Had wanted at various times during recent discussions to speak, but
became utterless (abbrev. for utterly useless) as words misbehaved very
badly. With a few minutes available now I'd like at the least to
address a concern I've had about the Anne Carson lines quoted. I've been
quite impressed by some of her work and found the third line unusually
slack or somehow not fitting. Recently I've found I have the text in an
issue of Conjunctions and found there a partial explanation. Taken from
context and with e-mail not giving the required typograhical clues, it's
not possible to read it right (this is to address only Carson's words -
Chris' exuberance reached its climax at this unfortunate point & may
have deafened ears by damning with excess praise). The lines are from
the concluding poem in a set called Semaine d'Artaud. It begins with
this "author's remark":

They gave me a week to "get" Artaud and come up with a script.
Those nights were like saints.

There is then a poem for each saint-day and the concluding poem called
"Artaud Script" which draws in lines, images or concepts from the
previous poems. That last poem has the third line of each stanza in
bold typeface - it is of another voice (I'll do it here with capitals):

Artaud Script

Artaud is mad.
He stayed close to the madness. Watching it breathe or not breathe.
FIRST A CLOSE-UP OF ME DRIVEN TO DESPAIR.

His face is mad.
It was something of fire on which his soul wrote. All this mental glass.
ME BEATING MY HEAD AGAINST A WALL.

His body is mad.
Some days he felt uterine. Mind screwed into him by a thrust of sky.
I RUN AMONG THE RUINS.

His mind is mad.
There was [he decided] no mind. The body [hell] just as you see it.
GO THROW MYSELF FROM THE TOWER, GESTICULATING, FALLING.

His hospital is mad.
He noted in electric shock a splash state. What holes, and made of what?
FALLING TO THE BEACH.

His Mexico is mad.
There was not a shadow he did not count. No opium, no heads on the
days.
YOU SEE MY BODY CRUMPLED ON THE SAND.

His God is mad.
He felt his God pulling him out through his own cunt. Claque.
Claquedents.
IT MOVES CONVULSIVELY A FEW TIMES.

His double is mad.
The drawback of being mad was that he could not both be so and say so.
BEAUTIFUL JERKS.

His word is mad.
He had to become an enigma to himself. To prevent his own theft of him.
YOU SEE MY BATTERED FACE.

His excrement is mad.
He envied bones their purity. Hated to die rectified (as he said) by
pain.
THEN I FELL BACK.


His spring snow is mad.
They found him at dawn. Seated at the foot of his bed. Holding his shoe.
AND SHY AWAY.

Took a while, now no time to discuss it - the third lines don't do much
for me yet. I'd see it improved without them. Other than that I hope
the extra context helps folk decide if they'd like to read more by Anne
Carson.
all the good, Pete.


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