on back to the typewriter
July 9, 2009

Selected Poems of Anne Sexton
The Pulitzer Prize-winning poet Anne Sexton (1928-1974) once confided to a priest that she was unable to go to church, let alone pray.
After the priest read her work, he replied that her poems were her prayers, her typewriter was her altar. “As he left me he said…‘Come on back to the typewriter.’”
This anecdote appears in Kathleen Norris’s most recent book, Acedia & Me: A Marriage, Monks, and A Writer’s Life (2008), about a depression-like condition that afflicts monks, causing them to become detached from daily praying and haunted by a sense of futility.
The subject matter is difficult but not intimidating, as Norris wrestles with many of acedia’s complexities. From all the ideas and philosophies I took away from the book, that one thought especially remains with me of the priest encouraging this famously depressed, confessional poet that her poems were her prayers.
Today, I bought the following – three first editions of Sexton’s poetry. As I drove home with my treasures, I remembered the anecdote, and it occurred to me that what was sitting in the sack on the passenger seat beside me was neither a mere stack of books nor a mere collection of poetry.
Love Poems (1969) paperback first/Houghton Mifflin
From the back of the book: “There are twenty-five love poems. They can be read as the story of a single lover, or a single romance which [sic] begins with a joyous rebirth described in the opening poem, ‘The Touch.’ But there is in each poem a confrontation with humanity by a woman who cannot train her eye off the real face of that humanity…”
The Death Notebooks (1974) hardbound first/Houghton Mifflin
From the dust jacket: “She speaks here with great power as a woman who has looked at despair and death up close, and has come to terms with them…”
The Awful Rowing Toward God (1975) paperback first/Houghton Mifflin
From inside the front cover: “In this powerful new collection, one of our most dazzlingly inventive and prolific poets tackles a universal theme: the agonizing search for God that is part and parcel of the lives of all of us.”
The greatest war novel of all time
July 5, 2009
German novelist Erich Maria Remarque (1898-1970) published All Quiet on the Western Front in 1929. He went on to publish several other novels, but the first remains his hallmark. It’s not just a classic war novel, but frequently categorized and hailed as the greatest war novel of all time.
In brief, the story is about German soldier Paul Baumer, the narrator, who responsibly joins the German army with high-school classmates, only to discover it’s a grotesque and senseless horror show. His innocence doesn’t simply vanish in the trench warfare, hand-to-hand fighting and poison gas. It’s ripped away, and he’s fully aware of the loss.
Paul’s piercing recognitions and reflections moved me. I read them and reread them. I read them out loud. One time it was the scene where Paul, standing sentry, dangerously allows himself to think about the good times of his youth, times now unreachable for all that he and his friends have been through in the war. He despairs the harsh change: “We are forlorn like children, and experienced like old men, we are crude and sorrowful and superficial – I believe we are lost.”
Another passage I kept returning to was when Paul guards Russian prisoners of war. He recognizes they are enemies, but only in so far as those who declared the war in the first place deemed them enemies: “But who can draw such a distinction when he looks at these quiet men with their childlike faces and apostles’ beards. Any non-commissioned officer is more of an enemy to a recruit, any schoolmaster to a pupil, than they are to us.”
All Quiet on the Western Front typically appears on bookstore tables set up to cater to students’ summer reading assignments. I was in the store, shopping for Pat Barker’s award-winning First World War Regeneration trilogy. I changed my mind, though, and picked up Remarque’s classic, thinking, “Ah, this one first!”
Eventually I will get to Barker’s trilogy, and when I do, Paul’s fictional journey will inform it – or any other WWI story – by virtue of Remarque’s bruising emotional realism. By the way, on a whim, I Googled “the greatest war novel of all time” and got an Amazon list of 25 novels ranging from Keneally’s WWII Schindler’s List to Orwell’s Russian Revolution Animal Farm. I wouldn’t rely on an online bookseller to be an authority for such a list, but it’s a curious combination to ponder.
Update: Image changed 1.10.12.



