Marcel Proust

Marcel Proust

Legend has it that 13-year-old Marcel Proust answered fifteen questions in the birthday book of Antoinette Felix-Faure. Seven years later, at another social event, he completed another questionnaire. Ah, parlor games!

Over the years, Vanity Fair and other magazines have featured a version or another of this questionnaire, now called the “Proust Questionnaire.”

In the wake of David Bowie’s death last month, his answers to the Vanity Fair version were circulated by Maria Popova on her wonderful Brain Pickings blog.

I decided it would be fun to answer a version that closely approximates the original version Proust completed.

Name: Scott Edward Anderson
Date the questions were answered: 30 January 2016
Age: 52
Village / Town / City you live in: Brooklyn, NY
Occupation: Consultant and Poet

(The questions include Marcel Proust’s answers)

 

What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?

Proust: To be separated from Mama

Scott Edward Anderson (SEA): To be without love.

 

Where would you like to live?

Proust: In the country of the Ideal, or, rather, of my ideal

SEA: I’m happy where I am right now in Ditmas Park, Brooklyn. It feels like home to me. 

 

What is your idea of earthly happiness?

Proust: To live in contact with those I love, with the beauties of nature, with a quantity of books and music, and to have, within easy distance, a French theater

SEA: Cooking and eating a good meal with my wife after a nice long hike in the woods, enjoying a great glass of wine or a Hendricks martini, and retiring to the living room to read some poetry or listen to favorite music by the fire.

 

To what faults do you feel most indulgent?

Proust: To a life deprived of the works of genius

SEA: I am intolerant of ignorance and authority and, most especially, ignorant authority.

 

Who are your favorite heroes of fiction?

Proust: Those of romance and poetry, those who are the expression of an ideal rather than an imitation of the real

SEA My favorite heroes are always creative travelers in strange lands who survive by their wits and wiles.

 

Who are your favorite male characters in history?

Proust: A mixture of Socrates, Pericles, Mahomet, Pliny the Younger and Augustin Thierry

SEA: Teddy Roosevelt

 

Who are your favorite heroines in real life?

Proust: A woman of genius leading an ordinary life

SEA: Billie Holiday and Elizabeth Bishop

 

Who are your favorite heroines of fiction?

Proust: Those who are more than women without ceasing to be womanly; everything that is tender, poetic, pure and in every way beautiful

SEA: Same as heroes: Creative travelers in strange lands who survive by their wits and wiles.

 

Your favorite painter(s)?

Proust: Meissonier

SEA: Monet and Vermeer

 

Your favorite musician?

Proust: Mozart

SEA: The Beatles

 

The quality you most admire in a man?

Proust: Intelligence, moral sense

SEA: Integrity and creativity

 

The quality you most admire in a woman?

Proust: Gentleness, naturalness, intelligence

SEA: Integrity and creativity

 

Your favorite virtue?

Proust: All virtues that are not limited to a sect: the universal virtues

SEA: Diligence

 

Your favorite occupation?

Proust: Reading, dreaming, and writing verse

SEA: Add walking in the woods to what Proust said.

 

Who would you have liked to be?

Proust: Since the question does not arise, I prefer not to answer it. All the same, I should very much have liked to be Pliny the Younger.

SEA: A better friend to some, a better man at times, a better husband to my wife, and a better father to my children.

#

 

The poet (in bandanna) and pals, Wind River Range, Wyoming, Summer 2001. Photo by Joshua Sheldon.

The poet (in bandanna) and pals, Wind River Range, Wyoming, Summer 2001. Photo by Joshua Sheldon.

“I never read my reviews,” the novelist Pat Conroy once said. “Not even the good ones. Barbra Streisand once told me, if just one person in the audience doesn’t applaud, it bothers her. I’m the same way. I’d be devastated to read that someone didn’t like my work.”

Back in 2001, a young woman named Veronika Linhartova Morley, then a student at De Anza College in Cupertino, California, contacted me by email. She wanted to write about my poetry for a class assignment on contemporary American poets.

She told me she’d read a poem of mine called “Carpentry” in the Boston Review and had found a number of other poems on line. I was flattered. Only, I never wrote a poem with that title and I’ve not yet published in the Boston Review. I looked up the poem, which was written by a Scott Anderson (see the link above) and thought, I could have written it, but I didn’t.

I hated to disappoint Ms. Morley, but broke the news to her by reply email. She was embarrassed; however, it turned out that all the other poems she’d found were indeed mine, and she still wanted to write about my work. We had a nice correspondence and she wrote a delightful little essay about my poetry and the influence of Elizabeth Bishop and Donald Hall on my work.

Her essay begins with a lengthy quote from a lecture I gave at the University of Alaska some years before:

“The contemporary poet of my choice, Scott Edward Anderson, once wrote in his essay ‘Making Poems Better: The Process of Revision’: ‘…writing poems is a lot like cooking. We bring everything we know about cooking and about what foods go well together to preparing a meal, just as we bring all we’ve learned or read or practiced to writing a poem. Sometimes, it’s just luck that we get the right combination of ingredients, but much of the time a fine meal is made from good ingredients being put together by a well-practiced chef.'”

She went on to make some good observations about my work and points about what I learned from both Bishop and Hall. She also identified a spiritual note in my work and my conflicting feelings about “the way we treat our world.”

In all, it’s a pretty accurate picture of my work, its process and two of my biggest influences. And the last line of her essay would make any poet proud. She writes that through her assignment and correspondence with me, she “not only learned about the process of writing poetry, but also learned to appreciate poetry even more.”

I don’t know how the essay was graded. I still have a copy. Veronika came to this country from Czechoslovakia in the late 1990s, as she told me, to get the kind of education unavailable in her own country. Some time ago, she gave me permission to reprint the essay, which you can read in full here.

 

Sheep in the Scottish Borderlands, August 2014. Photo by SEA

Sheep in the Scottish Borderlands, August 2014. Photo by SEA

Twice in my life I wanted to raise sheep. I’m not sure why. Perhaps it is an interest stemming from deep within my Scottish and Portuguese heritage.

The first time, I was as a teenager outside of Rochester, New York. I considered enrolling in the organic agriculture program at Goddard College in Vermont, where I’d learn animal husbandry and then get a piece of land where I could raise a flock. I heard that Canada had a generous homesteader program and wrote to various provincial governments. (I still have a couple of their responses.)

The second time was in 1992, I had just moved to Garrison, New York, into a converted ice house on the old Vanderbilt-Webb estate. I bought Raising Sheep the Modern Way by Paula Simmons and a few other books and looked into buying a few starter sheep from a neighbor. (I still can’t part with my copy of Simmons’s book.)

While my poem, “Deserted Sheep,” which was part of a group of three poems that won the Nebraska Review Award in 1997, was certainly influenced by my experiences in New York’s countryside, thinking about raising sheep, it was a very different landscape that provided the inspiration.

I was walking the hills outside of Giessen, in what was then West Germany, in the spring of 1987, when I stumbled upon the sheepfold described in the poem.  The sheep were alone, except for each other, grazing within a small, orange plastic enclosure.

Like many of the poems I wrote at the time, the early drafts were heavily influenced by my attempts to learn the German language through reading its poetry — no easy task. This course of study had a deleterious effect on my writing at the time, as I’ve described elsewhere, and it took me a long time to get my native tongue back to its proper place; not to mention my syntax, grammar, and word order!

By the time I arrived at the version that appeared in the Nebraska Review and, later, in my book Fallow Field, the result was very different, after many stumbles and headlong bumps like those lambs in the poem.

Perhaps one day I will retire to the Azores and raise sheep. Now that my wife, Samantha, has taken up knitting we could use the extra wool and lamb kofta is a favorite dish of ours. Here is my poem,

 

Deserted Sheep

 

Lambs, jostled, forgive

            the wolf, break

            its taste in lamb

into a toddler’s gallop,

bumping headlong

 

into thick-piled ewes–

lanolin slicking their noses, as

they stumble on the fescue

dotting the valley,

a pointillist’s landscape.

 

No shepherd, no sheep dog,

no gate to enter; a small,

orange plastic snow fence,

neatly staked at four corners

with steel posts,

gives form to the sheepcote.

 

The last ounce of sun

a violet tremor the wolf

            forgives, lingering

along the western ridge,

            the shepherd’s fear

returning to the valley.

 

A ram, brown and flocculent,

secures a silent corner

of the fold — eyes intent

upon a slow-moving shadow.

 

–Scott Edward Anderson

 

 

My Poem “For T—“

August 26, 2015

TI’m not one for “What might have beens.”

Frankly, it always seems a waste of time to think about life that way. Last year, however, while I was writing poems in response to weekly prompts as part of the “52” poetry group, I wrote a poem to the prompt, “So Near and Yet…”

If I recall correctly, the idea was to “think about something that nearly happened…” (I can’t verify because the prompts on the 52 site have been removed as its curator/founder Jo Bell compiles them into a book.)

Participating in 52, as I’ve written earlier, took me out of my comfort zone — both in method and subject matter. Several of the poems I wrote that year are more open and honest, at least in a self-referential way, than much of my earlier work. Almost I want to call them confessional.

In part this is because I rarely, if ever, write about myself in my poems. The prompts prompted that, but so did the honest and constructive feedback of the group. I felt safe to explore this other dimension and see where it took my work.

All of this leads me to my poem, “For T—,” which tells the story of an encounter that could have changed my life, but didn’t (or did it?). It’s not an incident about which I’m particularly proud.

And yet, as the material for a poem it worked in a strange way. At least my fellow 52ers felt so, as did the editors of the Yellow Chair Review, who published it in their latest issue.

Here is the poem:

For T—

 

I asked her to dance at a black tie dinner for Literacy.

She said she didn’t dance; I’d have to teach her.

Her friend, sitting next seat over, who later played

Hagrid in the Harry Potter films, cautioned,

“Be gentle with her now or you’ll be answering to me.”

 

She smiled when I bowed before taking her hand.

She was light on her feet and let me lead.

No one had moved her that way before,

so in control, she whispered in my ear.

And when the dance was over, I bowed again.

 

She thanked me, asked did I want to come

see her in “Hamlet” on Broadway? I did.

I brought flowers, met her backstage;

she came out with me; later, I put her in a cab.

“Do you fancy coming uptown?”

 

I demurred, made some excuse.

Perhaps another time, I suggested,

knowing there would be none.

(I’d no business being there in the first:

I was married; unhappily, but still.)

 

It couldn’t have ended well. No doubt,

we’d divorce after a few violent years.

She moving on to stage and screen;

me, the scapegoat in the press,

spilling popcorn on myself in the house seats.

 

–Scott Edward Anderson

To read the full Issue #3 of Yellow Chair Review, which has some fantastic poems by other poets from 52 and elsewhere, go here.

And you can read a selection of the poems from the 52 group in this Nine Arches Press book, here.

c) 2012 Alastair Cook

Sheree Mack c) 2012 Alastair Cook

Every month it seems there is another flashpoint of tensions between police and black communities in cities around the United States.

From Ferguson to Baltimore, our country seems ready to tear at the seams from a volatile combination of racial prejudice, police militarism, and the systemic poverty and disenfranchisement black people feel in America today.

It is impossible to ignore this critical issue of our day – we ignore it at our peril – even in a forum such as this.

In that light, I asked poet Sheree Mack if I could feature one of her poems for this final week of National Poetry Month.  I was thinking we’d choose one from her remarkable new book, Laventille, which I’ve just started reading.

But Sheree asked if I’d rather have a new poem, one where she is trying “to get my head around the issue of race in America now with #BlackLivesMatter and how things haven’t changed much since lynching was another arm of the ‘law’.”

When she sent me, “Called Witness,” I jumped at the chance to share it, with its unflinching mixture of found texts (from a source cited below) and its paraphrase of Billie Holiday’s “Strange Fruit” in line 8.

Sheree Mack was born in 1971 in Bradford, England, to a Trinidadian father and a “Geordie” mother of Ghanaian and Bajan ancestry. She worked as a teacher for several years before studying for a PhD on black British women poets.

Sheree now dedicates her life to “fostering creativity in everyone’s life” working with communities of women and young writers, and currently lives in Tynemouth.  She is the author of two collections, Family Album (Flambard Press, 2011) and Laventille (Smokestack Books, 2015).

I met Sheree Mack through the group “52,” which I participated in last year. Members of “52” wrote poems each week to prompts supplied by the group’s founder, Jo Bell, and commented upon each other’s work in a closed group on Facebook. (See my blog post on the subject here.)

Sheree’s poetry rose to the surface in my mind for its clarity, craft, and complexity of vision. Mack’s poems “lament, rage and mourn,” as the publisher says about her latest book. “But they also offer a song of healing, a celebration of survival, a glimmer of the flames that burn in the hearts of a people still living in slavery’s dark shadow. “

Her perceptive comments on a number of poems (mine and others) flagged her as one of those people you want to spend time with, even if the only opportunity is through the auspices of a virtual poetry workshop.

It was only later that I realized she was also the subject of my friend Alastair Cook’s stunning collodion portrait of a striking woman with captivating eyes, that I’d seen as part of his McArthur’s Store exhibition. There is something haunting about this portrait, as is the case of much of Alastair’s work in the medium.

The image is timeless or time-bound or both simultaneously. It could just as easily be a photograph of someone from Trinidad and Tobago at the time of the 1970 student uprisings in Laventille (the subject of her book) or an image from an even earlier era.

In short, the photo is a bit like Sheree Mack’s poetry: a bit timeless, a bit time-bound, but always unflinching and intriguing.

 

Here is Sheree Mack’s poem, “Called Witness”:

 

The exhibition opened in a small New York gallery.

The crowds came, self-righteous and proud.

 

Assembled and displayed were sixty photographs,

collected from family albums, attic trunks, flea markets.

 

Small, black-and-white postcards,

not more than a few inches long and wide,

 

depicting African-American men in Jim Crow

South; black bodies swinging from poplar trees.

 

Long lines stood for hours on the wintry

sidewalk, waiting for their view.

 

Once inside, bodies overwhelmed the intimate space.

Images laid flat on display tables or assembled

 

in tight groupings tacked to light-coloured walls.

Tattered, faded and worn, neither retouched nor restored.

 

Nor framed, matted, or captioned. Instead offered

as artefacts, not fine art objects. None for sale.

 

Visitor huddled close, hunched over tables,

faces pushed up against the walls, they felt

 

the warmth and proximity of others, jostling

and angling their bodies for a better look.

 

Through generations, onlookers enticed to the scene

by the spectacle of mutilated, dangling bodies.

 

c) 2015 Sheree Mack

Used by permission of the author.

_________________

Text cited: Lynching Photographs by Dora Apel and Shawn Michelle Smith,

University of California Press, Berkeley and Los Angeles, California, 2007

 

Table Mountain, Cape Town, South Africa. Photo by the author.

Table Mountain, Cape Town, South Africa. Photo by the author.

As some of you know, my new role in my day job at EY involves helping globalize prepaid smart metering programs for municipal utilities in emerging markets.

It’s a project that started in South Africa, and I think it’s pretty cool to be exporting an innovation from the African continent rather than imposing it from outside.

Traveling to South Africa, I’ve begun to explore the literature and art of the country over the last 20 years since the end of apartheid.

Thinking about poets whose work I could share, I thought about the work of Isobel Dixon. I know Isobel chiefly through social media — I believe it was Jo Bell or the Scottish Poetry Library who first introduced me to her work.

Dixon lives in London, but was born in Umtata, South Africa, and grew up in the semi-desert region known as the Karoo. She studied in the South African winelands country of Stellenbosch (where I was with my wife Samantha in January) and in Edinburgh.

In 2000, Dixon won the Sanlam Literary Award for her then unpublished collection of poetry Weather Eye, which was subsequently published by Carapace Poets (2001). She is also the author two collections, The Tempest Prognosticator and A Fold in the Map, both published by Salt in the UK. You can read more of her work at isobeldixon.com

I love the rhythms and musicality of Isobel Dixon’s poem, “She Comes Swimming,” and the mix of history and mythology that unfolds as we read. Of the poem Dixon wrote in an email to me,

“This is a poem very close to my heart, about my beloved country, South Africa. I wrote it in my first years abroad, feeling very keenly what it means to live far from the motherland, to yearn for it – and yet to fear that time away will change you, or change others’ perceptions of you, so that you might be perceived as an outsider, in spite of all you feel and are.”

Winelands, South Africa. Photo by the author.

Winelands, South Africa. Photo by the author.

Dixon “won a scholarship to do postgraduate study in my father’s native Scotland, the realisation of a dream, but at a time when I’d rather have stayed in South Africa – the momentous year of the first democratic elections.”

Another aspect of the poem that I particularly admire is what Dixon explains as “This sense of rueful distance, of vivid longing, and an awareness of the complex histories and hybrid mythologies of my faraway homeland, all fed into a poem about my imagined journey southwards, swimming back in time and language too.”

Dixon also told me that the poem has a central place in her Salt collection, A Fold in the Map, a collection that looks at the traveler’s state of “in-betweenness,” caught between lives and countries.

“The poem flowed onto the page in something of a hypnotic state,” Dixon wrote.  “One of those poems you look at the day after and think, ‘Where did that come from, and how?’ Wherever it summoned itself from, I’m glad it did.” We are too.

Here is Isobel Dixon’s poem, SHE COMES SWIMMING

 

She comes swimming to you, following

da Gama’s wake. The twisting Nile

won’t take her halfway far enough.

 

No, don’t imagine sirens – mermaid

beauty is too delicate and quick.

Nor does she have that radiance,

 

Botticelli’s Venus glow. No golden

goddess, she’s a southern

selkie-sister, dusky otter-girl

 

who breasts the cold Benguela, rides

the rough Atlantic swell, its chilly

tides, for leagues and leagues.

 

Her pelt is salty, soaked. Worn out,

she floats, a dark Ophelia, thinking

what it feels like just to sink

 

caressed by seaweed, nibbled by

a school of jewel-plated fish.

But with her chin tipped skyward

 

she can’t miss the Southern Cross

which now looks newly down on her,

a buttress for the roof of her familiar

 

hemisphere. She’s nearly there.

With wrinkled fingertips, she strokes

her rosary of ivory, bone and horn

 

and some black seed or stone

she can’t recall the name of,

only knows its rubbed-down feel.

 

And then she thanks her stars,

the ones she’s always known,

and flips herself, to find her rhythm

 

and her course again. On, southwards,

yes, much further south than this.

This time she’ll pay attention

 

to the names – not just the English,

Portuguese and Dutch, the splicings

and accretions of the years. She’ll search

 

for first names in that Urworld, find

her heart-land’s mother tongue.

Perhaps there’s no such language,

 

only touch – but that’s at least a dialect

still spoken there. She knows when she

arrives she’ll have to learn again,

 

so much forgotten, lost. And when

they put her to the test she fears

she’ll be found wanting, out of step.

 

But now what she must do is swim,

stay focused on each stroke,

until she feels the landshelf

 

far beneath her rise, a gentle slope

up to the rock, the Cape,

the Fairest Cape. Her Mother City

 

and its mountain, waiting, wrapped

in veils of cloud and smoke.

Then she must concentrate, dodge

 

nets and wrack, a plastic bag afloat –

a flaccid, shrunk albino ray –

until she’s close enough to touch

 

down on the seabed, stumble

to the beach – the glistening sand

as great a treasure as her Milky Way –

 

fall on her knees and plant a kiss

and her old string of beads,

her own explorer’s cross

 

into the cruel, fruitful earth at last.

She’s at your feet. Her heart

is beating fast. Her limbs are weak.

 

Make her look up. Tell her she’s home.

Don’t send her on her way again.

 

 

© 2001, Isobel Dixon

Used by permission of the author.

 

View of Mt. Zion from the Moses Montefiore Windmill by the author.

View of Mt. Zion from the Moses Montefiore Windmill. Photograph by the author.

Last month, Samantha and I went to Israel. It was my first time in the country and my first visit to the Holy Land.

I was struck by the conundrum that is Israel. On the one hand, there is the history of the land and the history on the land.

Three of the world’s major religions were built from the earth there and sprouted and diverged as any people do, resulting in conflict and misunderstanding.

On the other hand, there is evidence of these religious factions co-existing much like that bumper sticker popular a few years ago featuring the message “Co-Exist” and a pantheon of religious symbols, as if to ask, can’t we all just “get along”?

In Old Jaffa, south of Tel Aviv, for instance, ancient mosques and churches and synagogues sit cheek by jowl along the sea approach. And the market in Jerusalem is filled with Muslim and Jewish merchants distinguished perhaps only by their working hours and some specific merchandise.

Concurrent with this trip, Samantha asked me to write a poem to serve as the peace prayer at her daughter, Erica’s Bat Mitzvah, which happens to be this weekend. I was honored that not only Samantha, but my stepdaughter, too, wanted me to participate in her special day.

I’d been thinking about the subject on my first days in Israel, much of which was spent on my own as Samantha was in a conference.

But it wasn’t until our last day, in Jerusalem, when a tour guide we’d hired read a poem of Yehuda Amichai’s called “An Arab Shepherd is Searching for His Goat on Mt. Zion,” as we stood on a hill under the Moses Montefiore windmill overlooking Mt. Zion, that a poem started to come to me.

(Amichai is significant, too, because I gave Erica’s brother Max a book of Amichai’s poetry for his Bar Mitzvah a few years ago.)

Here is my poem “Peace On Mt. Zion,” which I dedicate to Erica and will read at her ceremony:

 

PEACE ON MT. ZION

(for Erica, on her Bat Mitzvah)

  

Peace is such an abstract word,

made concrete by the story

of an Arab shepherd and a Jewish father

told by a guide overlooking

Sultan’s Pool, outside the old city

of Jerusalem, from Amichai’s poem

about searching for a goat

and a child on Mt. Zion.

Their “temporary failure”

strikes me first, a lasting impression

lingering over the ramparts of the old city

–cradle and shelter of all origins.

  

So much begins searching

for a goat and a child on a mountain—

new religions, sacrifices, whole

cloths to cover the void,

until the child is found and the goat,

hiding together among the bushes.

The father and the shepherd

cry together and laugh,

and for a moment, all is quiet,

except for their voices,

which you can still hear

echoing over centuries of stone.

  

–Scott Edward Anderson

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