by Yann Martel
It’s a hard book to describe. I suppose one could say that it’s a collection of short stories. But that’s not quite right. It is indeed divided into sections that can be read in any order, like a standard collection of short fiction. But they’re not stories, not really. They would be better described as fictional meditation pieces. In each one, the discreet, attentive, concerned Mr. Palomar has an encounter or an experience upon which he dwells. His name is the same as that of the famous observatory in California. That gives you some idea of the scale of Mr. Palomar’s musings. And yet his scale is also very small, so that sometimes his telescopic viewing becomes microscopic. There’s a pleasing harmony to that, as the very, very small, the molecular, has much the same layout as the very, very large, the cosmic, and both, to the mind, are quite dizzying in their vastness. But I’m not being concrete enough. In “The naked bosom,” Mr. Palomar is walking along a beach and he sees, up ahead, a woman lying on the sand, topless. How is he to deal with this, what should he do with his gaze, where should it go? The piece, three and a half pages long, describes the choices that come to Mr. Palomar’s mind and their ramifications. In “From the terrace,” Mr. Palomar looks out upon Rome and contemplates the significance, from a bird’s perspective, of that vast panorama of variegated roofs. In “The albino gorilla,” Mr. Palomar wonders about the meaning of a gorilla holding onto an old tire. In “The order squamata,” the variety of reptiles, and how they live in time, is mused about. In “Serpents and skulls,” the meaning, or lack thereof, of pre-Columbian Mexican architectural motifs is discussed. And so on. The settings are varied (Rome, Paris, Barcelona, Japan, Mexico), sometimes the very large is looked at (night skies, planets, oceans), sometimes the very small (a gecko, a Japanese sand garden), throughout the language is apt and intensely evocative, and always there is a concern for the meaning of things, how this is related to that. Italo Calvino is like a spider and with his words he links the most incongruous elements so that finally everything is linked by the thin thread of a web, and order and harmony are thereby established in the universe. Mr. Palomar is both whimsical and philosophical, an odd mix. It’s a book that assures the reader that his or her gaze upon the world is not only important, but essential, because only in watching, in observing closely, can things be seen.
Which point was entirely lost on Gertrude Stein, but we won’t go there again. Enjoy Mr. Palomar. It brought upon me a sort of Zen peacefulness, that stillness which I mentioned so long ago to you.
Yours truly,
Yann Martel
ITALO CALVINO (1923–1985) was an Italian journalist, short story writer, editor, lecturer and novelist whose books include Invisible Cities and If on a winter’s night a traveler. He left the Italian Communist party after the Soviet Union invaded Hungary in 1956.
GERTRUDE STEIN (1874–1946) was an American writer, patron and art collector. Her most famous book is The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas, published in 1932. Stein is credited with coining the phrase the “lost generation.” She is buried in Père Lachaise Cemetery.
BOOK 90:
SELECTED POEMS
BY AL PURDY
September 13, 2010
To Stephen Harper,
Prime Minister of Canada,
Fire in your hands,
From a Canadian writer,
Yann Martel
Dear Mr. Harper,
I met Al Purdy once. Or rather, he was pointed out to me at a small party at a literary festival in Eden Mills, Ontario. Purdy was sitting, I was standing; Purdy was elderly and revered, I was young and upcoming. I made nothing of the occasion because I had never read his poetry. He was just a name. I regret that now, not having gone over to shake his hand and chat with him. The writer as a man is like any other man until you’ve read him. It’s only once you’ve read him that the writer makes a greater impression. Had I read Purdy before that party, I would have approached him with a measure of trepidation. But I gather he was exceedingly generous with writers, especially younger ones. I’m sure we would have had a good conversation.
Now I have read Al Purdy and I can see why he was revered. He’s an intensely Canadian poet, which I don’t mean as a limiting qualifier. Every poet comes from somewhere, but some feel more universal than others, their specific cultural origin leaving only a discreet mark upon the poetry. Not so with Al Purdy. He’s all about Canada. You see that right away in the places that inspired his poetry. The first poem in the collection I’m sending you is called “The Road to Newfoundland.” Other poems mention Vancouver and BC. Still others, the Canadian Arctic. And at the centre of this poetic geography, holding it together like the fixed point of a compass (I mean here the mathematical instrument consisting of two pointed legs, one of which keeps still while the other holds a marking implement—pencil or pen—and pivots around it, describing arcs or circles; not the other compass, which uses a magnetic needle to indicate geographical direction, although it would serve the metaphor just as well), is Roblin Lake, near the hamlet of Ameliasburg, Prince Edward County, Ontario. Several poems evoke the lake, and one senses that the A-frame house Purdy built there was the capital city of his poetry (more on that A-frame a little later). Other geographies are mentioned too—Cuba, for example—yet even with these poems the sensibility is entirely Canadian. What this Canadianness means is that a reader from Canada reading Purdy’s poetry will likely recognize our country in it, while a reader from abroad will likely learn about our country. But to repeat myself using different words: there’s nothing local-yokel about Purdy’s work. You see that in the historical, literary and political references sprinkled throughout. Al Purdy clearly was a man who read widely and thought freely.
The language is colloquial, the tone conversational. There is therefore a deceptive simplicity to Purdy’s poetry. Just a guy talking on the page, with funny line breaks. But then an image hits you, and you (or, to be more accurate, I) go Wow! Take the first poem, the one I mentioned above. It starts:
My foot has pushed a fire ahead of me
for a thousand miles
my arms’ response to hills and stones
has stated parallel green curves
deep in my unknown country
the clatter of gravel on fenders registers
on a ghostly player piano
inside my head with harsh fraying music
I’m lost to reality
but turn the steering wheel a quarter
inch to avoid a bug on the road …
My foot has pushed a fire ahead of me/for a thousand miles—have you ever thought of a car in those terms? I’ll certainly never forget it. And then that modern image, of a man driving an internal combustion engine, is linked to an older one, when precious fire was carried from camp to camp in a moss-lined basket. You get an inkling here of how Purdy effortlessly spans history and geography with that startling compactness that is poetry’s forte. There are too many poems to discuss in detail, but if you want a taste, if you’re in a rush, I’d suggest you have a look at “The Cariboo Horses,” “Late Rising at Roblin Lake,” “One Rural Winter,” “Interruption,” “Married Man’s Song,” “Fidel Castro in Revolutionary Square,” “Hombre,” “Trees at the Arctic Circle,” “Lament for the Dorsets,” “House Guest,” “At Roblin Lake,” “Poem,” “Wilderness Gothic” and “Roblin’s Mills (2).” That should give you an idea. But you shouldn’t be in a rush. That’s not the way to read poetry. No point either in reading one poem after another, page after page, like a novel. That would be like eating twenty good meals in a row. Best to read only a few poems at a time, like opening a window for a moment in the autumn to breathe in the invigorating air before closing it again. And poems thrive on increased familiarity. Repeated reading will make you comfortable with the cadence and help you unpack the imagery. I’ve chosen to send you Selected Poems, published in 1972 by McClelland & Stewart. It has a good and vigorous introduction by George Woodcock.
I will mention one other poem, “Hombre,” in which Purdy re
members meeting Che Guevara in Havana, actually meeting him, and shaking his hand—astounding. The mythical Che. Since when do poets and politicians meet and shake hands? Have you ever met and shaken hands with a poet? Well, I guess that’s the prerogative of revolutionary politicians, ones who are willing to go off into the jungles of Bolivia to die for a dream. Purdy met Guevara in Cuba in 1964, when the charismatic Argentine doctor was the minister of industries. Was the poet in awe of the revolutionary? No. Purdy was a man of the people, for sure, but also a democrat and one senses in the poem, as one does in the other poems inspired by his visit to Cuba, a suspicion that Castro’s and Guevara’s dreams for the people might not take into account what the people actually wanted. Again, Purdy shows himself to be profoundly Canadian, preoccupied with the small details of common decency rather than the grand visions of truculent idealism.
This meeting between a poet and a politician brings me back to the A-frame house on Roblin Lake, where so much of Purdy’s poetry was written and where so many literarily inclined visitors came to visit. This A-frame is both a cornerstone and a crossroads of Canadian poetry. Purdy died in 2000 at the age of eighty-one and a campaign has been launched to purchase his property, create an endowment and establish a writer-in-residence program in the A-frame. It’s a great idea. Literary culture, of course, is kept alive by the publishing and reading of books, but the places that inspired books are also important. After all, if the spirit of a place inspired a writer, it will likely inspire others. I myself now want to visit Ameliasburg. And cultural memory lasts a long time. Businesses come and go, but a great poet’s house—that’s the stuff of plaques and museums, which the Al Purdy A-frame Trust is trying to avoid. It wants to keep Al Purdy’s generosity alive. Where one poet lived and worked, others will too. That is their mission. The Al Purdy A-Frame Anthology was published by Harbour Publishing (they’re the guardians of Purdy’s legacy: they’ve put out a more recent Selected Poems, covering the years 1962 to 1996, in addition to the complete Beyond Remembering: The Collected Poems of Al Purdy). All proceeds of the sale of The A-frame Anthology go to the Trust. I meant to send you my copy, but it’s too lovely. It’s an evocative mix of reminiscences, poetry and photographs. I knew no more about Al Purdy than I suppose you do, yet the anthology made me feel the creative energy of the place and the fun Al and his gang had there. The A-frame Trust hasn’t reached its fundraising goal yet. If you’re interested in helping, please visit their website www.alpurdy.ca. You can make a donation and you can also order a copy of the anthology.
If you’re lucky, one day you might end up on the shores of Roblin Lake, shaking hands with a poet.
Yours truly,
Yann Martel
AL PURDY (1918–2000) was a writer, editor and poet who lived for much of his life in an A-frame home he and his wife built in Ameliasburgh, Ontario. He is Canada’s unofficial poet laureate and wrote more than thirty books of poetry, including In Search of Owen Roblin and Rooms for Rent in the Outer Planets, which was a finalist for Canada Reads in 2006.
BOOK 91:
THE NIBELUNGENLIED
Translated from the medieval German by Cyril Edwards
September 27, 2010
To Stephen Harper,
Prime Minister of Canada,
From a Canadian writer,
With best wishes,
Yann Martel
Dear Mr. Harper,
I was in Germany last week to promote my latest novel and I thought that while there I’d find something German for you. My first thought was Thomas Mann’s Death in Venice, a virtuoso piece of short fiction. But as I was browsing through the foreign-language section of a bookstore in Frankfurt, my eyes fell upon the book I’m sending you this week, The Nibelungenlied. It’s the medieval illustration on the cover that drew my attention, and then I was further drawn by the imprimatur just below the title: Oxford World’s Classics. This was a world classic I’d never heard of—what better reason to read it? The title is somewhat unattractive, but I assure you: this is a great book.
The Nibelungenlied arose from the oral tradition and was finally written down—whether with accuracy or great liberties is not known—by an anonymous poet roughly in the year 1200, and it is, in the words of the introduction by the translator Cyril Edwards, “the greatest medieval German heroic poem or lay, a revenge saga on an epic scale, which has justly been compared with Homer.” The introduction, by the way, is useful but not essential. You can plunge directly into the epic. Despite the chasm of time between then and now, and the ensuing profound changes in thinking and mores, there is an emotional appeal to the work that makes it timeless. Our world isn’t inhabited by knights and damsels any longer, but love, devotion, heroism, envy, treachery, lust for revenge—these are emotions and actions we still feel today, and they continue to feature in novels and movies of all genres, from literary fiction to romances and thrillers.
The language of the work, both of the minstrel narrator and of the various characters, is gracious and courtly, full of ornate flattery. Every knight is a hero of blinding good looks, dressed in the finest garments the world has ever seen, mightier than Samson or Arnold Schwarzenegger, and richer than Croesus or Bill Gates. And the same goes for the ladies. But the action betrays the words. Treachery is done after the nicest exchanges. Queens follow up social niceties by calling each other wenches and whores, and a knight who has sworn eternal loyalty to another then proceeds to stab him in the back. It makes for glorious reading.
I doubt The Nibelungenlied describes with anthropological accuracy the actual ways of central Europe’s nobility a thousand years ago. It is a work of literature, not of history. But there’s something to be gained thereby for the modern reader. If true ways are not described, ideal ways certainly are. The treachery of Prunhilt, of Gunther and, especially, of Hagen—you will see how profoundly perfidious they are—stands in strong contrast to the good and honourable behaviour of those they betray, Sivrit and Kriemhilt. The characteristics of this good and honourable behaviour offer a fascinating look at the mindset of the time.
For example, you might notice the surprising cosmopolitanism. The characters in The Nibelungenlied come from a variety of places: Burgundy, the Netherlands, Iceland, Hungary, Austria, Denmark. (One place never mentioned by name is Germany, which didn’t exist yet as a nation; Bavaria comes up in passing, but only as a dangerous nest of brigands.) Yet all these characters mix and match without any linguistic or cultural friction. And the good relations go beyond language. The Hungarian characters, with King Etzel at their head, are Huns and therefore pagans. Nonetheless, they get along very well with the Christian characters. Better than that: Etzel, King of the Huns (historically, Attila the Hun) marries Kriemhilt, devout Christian lady and widow of slain Sivrit.
What struck me even more in the relations between the various nobles is the material generosity of their exchanges. I had in mind that these kings and queens, these lords and ladies would keep tight control of their goods and chattels. Being at the top of the feudal pyramid, they would be the recipients of much of the commodities produced by their vassals. And don’t wealthy people tend to cling to their wealth? Don’t the rich hoard, giving to charity only as much as will not diminish their abundance, as in the parable of the poor widow in the Bible? Well, not in The Nibelungenlied. Take this line, describing what Kriemhilt does when she arrives at the court of her new husband, King Etzel:
The queen then distributed gold and garments, silver and precious stones. All that she had brought across the Rhine with her to the Huns had to be given away in its entirety.
In its entirety? And this is just one instance of giving. Such abundant giving happens again and again in The Nibelungenlied. People are constantly giving, giving, giving, and not just to allies, which might have an element of self-interest. No, the giving also extends to guests who are strangers. This constant gifting reminds me of a book I sent you earlier. Do you remember The Gift, by Lewis Hyde? It too spoke of societies based not on t
he hoarding of wealth but on its flow; that is, societies where wealth is perceived to increase if it is kept in motion and to decrease if it lies stagnant. I did not expect to find such a dynamic in thirteenth-century central Europe. Of course, such incessant giving was probably not the norm. I imagine that many a lord sat on his bags of gold, glowering at every passing stranger. Nevertheless, it is interesting that this is the ideal portrayed in The Nibelungenlied, one of wealth shared over and over. The ideal noble is noble because he or she gives without restraint.
Another surprise was the degree to which characters—kings, lords, knights, husbands and wives—consult and seek advice from each other. It undermines the authoritarian image I had of those distant times. Oh, and the women are strong. Prunhilt literally: when her new husband gets too frisky she trusses him up and hangs him by a nail for the night. But also morally—Kriemhilt for example.
And lastly, the entirely secular tint of the work. Christianity is mentioned here and there, and Jesus is invoked on occasion, but overwhelmingly the world portrayed is secular, with the pleasures and torments very much earthbound. Again, my image of a medieval Europe in a Christian deep freeze was altered.
There’s a curious narrative device that occurs often: the paragraph that ends with a comment in brackets by the author. These comments often announce some future event in the story, usually tragic. The device may remove an element of suspense in the story, but a highly effective sense of foreboding is created in its stead. Since the story was initially spoken, not read, I do wonder how these brackets were signalled. These are some of the intellectual perks of The Nibelungenlied. Mostly, though, the ride is just to be enjoyed.
There’s a sad postscript that needs to be mentioned. The Nibelungenlied vanished from notice in the sixteenth century. It was rediscovered some two hundred years later and became one of the canonical elements of German nationalism in the nineteenth century, used by Wagner in his Ring of the Nibelung cycle of operas. And then, alas, the Nazis exploited Sivrit’s fate, or Siegfried’s, as the name had become, as a literary warning of what might befall the Aryans if they did not resist the treachery of “lesser races.” In such ways do politicians sometimes pervert literature.