Notes on Notes
(Pt.1)
Cameron Meek
Notes Toward a Supreme
Fiction
To Henry Church
And for what, except for you, do I love?
Do I press the extremest book of the wisest man
Close to me, hidden in me day and night?
Equal in living changingness to the light
In which I meet you, in which we sit at rest,
For a moment in the central of our being,
The vivid transparence that you bring is peace.
Presently, humanity seems to have
been and be caught up this constant act of dichotomizing. Another word, to be
more Stevensian, might be “negation”. As understood in a “dictionary” sense,
negation functions as “the action or logical operation of negating or making
negative.” (Merriam-Webster) However, the Stevensian notion of “negation” is
quite different, or at the very least more complex. In Negation, Stevens writes:
Hi! The creator too is blind,
Struggling toward his harmonious whole,
Rejecting intermediate parts,
Horrors and falsities and wrongs;
Incapable master of all force,
Too vague idealist, overwhelmed
By an afflatus that persists.
For this then, we endure brief lives,
The evanescent symmetries
From that meticulous potter’s thumb.
To offer a very simple analysis of
this, Stevens appears first to be turning our eyes upon the creator, alluding
to a divine knowledge, “an afflatus”. It will be easy from a cursory reading of
this text to assume that the “afflatus” references something of God, though I
hope to convince you of the contrary. This creator, presumably God or a god, is
blind. He does not see all, “Rejecting intermediate parts, / Horrors, falsities
and wrongs”, because when God created he looked upon everything and “saw that
it was good”. While Stevens’ seeming dislike for God must occupy another time
and study, as “we endure brief lives” we seem to be in the act of negating. On
a somewhat “material” level, though the act transcends mere physicality, we
recognize the act of negating God as “sin”. A proper theology of sin, though,
sees it not simply an act, but a nature. Here is where we find that the ability
to partake in the act of negating God actually persists within that “afflatus”,
what George Santayana elucidates in Three
Philosophical Poets:
“It is that all we observe about us, and
ourselves also, may be so many passing forms of a permanent substance. This
substance, while remaining the same in quantity and in inward quality, is
constantly redistributed; in its redistribution it forms those aggregates which
we call things, and which we find constantly disappearing and reappearing.
All things are dust, and to dust they return; a dust, however, eternally
fertile, and destined to fall perpetually into new, and doubtless beautiful,
forms. This notion of substance lends a much greater unity to the outspread
world; it persuades us that all things pass into one another, and have a common
ground from which they spring successively, and to which they return.”
I will not and cannot argue that this “substance” is solely the sinful
nature, for there is good in it too, but we may safely conclude that sinful
nature is, indeed, a part/piece of that substance. The afflatus is a kind of
divine “thing” that is carried forward through time, persisting in the “human
spirit”. Negation, then, is inherently and naturally a human “thing”.
Transcendentalist philosophy reveals to us the idea that we live in a world of
shadows; the things we see are not the things themselves, but the closest
possible representation of what is real. Because of this, we see that all
things in this world are somehow imperfect. That being the case, if we are to
set up this world as very adversarial, we contrast two imperfections. This is
not to say that truths do not exist within the world (don’t steal, don’t
murder, etc.), but that in regards to certain topics we must centralize.
A good example of this is the debate between architects and engineers
of form and function. If there were no functionality to things, but only
artistic value, the world would be difficult to operate in. However, there is a
certain pleasure given by aesthetics. As modernity has shown us, putting people
in boxes within boxes seems to have an effect of eroding and weakening the
human spirit. The arts occupy a large part of every person’s life, whether it
be film, literature, music, or “art”, and humanity places great value upon these
things. What then is the solution, for it seems that form over function or
function over form fall short. The answer, of course, is that we must exist, as
we do, in a kind of tension between the two.
This is how we must understand negation in Stevens. Not merely an act
of opposing a singular force, it is to exist within the tension of two forces.
For as we enter into this first part of Notes, It Must be Abstract, Stevens
will gaze upon two forces and seek to center us within that tension. In The
Primacy of Negation, Dustin Dallman concludes with these words:
“Negation does not consist in the pale cynicism of the naive realist,
nor the puerile dismissal of the contrarion, but in the rigor and ardor of the
artist and the materialist. And it is negation, not affirmation, that resides
at the very center of Stevens' poetics.”
“Notes Toward a
Supreme Fiction Life”
Before entering Notes, Stevens offers a kind of forward
or preface, as I revise this, it may be best understood as a kind of thesis,
dedicated to the elusive “Henry Church”. I say elusive, for I found it rather difficult to learn much
about the man. What I have discovered I will share: Church was born in 1836 and
died in 1908, receiving “posthumous reputation as an American primitive for his
avocation of painting and sculpting.” He was a blacksmith by trade, but expressed
interest in art, most famous for “carving bas relief figures in Squaw Rock on
the bank of the Chagrin River.” (Lipman #) In The Poems of Our Climate, Harold
Bloom writes, “The eight lines that stand at the start of Notes toward a
Supreme Fiction are no more addressed to the muse or interior paramour than
they are to Henry Church.” (Bloom 167) Why, then, name Henry Church? Despite
the lack of biography present, we can ascertain some importance from what
little we find. Key in that biography are the terms, whether intentional or
not, “American primitive” and “art”. In the first part of Notes, Stevens is involved with a reduction, obviated by the
seeming obsession with or pressing towards the “first idea”. Stevens makes it
quite clear that the ephebe must be, obviously, a youth, but also a youth
untainted by an knowledge or understanding of the parts of the world. This,
then, gets us to Church. Church, as an “American primitive”, embodies this idea
of someone fresh and unscathed by understanding; he is free to see and
experience anew. As an artist, he is a creator, someone or something from which
ideas originate. The first idea, no doubt, references numerous things, yet the
first consciousness originates with words, for they are a tangible, explained
manifestation of not simply consciousness, but shared consciousness. Two
notions of this: “In the beginning was the Word”, John 1. And in Genesis 1 we
read, “In the beginning, God created […] And God said…”
Here we encounter the afflatus, for this divine knowledge
that lives and persists in all things must originate somewhere. It does, and
that is with God.
As
you see, we have exacerbated a great amount of time and effort upon
understanding Church, but with good cause. So we then enter into the prologue
or prelude, reading,
And for what, except for you, do I love?
Do I press the extremest book of the wisest man
Close to me, hidden in me day and night?
This “you” is not simply Henry Church, and as we concluded
earlier, it may just as easily be the muse, specifically Mnemosyne the mother
of the muses for she could be associated not just as a mother figure, but the mother
figure. This accounts for the place of the feminine within the “supreme”
fiction, as provider of life, love, but also a kind of starting point or origin.
This makes sense because the ephebe, while referring to a youth, most often
specifies it as male. And here we have that first instance of two things, Adam
and Eve, ephebe and Mnemosyne, not negating, but held in tension together,
alongside one another.
The “you” also could be the reader.
Oversimplified, yes, but equally likely to any other guess. If this is the
case, the notes are not merely towards a “supreme fiction”, though a supreme
fiction, as we should discover, transcends the apparent barrier of reality, but
a supreme life. For as Jesus or Galatians may read, all commandments are summed
up in the one: Love your neighbor as yourself. On this, Bloom writes, “The
‘you’ here must be a synecdoche which includes all familial passions yet
transcends them. Transcendence, indeed, seems to me the tenor of this octave,
culminating as it does in ‘the central’, ‘the vivid transparence’, and
‘peace.’” (Bloom 167) As a synecdoche, the “you” refers to a part of the whole,
which makes sense as Stevens writes this as “his truly central humming, where a
more capable idea of the hero appears as ‘the major man’”, though of course he
begins his journey/quest to heroics as an ephebe. (Bloom 166) And as a
synecdoche, this is the central piece of Stevens’ work; it is that negation,
the part which exists within the tension of two, not necessarily opposing
parts, but of two parts dealing with that interplay between fiction and
reality. The supreme fiction will encompass a portion of reality, and the
supreme life will accomplish feats that seem impossible, fictitious.
Because it, this “supreme” thing,
sits in a negation of reality and fiction and as the central part of the whole
of Stevens’ work, it transcends, becomes “the tenor of this octave”. We then
must move to deal with those parts of transcendence that give this piece
centrality, as well as those parts of centrality that make this piece
transcendent.
Before
taking that step though, let us deal with “the extremest book of the wisest
man/ Close to me, hidden in me day and night?” In the beginning, God says, “Let
there be light. God saw that the light was good, so he separated that day from
the night. And there was evening and there was morning, the first day.” This
may be a slight paraphrase, but it introduces us to this idea of light as
something which makes clear, as well as visible. Light is both physically
visible and invisible. It is real and “fictitious”. And it is for you, for
Henry Church, for the muse that Stevens holds this book within himself in times
of light and darkness. What is this extremest book of the wisest man? It may be
the Bible, of course, but it may also be whatever “you” understands or comes to
understand as the supreme fiction. In many ways, the Bible is the story, or
series of stories, from which all other stories come. Does this make it the
supreme fiction? If you were to ask an archaeologist, they would tell you it is
partially fictitious and partially real; regardless, we must not stray from the
significance of the presence of this text within light and darkness. The
supreme fiction is “hidden in me day and night”. Again, we encounter this
seemingly divine spirit or knowledge that is hidden within a person. They know
not how it came about or surfaced within them, but it was there as both light
and the absence of light, day and night, light and dark. The first idea is
always the word, but the next idea is light. The light comes forth from the
word, the first idea, and Stevens’ reduction to this first idea is essential as
the starting point of Notes.
Earlier I made mention of form v.
function, and this example was not without intention. On Stevens’ reduction,
Bloom writes, “It is then a socially induced dissatisfaction that sends Stevens
back to an ultimate reduction”. (Bloom 179) Stevens is upset at his
surroundings, “at being surrounded by apartment-dwellers.” The reaction to an
excess of function was a desire to get outside of that, to return to nature.
This might be easily accomplished with a walk in the woods, as seemed to
satisfy Frost, Whitman, and others. But Stevens dissatisfaction, his ennui, occurs
more in a “centering on ‘desire’ or the pathos of the poet’s will discovering
that to live with the first idea alone is to have ‘what is not.’” (Bloom 179)
In other words, he is not merely satisfied to return to nature, but must reach
for the source of nature. If you remember the scriptures, we find that the
before light, “darkness was over the surface of the deep.” Darkness is what is
not. People describe it as the absence of light. Here then we are moving closer
to the reason for this reduction; it seems that these “things”, if they can be
called that, have eluded us. We have sought to rationalize things and make
sense of them without knowing that first idea. “The word”, language, is how we
come about understanding things; through the word comes light, or understanding
and the ability to see which, in turn allows us to organize things, domesticate
them, into parts of a sensible whole. David Spurr has written at great length
on the subject of “the gaze” and how by looking at things and people and
places, we begin to colonize and order them. But we must not forget that the
physical is merely one part, on end. To exist in the center, the negation, is
to move towards those things which are not. Because, as we know, the true
composition of reality is as much material as it is immaterial. Having
established the reason for Stevens’ reduction, then, we move to those
transcendental ideas that he introduces us to in this preface.
In the uncertain light of single, certain truth,
Equal in living changingness to the light
In which I meet you, in which we sit at rest,
For a moment in the central of our being,
The vivid transparence that you bring is peace.
Here we actually find the word
“light”, in the context of a single, certain truth where Stevens encounters the
proverbial “you”. What is hidden in darkness, that which is not, becomes
visible in the light. It is a paradox as well as a trope, showing us that to
even acknowledge “what is not” is to acknowledge existence. That something is
sublime and transcendent, and Bloom has revealed what those transcendent and
sublime “things” that allow us to take the primary steps in Notes manifest as. We have “the central”, “the vivid
transparence”, and “peace”. I feel as though centrality receives sufficient
attention and explanation. Transparence should be easy enough, for it operates
with light. To be transparent is to be visibly or physically seen through,
usually as a result of light passing through an object. However, to be
transparent is also to be open about who you are and what you think and
believe. The transparence that we bring somehow “is peace.” How is this so? It
is because “you”, as we have established, is the primitive artist: the first
creator, the muse of the oral tradition, the innocent ephebe. “You” are
untainted or, as we enter into It Must be
Abstract, must re-become untainted and “see the sun again with an ignorant
eye”. It must be seeing the light with recognition that light is not the only
significant part of the whole.
So we conclude: peace is a result
of an untainted being experiencing a recognition, or a re-cognition, of light
and dark, reality and fiction, the word and the silence. The primitive artist
naturally exists in negation, the tension of the real and fictitious, and he is
the freed man because he has acknowledged that he is merely man, part of a
whole that persists in the sublime, the divine knowledge or force that persists
in all things despite the fact that, to those dwelling in apartments, trapped
within the confines of the modern and overly rational and fixated world, “that
which is not” is nothing but an irrational fancy, it is the first idea and
therefore the source of all things. Even more than that, it is the supreme
fiction.