Aaron Kunin and Ben Lerner in conversation

In this long-running exchange, Ben Lerner and Aaron Kunin discuss Kunin’s latest collection, The Sore Throat and Other Poems, and the sources with which it is in dialogue, including Pound’s “Mauberley” as “a repository of lyric gestures.”  Lerner and Kunin have previously published two similar exchanges in Jacket  — one addressing Kunin’s novel The Mandarin, in Jacket 37; another, on Lerner’s Mean Free Path, in Jacket 40.

Ben Lerner: This is your second published book of poems, after Folding Ruler Star, but you wrote it first. So it’s possible to read the Mauberley series, which begins the book, as a kind of inaugural, as announcing your entry into poetry. Pound’s “Hugh Selwyn Mauberley” is largely a farewell — a farewell to a poetic style, a farewell to British society after WWI, etc. Why is a poem of farewell the source text for your beginning? Does your poem renounce anything? Does it renounce Pound’s renunciation? 

Aaron Kunin: The January eclogue in The Shepheardes Calender ends with Colin destroying his instrument, the oaten pipe, and vowing to sing no more songs. In the first poem in his first collection, Spenser says farewell to poetry: hello, I must be going. The gesture is conventional — Spenser got the idea from Virgil.

Not that I had any notion of this convention when I wrote my poems. I was a beginner. Fortunately, “Mauberley” is a great introduction to poetry. All the figures in this literary history of “a botched civilization” — all the funny, forgotten, and made-up names — acquire flesh, color, and life through Pound’s effort at renunciation. All the bad habits of “vers libre, Amygism, Lee Masterism, general floppiness” get to enjoy their moment of technical demonstration before they become garbage. In spite of the astringent tone, the poem is as full of “life and contacts” as the alternate title promises.

The life of “Mauberley” is its lovely, off-kilter rhythm. This rhythm is seductive and unique — there’s nothing else like it, at least not in poetry. (The edits in movies like The Conformist and Petulia, with their use of flashforwards, have a similar effect.) The poem stops, it goes back, gets stuck, repeats — then it lunges ahead very fast. It draws together materials from various ancient civilizations, and meanwhile, as early as the second poem, it starts cataloguing its previous moves, treating itself as its own sourcebook. That’s what I was trying to translate from Pound’s poems into mine. Is that the quality of “goodbye-hello” that you mean?

Lerner: Yes, that’s one of the great things about Mauberley — how you can feel it becoming archive as you read. It’s already using itself as a source text; in that sense your series is more of an extension than a displacement. And what you’re saying about the quality of “goodbye-hello” — that it’s largely a function of the poem’s prosody — is something your series proves. You reduce a poem with an almost parodically wide range of vocabulary (I always have to look up “mousseline,” “barbitos,” etc.) to a severely restricted language field, and yet the affects of the original are preserved, which reveals them to be largely formal effects. (Maybe this is a version of the conventional renunciation as foil for virtuoso display: you would think the radical reduction of vocabulary would be an austerity measure — a disavowal of the pleasures of rarefied language — when in fact it intensifies the life of the poem.)

But that’s not to say you ignore the paraphrasable content of the original altogether. 

Kunin: Well, I tried. In some poems, you can see how hard I tried. For instance, “A can of rats” translates Pound’s “Envoi.” I wanted to do something special for this incredibly beautiful poem. The “Envoi” begins with what feels like a dismissive gesture, “Go, dumb-born book,” where the masochism of the speaker has turned the “go, little book” trope into something rather nasty. And somehow the same poem ends with the almost pure lyricism of:

When our two dusts with Waller’s shall be laid,
Siftings on siftings in oblivion,
Till change hath broken down
All things save beauty alone.

For me, the challenge was to follow this stumbling path from irony to beauty.

I was helped by the belated recognition that Pound was translating another English-language poem, “Go, lovely rose,” by Edmund Waller. By a lucky coincidence, I happened to be reading Waller just before I started writing. This discovery gave my poem its own path from the prosaic to the lyric. Contrary to my usual procedure, I did not follow Pound’s syntax, lineation, or punctuation, and instead introduced a new, shorter stanza based on the rondeau. I tried to bring the concerns and wording of the “Envoi” closer to its source, to translate Pound back into Waller. I also took from Waller the suggestion of marking a caesural pause with a dash. As a result of this confluence, my poem really is about what Pound’s poem is about: beauty as atomic fact, a kind of transportation without transformation.

Lerner: But Pound’s poem is also about a historical moment — about losses both personal and public.

Kunin: I didn’t have such good luck there. Two poems, “Anyhow, we do not complain” and “We know what choice we have,” translate the poems that Pound wrote for his friend Henri Gaudier-Brzeska. I like to think that my translations successfully communicate some of the charm and energy of Pound’s portrait of his friend, and the anger occasioned by his loss, and the waste and confusion and abstraction of the war.

One theme in those poems was beyond my reach. In a crucial substitution at the end of Pound’s fifth poem, the “broken statues” and “battered books” become roughly equivalent to the “botched civilization” that Gaudier-Brzeska fought and died for. Since he was also a producer of culture, a sculptor, the statues and books may be offered as inadequate compensation for his death. My friend is gone, but at least I have his art to remember him by. In addition, the statues and books represent some of what civilization lost when Gaudier-Brzeska died: if he had lived, think of all the great sculptures and books that he could have made. Finally, the poem suggests something about Gaudier-Brzeska beyond what made him the best at what he did, something beyond his artistry and therefore not replaced by his art (whether he lived long enough to make it or not), and this extra something is represented by his smile and glance. 

None of this shows up in my poem — not the calculations, not the ambivalence, and not the unique expression of Gaudier-Brzeska’s face. The social inventory of “Mauberley” is missing. The base vocabulary was not great for direct verbal portraits — I had “eyes,” and I could make them “wide” or “narrow,” and there were certain feelings and expressions that I could intimate — all mere suggestions and indirections, although I suppose I could have used them more imaginatively. I never even came up with a good equivalent for the idea of “an art in profile.” Instead, for the most part, I substitute my own nervousness for Pound’s portraiture. (For a new version of “Mauberley” focusing on the “art in profile,” I would recommend Brian Kim Stefans’s wonderful “Pasha Noise.”)

Lerner: One significant change between your poem and “Mauberley” that I keep pondering is the shift from the third person to the second. (I don’t know if “he” is in the reduced vocabulary; maybe that’s part of the issue.) In the original, Pound creates a persona, H.S., that he can load with his own characteristic (thereby composing Pound’s Ode Pour L’Election de Son Sepulchre). But in your translation, where we expect the poem to shift the author’s attributes onto a third party, we encounter “you”: not, “He strove to resuscitate the dead art …” but “You wish to begin the dance.” 

Hard not to hear Pound’s definition of logopoeia here — “the dance of the intellect among words.” It’s as if the author sat down to model Pound’s creation of a persona, a “he” he could distance himself from, but he was interrupted, usurped, at the beginning of the poem (dance). It seems to me that your hand is addressing you — showing you who’s in charge.

Kunin: That wasn’t deliberate or necessary. I always had two third person pronouns in the vocabulary, both “he” and “she.” In the first series “he” appears only in one poem, “What’s your pleasure, brother?,” where the figure elsewhere called “the moron” is identified as male. I didn’t even notice that I had used “he” once and “she” not at all until years later, when I was preparing to write the Sore Throat poems. Then I thought, okay, this time gender should be in the foreground; I’m going to use a lot of “he” and “she.”

Keeping in mind that the tendency to substitute “you” for “he” was purely intuitive, let me propose a retroactive justification. I was treating “Mauberley” as a repository of lyric genres. To me it was the Greek Anthology, a collection of every kind of lyric — blessings, curses, romantic complaints, hymns, odes, epitaphs, everything. All of these genres really are in “Mauberley,” but if you want to bring out their lyricism, it might help to emphasize apostrophe, because lyric usually means a poem in which a first person appears and speaks to a second person who does not appear. Maybe if I’d thought more clearly about this problem, I would have chosen a different source text, “Homage to Sextus Propertius” or even Cathay, where the lyric affiliations are more on the surface.

As for “the dance of intellect among words”: I did actually translate this phrase in the second poem as “The dance of the mind about the word.” A close translation, I think. More often, though, “dance” and the imperative to “keep up the dance” refer to the halting rhythm that I love so well in “Mauberley.” The rhythm, not the themes, drew me to the poem in the first place. I mean, does anyone go to Pound for the content? 

Lerner: I agree with you that “Mauberley” can be thought of as a repository of lyric gestures, gestures that could be brought into relief by apostrophe. But I want to press the notion that the author here is as much the object of address as he is it’s subject. We know that “he” (H.S.) really means “I” (E.P.) in the original; this makes “you” mean “me,” at least at the poem’s opening. I think this shift is crucial to what you describe in the note on method as an “inversion” of “Pound’s psychological experiment”; it’s a refusal of the attempt to go outside oneself, the internalization of the split of persona. Maybe your unconscious knew what it was doing: this shift was “intuitive,” the availability of third person pronouns was repressed (“until years later”).

Kunin: I’m open to the idea that my hand could know something that the rest of me did not know. At the same time, I would not want to give up on the idea that my hand is part of me, and if my hand knows something, then that’s my knowledge too (even if I only have access to it through my hand).

It’s true that I did not avail myself of certain third person pronouns in the Mauberley poems. But this does not mean that the poems are written in one voice, or that speaker positions are fixed. There are a number of third person figures, like the moron and the rats, and they sometimes speak in their own voices. The most obvious reading of “A can of rats” is that it’s spoken in unison by the rats; the demand for “change” in “What’s your pleasure, brother?” is also attributed to the rats as a group. Even the first poem includes some narration as well as apostrophe, and I’ve never been able to decide who is speaking in the last quatrain, whether the original speaker just keeps talking, or whether the addressee replies. Maybe the addressee mishears liking (in “I like you as you are”) as likeness: “I do not know what is ‘like me.’” (That line could be a slightly doctored quotation from Henry V, in which case Catherine of France is the speaker.)

Lerner: You mention your desire to inhabit your hand vocabulary as fully as possible in the note on method, “because [you] really believe that the part of yourself that you’re most ashamed of is interesting and can be used as material for art.” What’s so shameful about your hand alphabet or the habit that produced it? What is the relation between this kind of automatic writing and shame (the affect around which Folding Ruler Star is organized)?

Kunin: Shame can attach to any object. (Adam Frank, Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick, and Silvan Tomkins have written about the “binding” tendency of shame.) I can feel shame for my voice or for silence, for being stupid or smart, for nervous hand gestures or stillness, for dressing extravagantly or simply. The objects acquire the strength of the feeling that I, by compulsion, put into them. 

Think of a rat encountered on the sidewalk, or a centipede on the wall in the kitchen. The rat and the centipede mirror me, because I am also on the sidewalk or in the kitchen. They are part of me — or we are both parts of the same whole — and they know exactly how I feel about them. The rat knowingly wields the full power of the disgust that it inspires in me. That is why it seems utterly without fear; that is why I move to give it space on the sidewalk. The rat disgusts me, and the disgust shames me, because what is the difference between me and the rat?

David Larsen once asked me what I learned about rats from writing these poems, and I was stumped. I said something like: David, I’m not a zoologist! He asked a good question, though, and I didn’t like my answer. You know, having spent a month of my life writing and thinking about rats, I should have something to show for my studies. Now, years later, it occurs to me that I may have learned something after all; maybe the defiance of the collective voice of the rats reflects this knowledge.

Lerner: You seem OK with transferring human feeling to rats. And yet the rats at one point in these poems demand “the thing in itself.” On the jacket of the book, there is a long (and I think accurate) list of genres and situations your poems explore, including: “riddle, cosmogony, theodicy, vanity, and misplaced concreteness.” I’m interested in that last term, that fallacy.

Kunin: We poets are in the business of misplacing concreteness. Where does concreteness belong? A Platonist would say that a building is less concrete than the number 12, since it would be difficult to destroy the number 12. A Marxist would say that concreteness pertains to social structures rather than individuals.

Whitehead, who names the fallacy of misplaced concreteness, has a peculiar sense of the proper place of concreteness. He derives the technical term concrescence “from the familiar Latin verb meaning ‘growing together.’” According to Whitehead, in order to concretize something, you have to connect it to a lot of other things. You misplace its concreteness when you limit its position to one place or one moment, or if you assign its qualities to your own perceptions. Thus Whitehead says that the poets, not the empiricists, are right to give credit to “the rose for his scent, the nightingale for his song, and the sun for his radiance.”

In poetry, there are no secondary qualities: the song is in the nightingale. For this reason, Whitehead congratulates us, the poets, for keeping concreteness where it should be. But the other side of the picture is that we misplace it. Tropes mix up the abstract and the concrete, the temporal and the eternal. Images dematerialize objects. The line cuts time into space.

Lerner: As a transition to the translations of Pelléas et Melisande, the book’s second source text, it might be worth noting that the boundary between these two parts of your book is fluid, hard to mark. Is this book one series with two sources? Two distinct series?

Kunin: I prefer to think of the book as a collection of poems. In the introductory note, I acknowledge the relationship between the poems and the sources, but I don’t want to make too much of it. The groups of poems are not clearly articulated; they run together, and there are competing versions of The Sore Throat. (To my mind, the title of the collection suggests that there is one genuine poem called “The Sore Throat,” and the rest are “other poems.”) The poems don’t acknowledge their sources either. Each poem can be read on its own, without reference to the source texts, the other poems in the collection, or the hand alphabet.

Lerner: Another way to put the question might be: is the problem of Golaud the same problem as the speaker(s) in “Mauberley”?

Kunin: When I wrote the poems in the first series, the vocabulary felt inadequate to the content. Not many words to begin with, few substantives, almost no particulars. And the particulars tended to be overparticularized. In the first poem, “Jesus” appears in place of Pound’s “Penelope.” In the second poem, I used the compound word “hard-on.” Not one of my happier inspirations: “a prose kinema” becomes “a machine hard-on.” In both cases, I remember thinking, a little goes a long way; I shouldn’t use that word again for a while. I didn’t want the Christian or phallic element to overwhelm the others. The machine and the rats, on the other hand, were richer concepts for channeling universals into particulars.

The problem felt very different in the second series. Suddenly it felt as though I could say anything with these 200 words. I’m not sure why. Maybe I was just more comfortable in the vocabulary. There were more words than before, and I created still more words by systematically reviewing possible compounds, particles, and elisions. I squeezed words out of other words: “mess” and “age” made “message,” “thinking” broke into “thin” and “king,” and so on. Also, the dirty secret of this project is that there may not be more than 200 words in Maeterlinck’s vocabulary!

Anyway, I started working with Pelléas, and discovered that I could translate it kind of faithfully, which hadn’t been the case at all with “Mauberley.” But I didn’t want to do a faithful translation; I wanted to write a new poem. Instead of using Maeterlinck’s decisions to guide mine, I used his text more impressionistically, to suggest themes or occasions.

Lerner: “The poems don’t acknowledge their sources either. Each poem can be read on its own, without reference to the source texts, the other poems in the collection, or the hand alphabet” — why the note on method? Why the “knowledge blobs”? (You seem fond of paratexts — your novel had a summary and an index.)

Kunin: The preface and the postface are supposed to communicate some information about the process of composition. (In the case of the postface, this doesn’t necessarily mean accurate information.) The goal is for the process to live in the object, like in a Marianne Moore poem where you get to see the sources, their provenance, some of her drafts — you’re watching her put the poem together. This is a modernist value that I like. As a reader, I want to see all the decisions that go into making a book. I don’t want to replace the book with a conceptual scheme, but I want to see the method of its composition. To revert to the terms of my limited vocabulary, I affirm “the machine” rather than “system.”

Lerner: You model many of the stanza patterns of “Mauberley in your translation; Pelléas et Melisande, however, is not in strophes. So where does the (often wild) structure of The Sore Throat come from? Does it have any relation, however oblique, to Pelléas?

Kunin: The stanza patterns are not based on Pelléas. I introduced them because I wanted a pattern of shapes, a pulse, on the page, and there wasn’t anything like that in Maeterlinck.

Like lines, the shapes of stanzas have a rhythm. In a sense they do what the line does: they transport material, only they do it vertically. Also, unlike the line but more like an arrangement of city blocks or a seating pattern in a bus, this rhythm doesn’t measure anything; it’s just a pulse. (In Spenser, and I think in Dante, the stanza is actually a metric — this is one of the calendrical pretensions of the Shepheardes Calender — but these poets are unusual in attributing significance to the numbers of their stanzas.)

We were talking earlier about Whitehead. His chapter on “process” derives all of metaphysics from the first two lines of the hymn: “Abide with me; / Fast falls the eventide.” Permanence and change: something abides, and something falls with overwhelming speed. This “complete problem of metaphysics” is a target for art. Coleridge describes an improbable folding of variety into unity in his effusions on the Spenserian stanza: “That wonder-work of metrical Skill and Genius! That nearest possible approach to a perfect Whole, as bringing the greatest possible variety into compleat Unity by never interrupted inter-dependence of the parts!” I don’t think that’s an overstatement. The stanza tracks movement against persistence in time. I sometimes think of it as a hydraulic operation: you’re trying to control a fluid moving through a channel.

Lerner: Speaking of fluid mechanics, the “machine” is everywhere in this book. We’ve largely been discussing the mechanics of your composition, and sometimes the machines you’re describing seem fairly exact figures for the poems’ procedures. The hand alphabet, for example, could be “a machine / for concealing your desire.” And making that machine into art could even be considered “inventing another / machine for concealing the / machine.” But your machines are also technologies of expression, e.g. “machine of weeping,” “a machine hard-on.” I’m interested in the way the machine is alternatingly expressive and repressive, or how repression passes into expression, often against the wishes of the machinist: “Every machine / has more beauty than the last, / for everything whose purpose / is to conceal seems to change, / in the end, into a sign / of what it’s concealing.”

Your poems also address the mixture of metaphysics and mechanics described in your answer above: “Dear machine — // You are not so much a brother / To me, more of a god, I guess.”

Kunin: I’ve written a lot about machines. Why is that? I’m not mechanically minded, and my relationship to the machines that I use is primitive: I depend on them, but I don’t know how they work, and I don’t have any genius for making them work.

I tend to write about machines as machines. Always the general term. Maybe I don’t see a useful distinction between levels of technology. Complexity does not belong only to electronics, and beauty does not belong only to handcraft. Kitchen equipment and software give me the same problems, more or less.

You’re right to say that my machines are expressive. I have a poem in Folding Ruler Star about how mechanical emotion basically is: “it’s precisely in // blushing crying and / loving that they are / most machine-like.” I hope that doesn’t sound like behaviorism. I’m not trying to reduce the mysteries of psychology to a set of predictable responses. I see emotion as mechanical in two ways (and I guess these must be the two senses of “the machine” in my usage). First, emotion repeats. My responses are personal — perhaps no one else has quite the same pattern of responses — but they describe a definite pattern; and each response reflects and magnifies itself. Second, emotion is a force, and it treats you as an object. It’s the experience of being moved, after all. Somewhere in every emotion is a vertiginous pleasure in being an instrument. The Stoic tradition that sees emotion as a kind of bondage may be on to something; for Marcus Aurelius, the only measure of freedom in a deterministic and eternally recurring universe was to behave as though his emotions did not touch him.

Lerner: At certain moments in the book, the machine seems to be breaking down, or maybe you’re attempting to “invent / a machine for disinventing.” I’m thinking of those poems where syntax more or less collapses:

Can see, in my, me a, say that you think
Nothing, head you, gain you, it’s all you see
But you won’t see, must not, right if I won’t
Begin, we can’t, no rats, left
Seeing, begin report, left

I can’t tell if the machine is failing or if it’s receiving or giving instructions — “left” at the right margin starts to seem like a command to return to the left margin, to break a line; “begin report” sounds like an imperative, maybe to reboot. What’s going on here?

Kunin: I see why you describe the syntax as breaking down or broken, but I would take a different perspective. I think of these poems as something like graffiti. Other poems in the book have a chiseled quality, but here I was imitating a different kind of public writing, not just terse but crude, diagrammatic. These are elementary combinations of words, not built up into anything complicated. The phrases are short, sometimes incomplete, and linked by comma splices, and you can also read through the commas and combine phrases across the lines. Part of the point is to expose the machinery, to show the elements of the word list and how they fit together. Here is the skeleton, and here are the joints. The main point is to achieve a tone efficiently, using the simplest means. The operation is similar to the translations of “Mauberley”: drawing a diagram of a poem’s tone.

Lerner: Did you ever watch Star Trek? Data — who was an android — was always baffled, as Spock before him, by human emotions. But this bafflement was of course quite human; really it made Data the most human character on the show. I remember one episode where Data is playing a violin solo and, like everything Data does, it’s technically perfect — he’s incapable of error. But one of his companions tells him that he’s missing something, that, while his performance is flawless, or maybe because it’s flawless, it lacks an emotional charge, and so it isn’t really art. This is a version of a familiar opposition between virtuosity and sincerity, or, in Coleridge’s language, between mechanical and organic form. It sounds like you reject this opposition and the Romantic critique of Data’s performance.

Kunin: The root meanings of mechanical and organic are almost the same. “Machina” means “device,” and “organe” means “tool.” The etymologies are not related, but the concepts they name are quite close. Both mechanical and organic form are formal; that is to say, they organize parts into wholes. As Sol LeWitt clearly states in “Paragraphs on Conceptual Art,” the difference between them is not that the former is totally controlled while the latter is absolutely free. The difference is where the controls appear. Mechanical form makes all the decisions at the start of the process, and organic form makes new decisions at every step.

What has to happen for Data to become “a machine that makes the art” (to borrow LeWitt’s phrase)? Silvan Tomkins, whose writing on shame is important to me, has an intriguing suggestion. He says that machines will never be intelligent until programmers stop behaving like overprotective parents. In order to be intelligent, the machine has to learn, and in order to learn, it has to be able to make mistakes. But the designers and programmers never let them do that. In a sense, Tomkins proposes organic form as a model for artificial intelligence. Not every decision can be made in advance.

On the other hand, you might hear something surprising if you gave a violin to a robot — even a highly disciplined robot such as Data, whose name suggests that he is only information. The robot follows instructions perfectly, but a lot of the sound that you expect to hear coming out of a violin isn’t going to be in the instruction manual. Certainly it isn’t in the sheet music. Even a Norwegian choir (human professional musicians, not Norwegian robots) can make “The Star-Spangled Banner” sound new and surprising. The Norwegians aren’t used to hearing the song in school and at baseball games, so their stylistic decisions will be somewhat unprecedented.

What Data does with the violin should have its own distinctive sound. He might invent a new fingering. Or maybe he doesn’t use his fingers. Maybe he pays attention to bowing but not tone, so his violin has a scratchy, old-timey sound. Or maybe his mimicry of concert styles of play is uncanny in its perfection, but what styles does he know, and how does he choose one style rather than another? Provided that he is sufficiently curious, Data has a freedom that would not be available to most classically trained musicians, and he should be able to satisfy the Romantic criterion of creating a sound that no one has ever heard before. Why wouldn’t he take advantage of that freedom?

The sung word

Caetano Veloso in 1979

Caetano Veloso

The following interview was first published in 1980 in Código, a review edited by Erthos Albino de Souza in Salvador (Bahia), a publication that today is a collector’s item. Erthos financially supported several major projects by Augusto and Haroldo de Campos, such as their edition of selected texts by the forgotten poet Sousândrade and the complete edition of Poetamenos, a volume of poetry by Augusto. He was an engineer who worked for Petrobras and used his computer to experiment with poetry. I can’t remember the date of his death. I remember instead a generous person who promoted cultural initiatives.

In December 1979, Caetano Veloso was in São Paulo, I believe for a tour of his show Cinema transcendental with the group Outra Banda da Terra. Incidentally, that year, the Brazilian Congress, which at the time was controlled by the military, approved a law that granted amnesty to political prisoners and those who had gone into exile, persecuted by the dictatorship. The vote was preceded by a popular campaign that was violently repressed. And although the law was favorable to a redemocratization of Brazil, it made it impossible to punish acts of torture committed by agents employed by the dictators, something which is criticized to this day.

Two years ago I found that an Internet blogger, Barbieri, had republished the interview on his blog, Do próprio bolso. I was surprised to find that someone knew about Código. I decided to republish it on Sibila as a result of my encounter with the poet Antonio Cícero in Brasília. Although we are separated by geography, Cícero is a dear friend. He put together the panel “Poem/Music Lyrics” in the seminar of Portuguese-Language Community Countries, where I spoke on the state of the Portuguese language in the online domain. Sitting in the audience during the discussion period after this panel, I argued that to compare a poem to popular lyrics limits both genres, because their natures are quite different. Lyrics normally have short lines and few stanzas (Bob Dylan being an exception).

To consider a popular song’s lyrics a poem is to create a closed, suffocating model for the poem and for poetry. In this way, there would be no Mallarmé, no Hugo Ball, no Walt Whitman, none of Apollinaire’s calligrammes, no João Cabral de Melo Neto, none of the exceptional concrete poems by Décio Pignatari (such as “organismo,” as can be seen at YouTube), which Caetano used in his film O Cinema Falado. There would be no George Oppen, no Charles Bernstein. A song’s lyrics need the body of the song; in contrast, the musicality of a poem can be silent: it doesn’t need to be read aloud nor with musical accompaniment.

Furthermore, one cannot impose literary “models” on song lyrics, since lyrics are an eminently oral genre. They are connected to spoken language, such as the brilliant lyrics by Lamartine Babo. There are countless differences between poem and song lyrics that I don’t want to get into here. They may have converged at certain points in history. This is an old topic and there’s nothing new to be said about it, despite Dostoyevsky’s dictum that “There’s no topic so old that something new can’t be said about it.” I was never a huge fan of Música Popular Brasiliera (Brazilian Popular Music). This was my loss. In the 1970s I listened to MPB due the fact that I knew Caetano Veloso. It was thanks to Veloso that I discovered names such as João Gilberto, Doryval Caymmi, Lamartine Babo, Noel Rosa, Jorge Ben, etc.

Godard directing the Rolling Stones in his film One Plus One (1968).

In my youth I listened to the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, Jimi Hendrix, Bob Dylan, the Doors, Johnny Winter, King Crimson, Muddy Waters, blues, rhythm and blues, Motown. And, starting in the 1990s, I listened only to cool jazz. About five years ago, I began to listen to rock and roll again, especially the Rolling Stones of Beggars Banquet (1968) and Exile on Main Street (1972) as well as Some Girls (1978). I know that Bob Dylan, the Beatles, and Jimi Hendrix are much better, but there’s something, among a number of things, that attracts me to [the Stones]: the lyrics are used as yet another musical instrument. Mick Jagger doesn’t even pronounce the words completely. He distorts them in a personal, original way. Jagger and Richards never intended to write “literary” lyrics. They were always my favorites. Instead of having written the song “Rocks” in his album , perhaps it would have been better for Caetano to rerecord “Stray Cat Blues,” from Beggars Banquet. It would have been better for him, for his sense of humor. 



Both poetry and MPB, or pop music, became unoriginal “replicant” entities after the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989. The Rolling Stones today are a caricature of themselves. In the 1950s and 1960s, MPB had only three top-notch lyricists: Vinícius de Moraes, Caetano Veloso, and Torquato Neto. I speak without a lot of knowledge or authority. There are others. But I don’t know if one can take the exception as the rule: the lyricists I’ve mentioned, in their best moments, are rare, although even so, they may not be poets like Baudelaire, just as good poets are rare nowadays. Nowadays, Ferreira Gullar, whose work is uneven (repetitive and sparse at times), is considered “the greatest Brazilian poet alive.” I would add, “the greatest poet” in this lifeless, dull vacuum that Brazilian poetry has become nowadays. The exuberance of the irrelevant, to use the formula a friend coined. The great lyrics by Dylan or Lennon were never considered poems in the English-speaking world.

In Brazil, people confuse the word “poetic” with poetry. Caetano’s impact in the 1960s and 70s was poetic and mistakenly thought of as poetry. (I know that Antonio Cícero disagrees with me about this.) In fact, there’s no more access to education, and criticism no longer is there to raise suspicion, but rather to “sell” musical products and highlight caricatures of poetry most of the time. Culture is a corpus of knowledge that allows someone to have a critical stance. Here, in Lula’s Brazil especially, this means traditional, conservative, and commercial forms of expression. There’s a cultural blackout in this country, and few voices are being raised against it. Read, for instance, what Manuel Cruz, a philosophy professor in Barcelona, has to say (in “El ocaso de las ideologías,” published in El País, September 26, 2009):

When transparency is taken for granted, that is the immediacy between knowledge and the world, criticism disappears as an overseeing, articulating instance which gives rise to doubt. If the statement that things are such as they appear is generalized, that reality does not hide its sign. There is no longer the possibility of critically appealing to certain instances (such as the profound structure of capitalist society) when trying to explain things. Such instances would thus develop their activities from the realm of shadows.

We are condemned to the realm of shadows, to literature as sociology, to the “rubberstamp” prizes granted by multinational corporations and governments, to cite György Lukács, to “capitalist realism,” the captive mind, as Czesław Miłosz described it. We are also condemned to axê music, to the sanitized carnival, to pagôde, to soccer, to the same old soap opera, “celebrities”: in a word, the “customization” of popular culture, the adaptation of products and processes to the “consumer’s” taste.


Last Tango in Paris

Caetano is incoherent, but his incoherence was liberating in the 1960s and 1970s as opposed to the leftist, “boutique” coherence of Chico Buarque, with his nostalgic, “poetic,” out-of-date lyrics, a Chico who is more of a felicitous replay of some songs by Orestes Barbosa and by Noel Rosa. Okay, so he composed protest songs during the dictatorship. Okay, so it was his way of seizing the contemporary moment. Songs, therefore, can’t be reduced to ideology; they are not an “instrument.” Songs must exist in their own right. Chico represents the paternalism of the society described in Gilberto Freyre’s classic The Masters and the Slaves. Caetano’s incoherence, for his part, led him at times to a certain cultural irresponsibility, especially starting in the 1990s. He is a prominent figure, and it would have been useful if he had assumed more responsibility. Still, though, I prefer his legacy as is — his consistency — over that of other figures of his generation, and even of those who came after him. (I do like Cazuza.) I agree with the summary two American critics, David Bertrand Wilson and John Alroy, give of Veloso’s work at their site:

Caetano Veloso has been […] the foremost exponent of “Tropicalismo,” a Brazilian approach combining traditional samba with a variety of Caribbean, US, and European styles, political enough to get most of its practitioners exiled by the military dictatorship. It’s more an attitude than a musical style per se, a mysterious, sophisticated blend capable of incorporating anything from hard rock to opaque elegies to delicate love songs to elevator music. […] He has a typically Brazilian complex approach to harmony, and can craft a simple melodic hook with the best of them. His voice is rather ordinary, and his guitar playing is more notable for his timing and drama than technical skill, but he’s a huge talent and a fascinating character.

In the meantime, the most striking thing about my encounter with an already mythical Caetano in the Eldorado Hotel in Higienópolis (São Paulo) in December 1979, when I had hardly begun to write poems, when I was an “ingénue,” was that, thanks to him, I met Maria Schneider, the star of Last Tango in Paris, directed by Bernardo Bertolucci. The plot of the film is a simple one: in Paris, an American middle-aged widower who owns a hotel finds a teenager in an empty apartment. The couple starts a purely sexual relationship in which they don’t even reveal their names to each other. The hotel owner is played by Marlon Brando; the movie was filmed in 1972, but it was released in Brazil only in 1979 due to the censorship restrictions imposed by the military dictatorship. Maria Schneider was in Brazil to promote the film at the time, and she was annoyed with the journalists, who only asked questions about Last Tango and knew nothing about her subsequent work. Schneider, who was born in France and played Jeanne in Last Tango, was, at age twenty-seven, at the peak of her beauty when I saw her like an apparition, an angel’s face, dark curls, and incensed. The scenes of Schneider’s frontal nudity were liberating at the time. And the movie became a great success. The actress was right to complain about the press: in 1975 she had worked alongside Jack Nicholson in the movie The Passenger, by another Italian director, Michelangelo Antonioni: a film which for me was crucial, even more so than Bertolucci’s. Insomnia ends up affecting one’s memory; I remember, however, that she excitedly asked Caetano about Maria Betânia, that Caetano was suddenly disappointed with her question, and that she complained about the local journalists.

— Régis Bonvicino, May 2010 


Bertolucci directing Marlon Brando and Maria Schneider in Last Tango in Paris.


Bonvicino and Veloso in Conversation


Régis Bonvicino: In Lennon Remembers: The Full Rolling Stone Interviews from 1970, John Lennon revealed that his favorite lyrics where those that stand on their own, so to speak, without melody, the ones that, at the end of the day, work also as poems on paper. That reminds me of the Galician-Portuguese troubadours. We don’t know their melodies and we only know their lyrics, which, even without sound, work marvelously as poems on paper. Would you use that same criterion in relation to your lyrics? Which are your favorite ones? Why?

Caetano Veloso: No, that criterion, in reality, is the opposite of mine, because what I’m interested in is the sung word.

Maybe that was the route that led the Provençal and the Galician-Portuguese troubadours to make poems that ended up being beautiful even without the melodies. Maybe that was the route, that thing about having the word already with the musical sound.

I believe that John Lennon’s criterion can be more or less that one, but I don’t know if, in fact, that is the one that corresponds to his poetic reality.

I don’t know … it could be that, a posteriori, after a long time, people can read lyrics without music and like them.

I think that when Lennon made that statement he meant that he was more linked to the text, you see? He quotes — if I recall correctly — “Across the Universe,” which he considered a very beautiful poem even without the music, but when he talks about how the poetry of rock and roll is great, he immediately remembers Chuck Berry and some things by Little Richard. He talks about stuff that you know is wonderful because they are those rock songs, and he found everything wonderful, very important without having read them on paper before.

About my lyrics, I wouldn’t know which ones I like best — it depends on the period. For example, the other day I was suddenly scared because I realized that lately I haven’t written my own lyrics. For the LP Cinema transcendental, I only wrote one partially on paper before writing the music: it was “Oração ao tempo” (Prayer for the Time). I wrote a few stanzas and I then immediately found a melody for the first stanza. Then I decided to repeat that melody for the rest of the text. I wanted everything to have the same meter, the same rhythm. Therefore, it was the only one I wrote on paper.

Tarso de Castro’s journal Enfim asked me to send some unpublished lyrics before the record appeared in order to publish them. I sent them “Lua de São Jorge” (St. George’s Moon), “Oração ao tempo” (Prayer for the Time), and “Menino do Rio” (Boy from Rio). The one I liked the most was “Lua de São Jorge.” I typed them up and didn’t pay much attention. I sent them to the journal, and they only printed the last two.

I find the lyrics of “Menino do Rio,” when I sing them, dazzling. I love the line “O Havaí seja aqui” (May Hawaii be here). It has something Afro to it. But when I saw it printed in the journal, I thought it was retarded, stupid. The line isn’t stupid — on the contrary, it’s quite beautiful when it’s sung! “Oração ao tempo,” on the other hand, stood its ground better, it could be read.

The sung word is, in sum, another type of raw material that is related to the written word and the spoken word, but that cannot be reduced to either. The sung word works, perhaps, as a synthesis of the other two; it has performed at least that function. Enjoying the word in a state of poetry has always been more intense in the arena of popular music that in the others.

Perhaps this phenomenon has to do a bit with fatigue, fatigue of the visual, of visual communication, of reading. At the end of the 1960s, McLuhan’s talk about that stuff was perhaps an indication of such a fatigue. The visual failed. The ear is something much more absorbing, more participatory. Sound comes from everywhere; it penetrates every pore.

Perhaps such a fatigue is temporary. Things come and go. I don’t believe that things go forward, as if there could be a kind of progress. I don’t share the Western idea of linear progress.

Cover of the double compact disc Caetano Veloso e Os Mutantes (1968).

Bonvicino: Although the production environments of “music poetry” and “paper poetry” are different, and perhaps even opposed (the first is linked to buying and selling relations of exchange, and the second isn’t), you said a little while ago that you didn’t make a distinction between a song by Jorge Ben and a poem by Augusto de Campos, both tasty morsels to you. Could you say a bit more about that?

Veloso: There’s something in your question which is not entirely true: the idea that “music poetry” is linked to exchange relations while “paper poetry” is not. That’s not true. I think they are both products, with the difference that at the moment, as a product for sale, “song poetry” has had greater success. It’s a market issue. The difference between one and the other is not the environment, but the level of intensity in terms of production and consumption. There is no difference or opposition. In reality, they are both the same; they exist on the same planet. Books can be sold, poetry can be a product, like a record. It’s just that written poetry hasn’t been successful from the 1950s on. And not just in Brazil, but everywhere in the world.

You said that “paper poetry” doesn’t have a real existence, right? Yes, it does. Let’s be modern — what’s happening is that paper poetry is going through a market crisis.

I don’t know why that happens. Maybe it’s a matter of the history of Western languages, a moment in the internal “swing” of those languages. As I mentioned, it’s a planetary phenomenon. The interest in the production and consumption of written poetry is no longer what it used to be. There are very few people writing a responsibly poetic poetry, with a link to what’s great in the history of poetry, and, on the other hand, few people buy any kind of written poetry, you understand?

Lately, there are a lot of people writing a lot of poetry, but it has no strength, it’s an empty animation. Nobody knows whether something good will come out of that context.

I believe that the distinction you make in your question is not precise. I personally don’t distinguish between things; I don’t separate popular music from classical music, etc. I don’t carry with me the idea of the “nobility” of the material. I detest that. Scientifically, you can separate the various forms of artistic expression, but I believe that that kind of perspective is old-fashioned. It doesn’t correspond anymore to today’s lived reality.


“Brazilians are very poor”

Bonvicino: Could you talk more about popular music? Why is it so strong in Brazil?

Veloso: Brazilian popular music is, in all senses of the word, very abundant. It is the only artistic expression in Brazil that is not poor. In reality, it is an aberration in Brazilian society: it’s different. Nowhere in the world does popular music matter as much as it matters here.

Popular music always manages to support itself, always manages to get enough resources to stay strong, something that doesn’t happen with written poetry, with film, with theater. It generates push, national pride. It has the mission of expressing the country.

A generation like mine, with Jorge Ben, Gilberto Gil, Chico Buarque, Paulinho da Viola, only managed to succeed because other good people were there before.

Not even in the United States is popular music as strong as it is here, because Americans also have other things. “There they have money, cars, lawns, food / all of that is cool,” to quote a verse from Paulo Leminski. Brazilians are very poor; they don’t manage to get together to get anything done. But in the midst of such chaos, popular music somehow works. Popular music is the philosophical expression of the country. It is much more important than all the college-educated people of all ages who already wrote about all the complicated things in the world. Popular music is a more totalizing expression of Brazil, a more direct one. It doesn’t mess with noble materials because Brazil is not a noble country.

I believe that the “paper” poets are in a more general way linked to a European tradition, and popular music is something more linked to the Americas. When it appeared, the Americas were already around. In that way, it is somewhat like cinema, and, at the same time, it is music because it is a very old thing.

Bonvicino: That would be the “transcendental cinema” of your album …

Veloso: Yes, precisely that …

Bonvicino: Since I have the chance, I’d like to ask you to speak about your legendary album Araçá azul (Blue Araçá).

Veloso: Araçá azul is not grade-A “Xingu Indian chic,” like the things Egberto Gismonti has been doing. It’s something else, not “Xingu Indian chic.” I’m more of a follower of Oswald de Andrade than of Mário de Andrade or the Brazilian Academy of Bossas. Even today, I find Araçá azul wonderful. I even make a reference to it in the song “Aracaju” on my last LP.

I wanted to make that record alone so I would be more uninhibited in the studio, because, for me, the recording studio is a very intimidating place.

It was only me and the sound technician, Marcus Vinícius, working in the studio. Later, I called several people, like Duprat, Perna, and Lanny, to complement what I had done. I love the result, especially that stuff with the conversations, the voices superimposed on body percussion, percussion on the skin.

But the sound was messed up. I didn’t know anything about recording in a studio. If I had the chance to do it again, I would do it with more depth and nuance in the colors of sounds. But nowadays I don’t feel like doing something similar anymore, mainly because, right after I launched Araçá, Jorge Ben’s record, Ben, came out, also in 1972, with songs like “As rosas eram todas amarelas” (The Roses Were All Yellow), “Quem cochicha o rabo espicha” (Who Brings a Tale Takes Two Away), “Taj Mahal,” and “Fio Maravilha,” an absolutely brilliant piece.

Then I thought to myself, wow, I did Araçá, and it looks like I’m an “artist.” I was mad, my God, I did that crazy album and everyone is going to think it’s an intellectually challenging, important work when in reality the really great record is Jorge Ben’s, incomparably better. Mine was a joke — I was mad about the kind of respect it elicited. I did Araçá in one week; it wasn’t my most elaborate work, as some of the critics said. I was mad because the great work was Jorge Ben’s.

A 1979 cartoon by Ziraldo in O Pasquim illustrates the ambiguity of the amnesty law.

Bonvicino: For my generation, the “spoken word,” the fascination for the colloquial, the oral, for the communication possibilities that exist in the oral, were just as important as the incorporation of the visual for the poets gathered around Concrete Poetry. In that sense, your poetry or Gilberto Gil’s are just as important, if not more, for my generation, than the poetry of Carlos Drummond de Andrade, João Cabral de Melo Neto, Augusto de Campos, or Décio Pignatari. What do you think of that?

Veloso: What about Chico Buarque?

Bonvicino: Before you answer my question, I’d like to explain why I didn’t mention Chico. With the exception of the view of women, in songs like “Folhetim,” I find his poetry old, a kind of 1950s lyricism, a mix of Vinícius de Moraes, Carlos Drummond de Andrade, and Manuel Bandeira. I think he needs a more electric side. He has that kind of good Brazilian guy thing, which is quite dull.

Veloso: I find it quite understandable that your generation likes our work more than that of the “paper poets,” to use the expression you coined. It’s good for our time. That makes you similar to other people, which is great. I also find it fascinating that people who are writing poetry (as opposed to songs) are connected to popular musicians.

Now, going back to that first question, when you quote Lennon’s phrase, you can clearly see there that there’s an interconnection between the poets and us songwriters. Deep down, we’re the same. By chance, by luck, we ended up leaning towards popular music. But, you see, we are also connected to the world of letters, of ideas.

All popular musicians were educated. Dylan talks about William Blake all the time. Lennon about Lewis Carroll, and he even says that when he read James Joyce, he identified with him quite a bit.

I also want to say that I don’t agree with what you said about Chico Buarque. He is all the things you said, but he is wonderful. He goes forward dragging tradition behind him, all of which matches his astrological sign, Gemini.

Chico writes in a wonderful way, the sung word in his work reaches the highest levels, it attains perfection, you see? But, indeed, he does have that kind of “nice Brazilian guy” thing. I, for instance, feel like a Swedish man in Brazil.

But I think Chico is marvelous. He is the super-Vinicius, the super-Drummond, the super-Bandeira with the spontaneity of Dorival Caymmi. The sung word in him is incredibly smooth. And you know that I think Dorival Caymmi is the best, the mother of the sung word, a genius.


Lennon’s “God”

Bonvicino: Do you, a poet-musician, close to black people, close to “paper poetry,” believe in the future of that kind of poetry, or you think that if Mayakovsky, for instance, was alive, he would have switched paper for a guitar, would have moved from Moscow to London or New York or Salvador (Bahia) and would sing, “Well, I’m goin’ to China to see for myself / Goin’ to China, goin’ to China / Just got to give me some rock and roll”?

Veloso: I do think it has a future. The very fact that written poetry stopped having an audience and entered another level of information is something that points to certain needs in man, which, at any moment, could explode again. As I said, everything is cyclical, breathing doesn’t stop, there may well be a genuine interest in “paper poetry.” I repeat, what’s happening now is that written poetry is in a market crisis. In the future, who knows, it may be that people will again feel the need to read, to take a piece of paper and write. The poetry that is written today may be pointing in directions that, although unknown at the moment, might eventually be successful, become hits. Nobody knows for sure.

Now, that image you suggested of Mayakovsky singing “I’m goin’ to China” is perfect.

Bonvicino: I don’t know, I always imagined John Lennon as a pop reincarnation of Mayakovsky. For me, they’re both warrior poets, impetuous bards … I don’t know, it could be my imagination …

Veloso: No, that’s a lovely story. Mayakovsky was actually quite pop. But, Lennon is the rock musician I like best. He’s my favorite because I love the Beatles. I like the Beatles more together. After they separated, the only record I find brilliant is Plastic Ono Band, from 1970, with the song “God,” by John Lennon. I love both the lyrics and the music in that album.

Bonvicino: That record you just mentioned, from 1970, was accused at the time when it came out, just like your own albums Muito and Cinema transcendental now, of being musically sparse, of having poor arrangements, of being a garage band thing.

Veloso: You see, and it’s a classic, right? But going back to what we were talking about earlier, Paul McCartney is also great. He is a Gemini, like Chico Buarque. He also drags tradition behind him, he joins the habitual to new proposals. John sometimes gets a little dull when he starts to invent too much, as for instance, in that song he made for Yoko Ono, “I want you (She’s so heavy).” But Lennon is my favorite.

Take for instance, Bob Dylan. It took me a long time to like him. I found his stuff too long, too rhetorical, too wordy, too metaphorical. His stuff is hard to understand, and I liked brief lyrics much better. I didn’t enjoy long lyrics. But I ended up liking him a lot, and today, I like him a lot. He is a wonderful singer. He’s like Donald Duck with a social consciousness, as Paulo Francis says, quoting an American. Dylan did make a poetry that was to be recited, because he came from that line of the folk blues spoken song.

Bonvicino: And what about Jimi Hendrix?

Veloso: I happened to be in London when he died. He even died near the house where I was living. Even today, I find him wonderful. At the Wight Island Festival I was close to the stage and Hendrix played a series of new songs. He didn’t elicit the kind of excitement that was expected, although he was well received. Then, all of a sudden, he stopped and said, “You want all of that old stuff?” Standing close by, I yelled, “All of it.” He turned around and winked at me.

Bonvicino: So you were blessed by one of the gods from up there …

Veloso: Hendrix was cute, sexy, he seemed like a little Candomblé boy from paradise … he was smiley, he had a light-hearted expression, not that tough demeanor on his album covers. That was the wrong kind of marketing.

São Paulo, December 5, 1979


Listen to Caetano Veloso singing “For No One,” by the Beatles, and “Tropicália,” with Andreas Kisser, on YouTube

Tropicália (1968)

Caetano Veloso

Above my head the planes
Under my feet the trucks
My nose pointing towards
The plateaus
I organize a movement
I orient the carnival
I inaugurate a monument
In the country’s Central Plateau
Long live the Bossa — ssa — ssa
Long live huts from straw — traw — traw

The monument is made from streamers & silver
The green eyes of the mulatta
The hair conceals behind the green forest
The moonlight in the sertão
The monument has no door
The entrance is through an old, narrow, crooked street
A kneeling, smiling, ugly dead child
Stretches out its hand
Long live the green land — land — land
Long live the multatta — ta — ta — ta — ta

In the inner patio there’s a swimming pool
with blue water from Amaralina
Coconut tree, Northeastern breeze and talk and lights
In the right hand a rose bush
Legitimizing an eternal spring
In the gardens vultures stroll all afternoon
Amidst sunflowers
Long live Maria — ia — ia
Long live Bahia — ia — ia — ia — ia

On the left wrist bang-bang
Little blood runs in his veins
But his heart swings to a samba and tambourine
Playing dissonant chords
From five thousand loudspeakers
Ladies and gents, he watches me with big eyes
Long live Iracema — ma — ma
Long live Ipanema — ma — ma — ma — ma 

Sunday it’s “Fino da Bossa”
Monday it’s the dumps
Tuesday he goes to the backland. But
The monument’s pretty modern
He said nothing about the tailoring of my suit
To hell with everything else
My dear
Long live “A Banda” — da — da
Long live Carmen Miranda — da — da — da — da

—translated, from the Portuguese, by Odile Cisneros. This interview was conducted by Régis Bonvicino in  1979 and originally appeared in Portuguese in Sibila.

Eight discourses with Kim Rosenfield

Kim Rosenfield.

Discourse 1.

Divya Victor: As the epidermis opens a body, the epigraph opens a book. Your choice of epigraph to the first section of Tràma takes from Natalia Ginzburg’s The Little Virtues. Ginzburg is an expert taxonomist of the domestic remnants, the civil debris, the uncivil de-ballasting of National reconstructions, and an archivist of the things that remained buried after “we” rummaged through the debris of wars, of traumas, of losses great and small. In this, she is also like a gravedigger and her work is never done. Your Tràma, like her work, often excavates, devours, and inverts that pleasing Anglican claim “All things bright and beautiful, / All creatures great and small, / All things wise and wonderful, / The Lord God made them all.” In Tràma, the treatment of cultural memory, fable, mythology, and childhood appear equally invested in cures as in casuistry, in curation as in curiosity, in dreams as in demonology — the latter in the sense of Frankenstein warning Walton that what is created will become a myth, and thus more dangerous than the act of creation itself. What the Lord God made includes these things in the argument moving through your book.

The movements of Tràma’s body musculate, like all good physical activity, provoking the sphincters that emit and excrete — generating waste and wonder in the same convulsion by digesting and rehearsing the texts that are passed down from mouth-to-mouth to record the trans-historic journeys of “Poor Little One,” the “guys,” the various scoundrels, orphans, assassins, the “Beautiful Child with Turpentine Hair,” unnamed Little Match Girls and boys of fairytaledom, and the texts that are buried in the earth to form “History City.”

I read an archive of small things treated as if by a lepidopterist: spread, pinned, boxed, and gazed at — except the lepidopterist is also a mighty historian and an amateur storyteller with a terrible memory. The narrative Father, cultural memory, the “proper place,” are usurped repeatedly by an angry mob or miffed Möbius that twists and continues the tales. Even as the epithets march forward briskly (“Some people bust with violence because they are sensitive to rumor and take big breaths to fan themselves against persecution”), they are immediately assaulted by their own skidding on the banana-peel-syntax and prosody of these prose pieces.

Could you say more on the musculature of the book? What went in, what came out, and to what processes of appropriation and excavation did you devote your writerly lepidopterology? What of the species interests you?

Kim Rosenfield: First of all, Divya, I want to thank you and Jacket2 for giving me this opportunity to delve with you so deeply into my own work.

The musculature of Tràma was based on Winnicott’s idea of “the mysterious middle” in which the infant takes in nourishment, excretes it, but there’s this magical strange thing that happens inside the infant’s digestive tract that is like pulling a rabbit out of a hat — I guess one covered in shit! Tràma’s exists in an infant-like state in which there are fragments of a self and disjunctive experiences of self and experience, but coherence or how the world is navigated has to come from an outside organizing subjectivity: the mother, the reader. Also, there are no brakes on fantasy — fantasy is magical and terrifying at times. For adults and small children alike there are often many blurred spaces.

I wrote Tràma shortly after the 9/11 attacks, when we’d just moved to Florence, and my daughter was three and synagogues in France were being bombed and water in the Tibor and drinking water in Rome had almost been filled with poison, and trains were being exploded in Spain and my Italian neighbors said to me “welcome to the world.” I was like Poor Little One in a spoiled state of wonder, naïveté, and pure shock. Tràma moves like the larvae before it is caught as the specimen, before it looses hold on “potential space” — Winnicott again.


Discourse 2.

Victor: I’m enjoying the way you are playing with the metaphors of the questions. Particularly that of digestive processes and lepidopterology, and I must thank you for indulging my whimsy. The shit-covered Rabbit that represents the “mysterious,” “magical,” “potential” processes of an infant’s digestion — that space which both inundates the economy of the drives, but also floods categories of what is and is not abject and worth ejecting, and the larvae that pre-exists the lepidopterist’s fancy: these both, excrement and butterfly, are specimens par excellence. We’ve relied on them foreva to tell us more about ourselves. This makes new things, by the way, of Alice going down the Rabbit hole — something quite appropriate for how I feel when I read Tràma — except, the timelessness of Alice’s fantasy world is, in your work, something that resembles the emerging history of a subject in the context of (psycho)analysis.

This leads me to wonder about the role of speech, voicing, the circuit of listening in Tràma and your mutual participation as poet and psychotherapist. Consider the following:


page 49, snip snip, from Tràma:

I am speaking to you, Poor Little One. You who knows the sweetness of salt, who believes that money can be gotten from seminaries, and who recognizes the right to camp as a last Will and Testament …

I don’t understand you — said Poor Little One, who began to tremble with fear. Patience! I will speak better: Sapiens put all their errors into their Cities.

from “6 Valentines,” snip snip, from Object 8:

Sacrifices may not result from
recognizable diseases
The girl retains the figure of her
hears a noise: a tick, a knock, or a tap
A woman should protect herself
against the sin
of sexual exploration


The instincts and their vicissitudes
the genitals being one’s real self,
they must be protected
Two little girls in a closet
from the “boy struck” period
Didn’t you ever shimmy down a pole?
Or rupture that bubble? 

Dora the Oral Explorer, aka Dora La Exploradora Oral, is adventuring all over the Freudian landscape of the latter piece, and I sense too a working through of constructions of subjectivity around the mouth, the genitals, the orifices of edification, if we’re talking Old School. This seems to emerge later in Tràma as well — I recall, especially, one of the characters suffering a “night kaka” when he falls into a bear trap? In Tràma, it seems like the history of a subject, say Poor Little One, is a dossier or confabulation that builds around the kernel of an allegorical narrative between the ego and what he says — except, what he says is never clear, formally. The shuttle between speech and narrative forces a double listening, like an auricular double-take — as you say, because there are “no brakes on fantasy” — so, what moves us is the slip of the tongue. I am thinking too of Lacan’s reminder that the analyst “takes the description of an everyday event as a fable addressed to the wise.” This seems like a great and reversible description of some of the processes in your prose. I believe your work as a psychotherapist is in a different vein, but would you say there is a circuit between the speech-based work of psychotherapy and the project at hand? How does your own faith in a circuit between audition and vocality relate to how you work as a poet? 

Rosenfield: I really don’t think that we can ever express anything very well through language but it’s (sometimes) the best or only thing we have at our disposal. So much happens outside the aforementioned circuits that is transmitted “unwittingly” in both writing poetic texts and being involved in a co-constructed therapeutic matrix. Yes, emerging histories of a subject in the context of psychoanalysis, but psychoanalysis as its own “sobject”[1] is also one of the histories in the room. What reflects off what?

Like the discovery of mirror neurons that help us understand the meaning of actions as well as actions themselves — this is a neurological function, well outside the limits of language. I think, in my writing, I’m trying to channel my own mirror neurons or at least some collective societal ones. In my clinical practice, I’m trying to do the same while also incorporating someone else’s hard and soft wiring into what organizes me, them, and us. In my poetics, so much more of this can come through in a live reading.

I haven’t seen those Object poems in one million years. I hope I didn’t come across in them as Old School, although they feel very old. I was trying to illuminate the limitations of the Old School. I was trying to enliven constructions of subjectivity through orifices of thinking. Right now, if you were here, you’d see me tweaking my mouth and clenching my buttocks to illustrate this point.

Next discourse please …


Discourse 3.

Victor: The critique of Old School — what a strange phrase now that it also refers to a Will Ferrell movie! — is apparent in several texts in your oeuvre, Kim, from the older poems from Object to more recent work like 10 Perfumes put out by Belladonna, and poems featured in the Gurlesque Anthology, and so on. Your poems from Good Morning — Midnight —, like “Excelsior Reflector” and “Maximum Sapiens,” appropriate, cite, and mangle a wide range of cultural texts from scientific treatises and medical brochures to archaic now “bankrupt” biological theories of race, psychological case studies, pop magazines, cephalic indexes, anthropological texts, canonical literatures, and so on. In “Excelsior Reflector,” for instance, I spot references to William Langland’s Piers Ploughman. In 10 Perfumes, the thematic movements from the ephemeral fragrance of essences towards the putrid stench of political and materialist critique pulses with citations of/to F. T. Marinetti’s work. 

These citations suggest ways of reading and attention as classification — but of failed or partial classification, which is very compelling. The intricacy of the network of references certainly multiplies, as you say, “the histories in the room.” But these histories reject the total bankruptcy of some of the documents they are built around, while also eyeing them suspiciously. This is the position that echoes both the shock and naïveté that you referenced earlier — the potential, blurry space of encounter with texts that precedes ideological judgment/acceptance/dismissal that are the symptoms of a (ahem, ahem) “Proper Education.” The larval engagement with many of these cultural materials, prior to pinning them down in the lepidopterist’s archive, is routed so as to return us to questions of gender and the semiotics of gender performance within the contexts of reading. So, to return your question: “What reflects off what?”: would you consider appropriation a way of reading, or re-reading a gendered cultural education? 

Rosenfield: Yes, I would, but more as yogic counterbalance — moving opposing forces simultaneously in divergent directions engenders (pun intended) new flow (associations to this word welcome). Please see eloquent discussion above for a fuller answer to these questions. Also, I was raised with an extremely airtight and problematic relationship to authority — respect it at all costs, even if it might harm you, so therein lurks the tension or “blurry space” of my encounters with the Old School. Sadly, some of these archaic theories are not as “bankrupt” as they should be — think Sarah Palin or see Sue Grand’s essay on Sarah Palin — “Strange Vaginas: Us and Them.”[2]


Discourse 4.

Victor: Arielle Greenberg, one of the editors of Gurlesque Anthology, makes an interesting claim about your poems featured in the collection: “Here, as elsewhere in Rosenfield’s work, fashion is made central, adored and fetishized while criticized and deconstructed. The two attitudes coexist in ragged harmony.” I think she’s spot on in claiming this “ragged harmony” — it’s another kind of “blurry space” that we keep returning to in our conversation between the “fetish” and its “deconstruction”; it’s another way of thinking of those erotic zones posited by the difference between a hem and a sock, a sleeve’s end and the hand’s beginning, a lash line and an eyeball, a stiletto and the coy ankle. These raggedly (arbitrarily) demarcated zones of the imaginary body are flayed open as spaces of critique in your poems.

The work takes what we misname “superficial,” like fashion and the semiotics of gendered performance, to its critical end: as an absolute surface for social projection and identity formation in the citation of codes. These codes appear as commodities in your work to crowd every girl’s “own Blueprint for Heaven” as she performs the “unwitting burlesque of base female crime” as an “ever ready & waiting Xerox machine.” Could you say more about your interest in surfaces of projection — the fumus of perfume, the mirrors of fashion, the glad cladding of appropriated robes? How do you imagine the “unwitting burlesque” of the feminine and feminized? How does it relate to your participation in this anthology and your participation as a female poet? 

Rosenfield: The work featured in the Gurlesque Anthology is older and very specific to themes of fashion/gender that I was working with at the time. This “ragged harmony”(I really like Arielle’s explanation here) of toggling between both an adoration and critique of these topics was really being sorted out in that text, Good Morning — Midnight —. I was also working out my position in the community as a young female poet who was interested in all the complexities of fashion, makeup, perfume, adornment, and personal/physical aesthetics that I felt were somewhat taboo subjects in my community, or at least considered insignificant. Stacy Doris was the only other writer I knew at that time also investigating these themes. There was an implicit rejection — I felt — of the feminine then, and, being so femmy myself, I had to find a way to work through what I perceived as a gender barrier.

I’ve since shifted my thematic focus less on fashion and more toward science — see re: evolution — and a psychological, linguistic, yoga zone that I can’t really describe — see Lividity forthcoming from Les Figues in 2012. I’m applying the same ragged harmony in that work to blur up a dominant discourse or to carve out a more interactive field that has always been the organizing principle in my work, both as a writer and as a psychotherapist.

Lately I’ve been thinking about this structure as an “as-if” or “invitational” space. When language becomes invitational, posited as a “try-on” rather than “this is so and has always been so,” we begin to experience it as a realm of possibility in which we can consider our most cherished personal and cultural assumptions to be tentative — as if — rather than unchallengeable truths. The as if stance of language helps us accept responsibility for our own belief systems and assumptions. 


Discourse 5.

Victor: Kim, at the end of my interview with Vanessa Place, I asked her to ask one question of the next interviewee, and I will ask you to do the same when we approach the end of our conversation.

Her question to you was this:

Quel est le point de basculement? [3]

What is your response?

Rosenfield: Le point de basculement implique certaines conditions:

Le prix du petit déjeuner comprend un boisson (café, thé, chocolat) servi dans la chambre tous les jours avec du pain, des petits pains ou des croissants, du beurre et parfois de la confiture.

Il ne comprend pas le service dans la salle commune ou au comptoir, le breakfast à l’anglaise (avec oeufs, jambon, gruau …); il diffère généralement du tarif “voyageur” ou “courrier.” [4]


Discourse 6.

Victor: I enjoy the way you’re linking the tentative “trying on” and the responsibility that one does/does not/must/must not assume “for it,” and I am particularly fascinated by what you’re calling an “invitational space” — I was just talking to my students about gender roles and performing dominance, and we got to discussing the current obsession with vampires as upsetting certain ideas of sexual dominance (their argument, not mine) and the issue of the invitation, in which the so-called “victim” must invite (“let the right one in” etc.) the so-called “perpetrator” into a zone in which she can be nominated as such. New vamp/ire ethics. Though the analogy fails here because the reader and writer are more neck-to-neck than necking, imo … anyway. This is perhaps the fanged inverse of your notion of the invitation, but it’s the risk that’s interesting too — that difference between hospitality and hostility has, perhaps, “ne s’entend pas pour,” it is, perhaps implied as, a certain condition.

This praxis of “trying on” does lead me towards your re:evolution more directly — the dialectical somersault between adaptation and maladaptation of forms and “truths” towards the “as if” of creaturehood. There are fantastic mutations and malappropriations in this book, where taxonomic relations between art and the cosmetic are smuggled into Picasso’s studio in Helena Rubenstein’s handbag, where “molecules hang like dinner lamps,” where the exhibition of organs in formaldehyde with furs, bones, and skeletons conspires as a “small collection of deaths,” where vocality is troubled and everything speaks in tongues. The varieties of discourse cited and the types of address to the reader within the poems, as well as the multiple authors “present” in the form of the book, confabulate and fraction out polyvocally.

The book is part of Les Figues Press’ Trench Art: Tracer Series, and in keeping with the tradition, features an introduction by Sianne Ngai, an “analysis” by Diana Hamilton that follows your poems, and a “Research Paper” by Jennifer Calkins. But these genres are parodied even as they are mimicked — imitation as camouflage? These writers respond, collude, conspire, and discuss your work, but seem to do so in a temporality quite different from other book-forms that contain forewords and afterwords. They seem to talk alongside, or with, or over, evolving, mutating, and adumbrating the possibilities of the poems, rather than concluding them for us. How would you describe the process of putting together this form of the book? Do you see it as a collaboration? Other than these writers who are you presently colluding, conspiring, and in conversation with?

Rosenfield: The invitational mood has little in common with the vampyric coding of domination/ submission, victim/victimized, as I understand it (or don’t really understand it at all). But I like this idea from your students that permission needs to be granted, consent must be established before the ultimate takeover. It’s all so titillatingly S/M. I don’t think my work has that kind of direct play with power but is more blurry or muted.

The invitational mood is about this idea that language and ideas are a “try on.” In re: evolution I’m attempting to invite the reader in to formations of history, to shop theories of science, gender, etiquette to browse and see what fits or what doesn’t. My aim is to offer an invitation to break from inherited ideas of “truth and meaning” by offering multiple constructs of language and ideas. Language can thus become an open system of “accumulative fragmentism” (George Kelly) challenging ideas that language gives us access to the way things are. I’m very interested in Irit Rogoff’s work and her ideas of “without.” Without is a frame that encompasses knowing we have a vast array of theoretical models and histories to work from. But what happens when we’ve come to the edge of what they have to offer? We don’t turn our back on them but find ourselves in a new place that does not yet have a form or definition. Without doesn’t operate through lack, but rather through an active attempt to make way for something else to emerge. In re: evolution I was trying to work from that space.

Putting together re: evolution was a very collaborative process. Me, Teresa Carmody, Vanessa Place, Sianne Ngai, Diana Hamilton, Jennifer Calkins, Yedda Morrison, Ken Ehrlich, Susan Simpson — we each contributed a piece to shaping the book and taking it outside the nucleus of the text. Like literary lysosomes! The images and accompanying texts both articulate and mess up further the “authority” of the form and content of the text. Or as you so evolutionistically put it: “mutating” and “adumbrating” the text.

Currently and always, I’m collaborating, conspiring, colluding, and in conversation with my family, my pets, my patients, my study groups, my poetic community, my neighbors, my neighborhood, my city, my state, my country, my race, my gender, my sexuality, my socioeconomic class, my DNA, etc. But I would like to make something with the Mulleavy sisters if they’re listening, and the newly minted ghost of Benoit Mandelbrot.

Discourse 7.

Victor: A question sprouted up today: I was reading a new essay by Judith “Jack” Halberstam and was suddenly reminded of something you had said earlier in our conversation about authority and behavior, something that I too feel quite acutely. I know we are not talking about this, per se — but I am very curious about what you make of this.


We need to craft a queer agenda that works cooperatively with the many other heads of the monstrous entity that opposes global capitalism, and to define queerness as a mode of crafting alternatives with others, alternatives which are not naively oriented to a liberal notion of progressive entitlement but a queer politics which is also not tied to a nihilism which always lines up against women, domesticity and reproduction. Instead, we turn to a history of alternatives, contemporary moments of alternative political struggle and high and low cultural productions of a funky, nasty, over the top and thoroughly accessible queer negativity. If we want to make the anti-social turn in queer theory, we must be willing to turn away from the comfort zone of polite exchange in order to embrace a truly political negativity, one that promises, this time, to fail, to make a mess, to fuck shit up, to be loud, unruly, impolite, to breed resentment, to bash back, to speak up and out, to disrupt, assassinate, shock and annihilate, and, to quote Jamaica Kincaid, to make everyone a little less happy! (from “The Anti-Social Turn in Queer Studies”)


I was raised with an extremely airtight and problematic relationship to authority — respect it at all costs, even if it might harm you, so therein lurks the tension or “blurry space” of my encounters with the Old School. (Discourse 3)

Query: Is there a place in art, as you see it right now, for disobedience, for being a total and excellent bastard, for this claiming of the “anti-social,” for this examination of the fetish of happiness, for the “monstrous”?

Rosenfield: First of all, I love this passage from Halberstam and think her work is extremely important. What I gravitate toward here is the idea of failure, messiness, “disobedience,” as you name it. All these ways to speak of the “anti-social” in poetry offer an attempt to open a new window of discourse (most notably in Flarf and Conceptualism). There is some meta-overlap with queer theory (and we really can’t say this about mainstream poetry that is defined by a long history of lyricism and modernist tradition) in that both are not widely accepted discourses and both certainly do not aim to make everyone happy. I think my work attempts to create that space by fragmentizing subjectivity and trying to do away with the frame that values something as either inside or outside, high or low. I think claiming the “anti-social” always demands roughing up what is culturally considered smooth.


Final Discourse.

Victor: You said that your next book, also coming out from Les Figues, will continue your thematic interest in science as in re:evolution and will move in a “psychological, linguistic, yoga zone.” The title of the book, Lividity, is provocative: it recalls the centrality of the intersection between affective, ethical, and biological responses to the environment that is taken up throughout in your work. I’m thinking especially of “livid” stemming from “bruise” or that bluish blackening of the flesh that suggests both the stagnation and the circulation of blood upon psychic or physical crisis/impact. “Lividity” also suggests “vividity” — both stagnation and exuberance of life forms — and usually refers to expression either of the countenance or verbal forms. But I know nothing else of the project. Could you say more about it here? Is/was this book built around the collaborative model of re:evolution?

Rosenfield: I first heard the term “lividity” in a description of a murder trial in which a body was determined to have been moved based on an assessment of its “lividity,” or way in which the blood had drained and pooled in the points of the body that made contact with the ground. I thought this was an amazing way to think about language and I wanted to make a book in which it felt like blood was draining out of the text, hence a few words/lines per page. I’m not sure if I really pulled this off as I’m prone to excess, so we’ll see. I also like this idea you bring up of “vividity” or “exuberance of life forms” and “expression of verbal forms. The book also deals with language as acquisition, and as a transactional medium, like money — necessary and functional, imbued with power and emotional. I think of Lividity as more of a lone wolf and it won’t be constructed as communally as re: evolution was.

Victor: Kim, talking with you has been an incredible experience, and I am so grateful for the time you’ve spent with my questions. My only wish is that we had face-to-face conversations in addition to this.

Rosenfield: What a pleasure to talk with you vis-à-vis your astute interpolations of my work. I learned so much! Thank you for your unwavering attentiveness.

Victor: At the end of every interview, I request one question from the interviewee for the next interviewee, as a way of generating continuity and conversation between poets, and also as a way of constructing a series of questions that the interview process might have generated for you. Your question, should you choose to provide it, will be put to Myung Mi Kim, verbatim.

Rosenfield: Question for Myung Mi Kim: What is the role of poetry in your personal life and how do you see poetry’s function in the social/political sphere?



1.  For more on “sobject,” see Rob Fitterman and Vanessa Place, Notes on Conceptualisms, published by Ugly Duckling Presse.

2.  Sue Grand, “Strange Vaginas: Us and Them,” in Psychoanalysis, Culture, and Society 2009.

3.  “What is the tipping point?”

4.  “The tipping point implies certain conditions:

The price of breakfast includes a hot drink every day (coffee, tea, hot chocolate) served in one’s room, with bread, rolls or croissants, butter, and sometimes jam.

It does not include: service in the common room or counter service, English breakfast (with eggs, ham, porridge …), and it generally differs from the “traveler’s” or “postman’s” menu.

Seven discourses with Vanessa Place

Vanessa Place.

Discourse 1.

Divya Victor: Let’s start at the very beginning. As Fräulein Maria knows, it is a “very good place to start.” Ontology, ab ovo, is obviously obstinate in its negative tie to its Other, and so let us start at the beginning while also always considering the end. Since in the beginning, according to the KJV, was the Word, and since there are those who know that imago Die is merely imago and that the Word is merely Other to its fictions, let us begin with signification and begin too with its death.

Bataille claims that “the fundamental right of man […] is to signify nothing.” This fundamental right meets its socially constitutive Master in the constitutional right of free expression.

Vanessa Place: The big fuck you to the big O, aka “I love Daddy so.”

Victor: His wish for squander, that nonproductive expenditure that frees an expressive body from its expression, meets an interdiction implicit in the prohibition against “abridging the freedom of speech.”

Place: Query: What is the difference between freedom of speech and freedom of expression. We have the right to one, not the other. Stricto sensu.

Victor: That is: to enjoy the freedom to signify, one must signify compulsorily. 

Place: So capitalism sanctions the production of meaning. Or meaning meaning production.

Victor: The prime amendment of the United States allows for the curtailment and cordoning of Bataille’s fundamental right into verbal responses which are always productions of an interdiction to speak. This may be read as a violation of the Bataillian right “to signify nothing.”

Your Statement of Facts[1]  takes up this problem of signification in the multiply transcribed speech acts of witnesses, appellant, or arbiter providing testimony. It takes up, in its conceptual frame, the difference between signifying bodies and enunciating bodies, both through its strategies of transcription, appropriation, and re-transcription, as well as through the poet’s performance of Statement of Facts. From the illocutionary act of the appellant/witness testimony to the poet’s enunciative act in performance, how does the production of verbal signs from so many speaking throats change in significance and in its signification?

Place: Simply put, the change is from speech act to act-act. From an act of rhetoric — which is the fundamental act of law and of poetry — to a rhetorical act — which is the nullified verdict, the a-poetic. 

Victor: To please (or plead) the Fifth Amendment, here — what is the relation between the right to silence, the appellant’s speech, and the problem of the poet’s “ventriloquy” of another’s speech?

Place: Note that I assert all rights, particularly by proxy. I am a mouthpiece, if (and) nothing else. Thus “I” have no right to silence. I have noted in another context the infra-thin of violence is the random facticity of its victims. The infra-thin of speech is another context.

Victor: I’m wondering about appropriation and aesthetic pilfering in relation to the clause “nor shall private property be taken for public use” in the Fifth Amendment. What is the status of voice as property? 

Place: What is the status of violence as property?

Victor: Is speech as substance?

Place: “As” is very good here.

Victor: Is aesthetic arrangement “public use”?

Place: Let’s agree to avoid the vulgar Marxism of the violence of property. After all, Othello knew what was worth murdering.

Victor: Ay, ay, Captain.


Discourse 2.

Victor: In a recent interview with James Wagner[2] Vanessa Place said: “Therefore, my sense of choice is commensurate with my sense of duty: I am always writing something, though sometimes I am mostly typing.”

Along with the comment “‘I’ have no right to silence,” here, I note a divining (or dividing) line between the compulsory and mechanical: the Romantic notion of the imaginative agent …

Place: … and/or the Renaissance notion of the imaginative agent as a disseminating meld of the re-remade rather than a dividing one.

Victor: It is crucial that the “I” with the “I-Rights” is “in quotes,” no?

Place: We enter the realm of the sobject[3]  here, where divination is anybody’s game.

Victor: Certain conceptual projects have been charged with being embarrassed about the subject (“subjectivity”), the personal, of the function of imagination — whereas I think, of course, in some key recent projects, we see a vigorous recapitulation and redefinition, rather than excision, of these concerns. 

Place: Decapitation as well, and frequent lancing.

Victor: To be a little perverse towards Arendt, in “Truth and Politics,”[4] I’d say she argues that the imagination is the faculty that combines the “ability to lie” and the “capacity to act.” It produces the liar as the “man of action” who performs, in speech, a utopian wish for things “to be different from what they are.” Her analysis is that the performance of the lie “belongs among the few obvious, demonstrable data that confirm human freedom.”

Place: Kant would agree.

Victor: We might introduce her to Adorno: “By emphatically separating themselves from the empirical world, their other, they bear witness that that world itself should be other than it is; they are the unconscious schemata of the world’s transformation.”[5] Adorno’s claim is that art emerges in polemical relation to the world, as an index of things that are not as they should be.

Place: He also reveals himself as slightly sentimental, in the Objectivist sense.

Victor: We might bring Lacan to the dance floor to trip Adorno and say that art is an index of things that are as they are not.

Place: And which therefore most certainly are. Stephanie Taylor’s work, for example, is about creating artifacts of alternative narratives whose artifactual status confirms the existence of the alternative story (materializes) and whose material constraint (the object must rhyme with its material properties) belies its strictly artificial ontology (dematerializes). Thus, the schema shifts from are/are not to are ⇔ are not.

Victor: While Arendt’s argument belongs in the realm of mediatized political rhetoric, bringing it into the aesthetic realm helps me to read your Statements as a performance of the minimal difference between the “lie” and the fictive, the artificial, the aesthetic. It helps me situate your work in relation to other key projects that step on that minimal line between the appropriative and the imaginative within a minefield of the historically “accurate,” where the promise of enunciated truth is the specter haunting Nuremberg, so to speak, such as Reznikoff’s Testimony and Holocaust, and Backer’s transcripts.

Place: And Pound’s Cantos, of course, though the thumb is on the other side of the scale.

Victor: Could you say more about the why (if) the strategies of appropriation, collage, and proceduralism, and the effects of citation, documentation, and so on, were important to Statement of Facts and La Medusa, in particular, and arts practice in general? How might these strategies be related to the work of the imaginative agent as a liar? How does the aesthetic category of the “lie” offend, impinge upon, and mediate your occupation as arbiter?

Place: There is no other honest way to write. Though I reject “lie,” as it implies “truth.” As I have noted elsewhere, there is no possible truth, just things that could be true. That have an appearance of truth. This is not a rejection of empiricism as much as a concession of finitude. Thus, everything I say is true and not, false and not. There is no difference between stuff I make and stuff I take. 


Discourse 3.

Victor: The transcription and appropriation of speech and various textual materials in Statements brings the crisis of the response “I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth” into the aesthetic field and make it art’s wager; its Hippocratic/hypocritical/ hypothetical oath, its promise to act.

Place: And only act.

Victor: In the “act-act” of borrowing language from the scene of legal enunciation/testimony, the project nests the problem of enunciation within the greater problem of vocality and identity. We may learn from Benveniste (and his peculiar and singular position as a linguist who suffered from aphasia) that enunciation does not refer to an utterance or she who utters, but only to the fact of it having taken place.

Place: Idem.

Victor: Agamben infers from Benveniste: “enunciation makes it possible [for us to] distinguish in [a] statement between what is said and its taking place.” As such, the enunciation of the speaking body “represent[s] a non-semantic dimension precisely on account of this identification” and refers to the “absolutely singular and unrepeatable event of discourse.”[6] 

Place: Exactly this and exactly so.

Victor: So, might we (irresponsibly, hypocritically?) extrapolate that even as one enunciates, it is precisely the act by which the speaking subject structurally disavows and takes distance from the link that connects the semantic content of speech to her body?

Place: We must say this. Repeatedly.

Victor: Is it the enunciatory act which simultaneously names the agent of speech and makes her unaccountable for what has been said? The stakes of disavowal and ventriloquism in aesthetic practice, particularly in the strategies of transcription, appropriation, and the poet’s performance are very different, as you’ve already intimated in your comment “I am a mouthpiece, if (and) nothing else. Thus “I” have no right to silence.” This becomes particularly important in your work (esp. your Factory project and Statements), where authorship and speakership are multiply erased, disavowed, ventriloquized, and re-divined/re-defined. Could you say more your thinking regarding the role as “mouthpiece” and its implicit interdiction against “silence” and how you view the demand for “accountability”? What is the proper place for “disavowal” in art?

Place: I believe “I” am the proper place. Though there is also a place for silence. As act-act as well. Though “disavowal,” if we refer to your earlier note about agency, implies a claim, yes? We can then draw the link between disavowal and disclaim, which can be profitably confused with declaim, so that the act of declaiming is as well a disclaimer. Put another way, my only responsibility or duty is to act without speaking via speech. My accountability is that of a site or place-holder: whether that place is my own or that of another is immaterial to the materiality of the act itself. When I do not speak during a performance, that has as much ontology as when I do — sometimes more, depending on the expectation of the others. Too, there is necessarily a sobjectivizing in enunciation, all enunciation. We can be coy about it and halo ourselves with our others, whether they be a passel of imaginary friend-readers or that rough bitch Muse, or we can accept it as the bone of existence.


Discourse 4.

Victor: I too believe you are the “proper” Place of disavowal in art. I have, in believing, put myself in your place. Which tows me directly towards your Factory Project with Ood Press. In this project, you’ve worked with several authors, including Stephanie Taylor, Kenneth Goldsmith, Charles Reznikoff, me, and some unnamed masked typists. The works that appear in this growing series of chapbooks appear to be authored by you and also appear to be authored by not-you.

This raises some very interesting problems about authorship and what we’ve been saying about disavowal. I am reminded of that gorgeous moment of the repressive hypothesis which founds the sign for Freud — that negation of negation which comes about when, in speaking, the analysand does not feel inclined to let an association count, disavows her association or relation to a rupture or accidental emergence. The Factory project plays with a reluctance to let an association between an author and a text count, so to speak, and doubly negates that negation by negating Vanessa Place as “author” of the negated relation and thereby installing “Vanessa Place” as author. “Vanessa Place” is the new accidental emergence, or, that awkward dream about one’s Mother sitting on the toilet, or, the establishment of the sign. “She” is the new laminated alphabet, the dead author embalmed and killed again.

Place: Norman Bates’s murdering mother, if the review was a movie.

Victor: How did the desire for this project manifest?

Place: Chapbooks are sweet as kittens; there’s no point to them, but plenty of surplus affection. Whereas appropriation of the contents of a book or a blogslice or a journal submission or a Twitter feed has a purpose, there can be no purpose to authoring a chapbook — its very purposelessness thus became an irresistible field for failure. “Vanessa Place” is the author function that is functionless while a functionary. Which acts as a double negation in the case of a reanimated authorship that is patently false. Stillborn, yet born again, again to be stillborn.

Victor: How does this evolving set of texts provoke your assumptions and arguments about “authorship” more generally?

Place: These texts move things in one direction even as text itself is moved in another. Interventions, which are a vulgar way of denoting generativity, are overall more surgical, more overtly obscene. And as sometimes necessary and un- as obscenity and surgery. As noted, you have to approach something with an indifference, as if you had no aesthetic emotions. Gradually, this comes to be true. The price/reward of authentic authorship is this absolute indifference: isn’t it interesting.


Discourse 5.

Victor: The declaiming act requires a public ear. It is into this ear that both “Place,” Place, and Place as placeholder must take and lend place. There is a difference that cries out between your speech as Vanessa Place, representative of a defendant, in which you say, but do not speak — in which you are a mouthpiece, a place-holder, but not someone who may “hold their peace,” a voice “of” Vanessa Place in a Gallery/Reading space, and a masquerade as “Vanessa Place.” The auricular course from Court to Stage to Panel and back is a diacrisis in the labors, pleasures, and stakes of listening. That is, the to ’n’ fro course between heresy, hearsay, and hericide of the Poet’s Voice as a fetish for hermeneutics. Barthes reminds us that listening to human speech is transferential: “I am listening” also means “Listen to me.”[7] The ear is a myth, insofar as it is not what we listen with. What is the organ of your listening, and how do the occasions of transference change from Court to Stage to Panel? What is your earpiece as a representative of a defendant, of the Law? And how does this earpiece relate to the donning of a hairpiece, that is to say, a performance of wiglomeration in your choice to donate your own preference to the preferences of donning “A Lawyer’s Habit” when you perform?

Place: The second person plural, made most elegant in “você,” which, although being second person, should always take third person verbs. In other words, the promiscuously dilate ear is both theodic and thetic insofar as all enunciations and articulations are essentially trinary. At minimum, though, as you point out, there are almost always multiples of three. As a representative of the defendant/the Law/the author/The Authority, by which one might call The Art, with some embarrassment, I would say that my register lies in objection. Constant objection. I object. The force of my habit is just that: I look like what I am. Like the dream of one’s mother, what could be more confusing?


Discourse 6.

Victor: I am thinking about your Boycott project, and other texts like Yedda Morrison’s Darkness, Kenneth Goldsmith’s All the Numbers From Numbers, Rob Fitterman’s “Holocaust Museum” project, and Caroline Bergvall’s Dante translations. I am also thinking about Joseph Yearous-Algozin’s The Lazarus Project, in which he forces interceptive reversals of movie scripts and brings back to life both perpetrators and victims of traumatic deaths, like in Alien vs. Predator, and jams them with the legal hearings of “ALIEN REMOVALS UNDER OPERATION PREDATOR” before the Subcommittee of Immigration and Border Security, and Chris Sylvester’s GRID, in which he ekes and erases a systematic, chronic walkthrough of the worlds and maps of the Nintendo Entertainment system’s Legend of Zelda and gestures towards a failure in mastery-through-O-so-much-repetition that is considered and refuted by Papa Freud, Debord, Jameson, and H. James, and towards what Robbie Dewhurst calls a “kinda-sorta utter pointlessness.” These texts are works of poetry and works of criticism. And these works know something about ironization of form.

I’ve been thinking of these texts in a group because I’ve been thinking of Schlegel, which is bad thing to do, if anyone wants to get anywhere. For the German Romantics, the work of criticism consummates, completes, systematizes the work of art into its “resolution in the absolute,” its long-awaited dinner date with its “own absolute idea.”[8]

Place: Though so often this is the more the morning after, surreptitiously looking for anything with a return address. Or a name …

Victor: This has everything to do with ironization of form, the “freely willed destruction” of forms. These texts have been criticized and discussed so as to make them violently oscillate between objective forms and subjectivist irony, but I think Ender’s definition of irony and subjective position caters well to these textual feats and to what you’ve said in previous discourses: irony is the capacity “to move oneself immediately from what is represented in the invention to the representing centre, and to observe the former from this latter point.”

Place: The suggestion being that such an enactment dissolves even as it resolves. This is a bit like the mirror as both reflection and projection, and, as one might note, the what that happens when mirrors fully face.

Victor: The prick and privilege of observing and bearing testimony from without, like Saint Peter’s denial and forthwith canonization, and from within, like those the oblivious soldiers at Golgotha (“Forgive them Father, for they know not what they do”) who kill the Flesh to instate the Word and know something about irony and distance. I have a soft spot for betrayers and gamblers, for those who return to the scene of the crime to rend the Word’s garment and cast lots for it. I think they know something about irony and distance. And culpability and denial and the hiss that makes history. I have a soft spot for what you’re calling the Poetics of Radical Evil, via Bataille …

Place: … inter alia.

Victor: A relation between critique, ironization, and Evil seems very important in your Boycott Project, a part of which (of Simone de Beauvoir) is forthcoming in Andrew Rippeon’s P-Queue. Could you say more about it in its present stage and previous avatars?

Place: The Boycott project, as may or may not have been previously noted, conjoins Lacan’s maxim with Lozano’s living. The ironic part is that it works. Women are not much missed, or not much is missed with them save the Evil of representation. See below. I am working on a series of such pieces, meddling with everyone from Butler to Wollstonecraft.

Victor: How does this intervention into feminist discourses relate to the provocative queries and concerns of Feminaissance which was published by Les Figues Press? 

Place: Feminaissance was a Hydra: there was the easier conversation, involving the eine-zwei-drei of sheer representation, which became the surface story. The harder topics bubbled literally beneath, immune to such counting. What is most interesting to me about the Boycott series is how it instantiates gender as something much more difficult than either essence or construct, but precisely an oscillation that produces, oftentimes, nausea. This too is the happy rôle of destiny or the destined rôle of Evil.

Victor: Are there specific texts/projects that you see emerging and which are important to you in pronouncing this relation between critique, ironization, and Evil? 

Place: I think your Hellocasts [Not Content and Ood Press] is brilliant; Kim Rosenfield’s forthcoming Lividity is brutal; Rob’s Holocaust Museum, as you note, collapses card and player; there’s Alex Forman’s Tall, Slim and Erect, appropriated portraits of thirty-seven presidents including rumor and psycho-medical histories. There’s Yedda Morrison’s Darkness, Mat Timmons’s Credit, Steve Zultanski’s Pad, and Kenny’s operatic Capital. There’s the violence being done by the critical work which moves via some of the same allegorical spasms. Less modestly, someday I hope to do my Etant donnés. Then less will be revealed.


Final Discourse 7.

Victor: “Vanessa Place,”

It has been a pleasure to discourse with you.

Place: I will miss you. Promise to write.

Victor: I promise to take what ever you ask me in this Final discourse and ask it directly to the next interviewee in this series, regardless of the consequences. The question will come from you in the form of the mouth of my horse. The next interviewee is Kim Rosenfield.

Place: Quel est le point de basculement?

Victor: Till again,

Charles Reznikoff

Place: yr servant,

“Vanessa Place”




1.  Statement of Facts is available for download from UBU Editions, or as a hardcover as Tradogia 1: Statement of Facts from Blanc Press.

2.  James Wagner, author of Geisttraum (Tales from the Germans), published by Esther Press.

3.  For more on “sobject” see Rob Fitterman and Vanessa Place, Notes on Conceptualisms, published by Ugly Duckling Presse.

4.  See Hannah Arendt, “Truth and Politics,” The New Yorker, February 25, 1967.

5.  See Theodor Adorno, Aesthetic Theory.

6.  See Giorgio Agamben, Remnants of Auschwitz, and Benveniste, Problems in General Linguistics.

7.  See Roland Barthes, The Responsibility of Forms: Critical Essays on Music, Art, and Representation.

8.  See Walter Benjamin, “Concept of Criticism in German Romanticism,” Selected Writings, Vol. 1: 1913–1926. 

Asking Creeley about Williams

Robert Creeley was a Kelly Writers House Fellow in April 2000. I conducted a public interview and moderated a discussion on April 11 before an audience of eighty people. The recording (both video and audio) of the interview has been available both on the Kelly Writers House site and at PennSound.  Recently Michael Nardone transcribed it. We expect to publish the entire transcript in Jacket2 before too long. Meantime, below we present the portion of the discussion in which I ask Creeley about William Carlos Williams.

Al Filreis: Now back to Williams, your initial response to Williams — according to something you said at Camden in December [1999] — was that what mattered to you in reading Williams, particularly The Wedge, was that the work was driven by anger. This is what, at least, Ron Silliman posted to the Buffalo poetics listserv afterwards. And then he went on to comment on how Williams had a huge impact on him as well, but it was a very different Williams. So, if anger is not quite operating as much, what’s your Williams now? How does Williams animate you now?

Robert Creeley: Back to Ron’s point, that that wasn’t the Williams he read, he reads the later Williams.

Filreis: The Desert Music.

Creeley: Yeah. Which is not an unangry poem, so to speak. But it certainly isn’t nearly as angry as the poems he was writing in the thirties or twenties. Spring and All, for example. Or The Descent of Winter, or “March First.” Many of the early poems are really angry, and their emotional base is their revulsion and anger at the world he finds around him.

Filreis: So, now when you look back at Williams, how does it feel?

Creeley: Well, it feels very much like my own life. I, when young, felt a dismay, let’s put it, that such things as the Holocaust or the Second World War or the Depression or many other factors in one’s real life, that these could be so unremarkable to the body politic, that it seemed not to matter.

Through the agency of my terrific wife, I sent an article, I think it was called “Bush Goes Green” from the New York Times, to this listserv that a friend of ours sends us — you know, Barbie dolls and things women have to do to protect themselves in parking lots, lots of actually useful information, but the list has had a certain smugness. So, I zapped out this Bush article — Texas is fiftieth in education, and so on — and instantly comes back a letter: “Don’t send any more of this to me. I’ll vote for Bush no matter what.”

So, I was disappointed that one would vote for someone who commits to have his state have 25 percent of its population with no insurance, who would willfully do so, and fight to preserve that situation. I still feel anger in that way.

But again, back to the verse. Think of the classic phrases humans make: X wants to make his peace with the world. The resistances of Lawrence’s, the day of my interference is done, the recoil outstrips the advance, et cetera.

I remember one time, terrifically, I had the chance to ask Kenneth Burke at a community meal we were all at up in Orono, there was a moment when I had him to myself, so to speak, and I asked him quickly: What advice would you have for someone as myself who is getting old? And he looked at me and said: Don’t boast. You won’t be able to back it up.

Therefore, it isn’t, don’t get angry, don’t use anger as a primary emotion. It’s extraordinarily hard to sustain. It always was incidentally.

Audio recording of Creeley as a Writers House Fellow