Friday, February 17, 2017

“It is worthless to write a line / if the song proceed not from the heart” - The Troubadour Poets of Proensa

Paul Blackburn’s Proensa may not be the best place to start for someone interested in a historical, contextual understanding of the culture of the troubadours of Occitan, but as an entry into the poetry itself – almost surely the best way to start the subject – wow. Blackburn’s enthralling 1978 anthology gives us the glorious thing itself: a chronological arrangement of nearly 100 selections from 30 poets culled from the more than 2,000 works, by over 400 11th – 13th century troubadours, that have survived to the present. Proensa also includes a brief introduction, the vidas (lives) and razos (reasons) that make up the poets’ extant biographical material, a helpful bibliography and some 50 pages of endnotes nearly as entertaining as the poems. For basic knowledge of how the tradition came about, what the troubadours did, as well as definitions of the vers, cansos, tensos, sirventes, partimen, albas, coblas, estampinas and other poetic forms they used, one may need to search beyond the book. But small matter: as an introduction to the poetry, Proensa is exciting, the kind of work that could initiate a life-long interest or ignite a scholarly career.

Blackburn’s selections range across an astonishing variety of the themes, styles, and even personalities of his songsters. The image of the troubadour strumming a lute beneath a beloved’s window goes right out the window as one encounters the timid and the bold, the sincere and flippant, the romantic and the lecherous (often in the same person), kings and orphans, monks and married couples, even the trobairitz, the female troubadours, one of many paths Blackburn leaves for further investigation.

This is one wild and shaggy, vivacious, rich and constantly surprising set of poems. The selections demonstrate a great deal of self-reflexivity, authorial intrusion, experimentalism with style, use of double-entendre and a particular attention to and even debate about poetic construction: a constant reminder that there’s little new under the sun. For example, with Blackburn’s earliest poet, Guillem IX, one turns the page and runs smack into an 11th century Jerry Seinfeld:

                        I shall make a vers about
                        downright nothing, not
                        about myself or youth or love
                                    or anyone.
                        I wrote it horseback dead asleep
                        while riding in the sun.

Guillem goes on to aim his apostrophe, as courtly troubadours are wont to do, to a lady - but to whom exactly?

                        I have a friend, I don’t know who
                        for I have never seen her. So
                        she treats me neither well nor ill,
                        I do not say I blame her.

These are by and large composers proud of their work but who nonetheless don’t take themselves too seriously. One finds a frequent combination of bombast and self-mockery. Marcabru, one of the more renowned of the poets, begins a poem:

                                    Now here this!
                                    HEAR THIS!
                                    How our song
                                    betters itself,
                                    always at thrust
how, following his distinct grasp, Marcabru
                                    knows how to weave
                                    subject and theme,
to so accord the vers that no man can
                                    pluck from the line
                                                a word.

But in a subsequent verse Marcabru views himself more as channeler, suggesting that the poet’s aim lies in the etymological origin of “troubadour” from the verb trobar, or “to find” as much as to create the ideal sound and sense of his composition:

                        He knows not from whence it moves
                        who made the vers and dances it.

                                    Marcabru has made the dance
                                    but does not know who started it.

The wide renown of these poets, the degree to which they played off of one another’s work, as well as the vital way in which the tradition of trobar resulted from such interactions get reflected in many of the poems. The Monk of Montaudon, for instance, offers a series of strophes devoted to assessing (and largely dismissing) the work of each of the Monk’s troubadour rivals, such as the hapless

                        En Tremolet, the catalan who
  makes his tunes so easy and plain
                                    and his songs too, but
                                    he’s nothing: combs
                        his hair on top as if he had some
                        thirty years he’s wanted to make albas
                        and’s made nothing but the grimiest smut.

A playfully competitive awareness of the need for criticism also frequently appears, as in another of Marcabru’s poems:

                          No doubt at all,
                        I’ll take him on as critic,
                        who’ll call the meaning, in my song,
                        of each word,
                        who’s analytic, who
                        can see the structure of the vers unfold.
                        I know it’ll sound absurd, but
                        I’m often doubtful and go wrong myself
                        in the explication of an obscure word.

Arnaut Daniel, another poet, offers his own self-reflexive example of the craft of composition that many troubadours bring within their poems:

On this gay and slender tune I put and polish words and plane
and when I’ve passed the file they’ll be
                        precise and firm.

In terms of subject matter, the poems range widely. While some of the vidas hint at the religious schisms and holy crusades going on at the time, the poems seldom dwell on religious themes, or at least of those that indicate devotion. Guillem IX, in a poem of leave-taking, expresses an ambiguous attitude towards God more concerned with being bereft of worldly pleasures than with any promise of Paradise:

                        Gaily I lived. Now God no longer cares for it:
                        being half-dead, even I no longer desire it.

                        All ceremony quit, all loving habit:
                        if God love me, whatever comes, I welcome it.

                        Friends, at my demise come do me honor:
                        since I’ve taken my pleasure all over the neighborhood.

                        All gracious show I leave, joys of love and table,
                        two kinds of grey fur, also sable.

Even The Monk of Montaudon is not nearly as pious as his name might suggest. Finding himself in Paradise, Montaudon converses with the Lord, who wants the monk to stop wasting away in a monastery and go off to fight in His name. But citing the example of a king who pursued such a course, the monk objects:

                        ‘Why’d You let him be put in prison?
Now the Saracen fleet under full
sail makes headway – you ignore it –
and if it makes rendezvous in Acre
the Turks will make short work of that!
Anyone would have to be an idiot
                                    to follow YOU into battle.’

The great majority of Blackburn’s poets, however, aim their poems at loves near and far, since paying court is central to entire troubadour tradition. Proensa contains no shortage of seductive (and usually hyperbolic) appeals. But by and large, the plaintive and melancholic strains quickly turn, sometimes in the same strophe, to outright lust.

Thus Pere Vidal can write more or less purely:

                                    Lady cure me, don’t
                        stand and watch me die, a Lazarus,
                                                of this sweet sickness.
                                    My running away from it’s no good.
                                                My eyes play tricks.
                                    When I leave
                        I see your beauty before me upon all the roads,
                                    can neither go
                                                nor go back.
                                    May I die accused in hell
                        if I had the whole world, but lacked

and things stood well.

The poet Cadenet, more typically, brings things down to earth:

I’ve never seen any
horizontal lover
who liked dawn.

Jaufré Rudel de Blaia may best embody the troubadour’s love from afar by addressing himself to a lady from Tripoli he knows only from descriptions shared by traveling pilgrims. According to his Vida, he managed to secure passage on a ship to Tripoli, became deathly ill, yet regained consciousness just long enough to find himself in his beloved’s arms before expiring. One of his poems written prior to this sad fate begins, like many of these troubadours’ works, by enlisting spring in the service of love:

                        When the days are long in May
                                                it’s good,
                                    soft birdsong from afar
                        and when the melody leaves me
                                    I remember my love afar.
                        I’ve been bent and thoughtful with desire until
                                    hawthorn and flowers & all that song
                        mean no more to me than snow in winter.

Marcabru begins a poem with a similar evocation of spring:

                        In April around Easter the streams grow clear
                        and in the groves, leaves burgeon above the blossoms.
                        Gentle, with gentle pleasure, gently
                        pure love comforts me.

However, Marcabru’s appeal to the season to create an inviting atmosphere is more typical of these poems, which often quickly decline into rough expressions of disappointment when the hoped-for love is frustrated. A mere nine lines later, Marcabru’s tone has changed dramatically:

                        God down and damn eternally pied love and curse forever
                        all that it stands for! The drunk at least takes pleasure
                        in his letch – through if he drink too much
                        it drains his vigor.

Perhaps the most audacious approach is that of Bertrand de Born, a powerful viscount “who had this habit of stirring up war among the nobles.” Though de Born also begins a poem with a paean to spring, he gets right to the heart of things immediately in a way that probably hasn’t been improved upon in 800 years: “SPRING IS A JUICE!” And as though to mock the sentimentality of someone like de Blaia, de Born turns the season into an occasion not for love, but for war and conquest:

                        Pawn your castles, lord,       
                        pawn your towns and cities!
                        Before you’re beat to the draw
                          unsheath those swords!

                        Papiols, rejoice and go
                        with all haste to Oc-e-No
                        and tell him that we’ve got too much
                        damned PEACE down here!

Despite the plethora of proclamations of love, it need hardly be said that women, on the whole, get treated rather poorly in these poems, one moment set upon a pedestal only to be in the next accused of faithlessness, dissembling, and worse, often in the rawest language (as translator, Blackburn does not hold back, observing in a note that “If [raw language] was good enough for the 9th duke of Aquitaine, it’s good enough for you”). Surprisingly, though, several of the male troubadours attempt poems from a woman’s point of view, or demonstrate that women can give as good as they get. Raimbaut de Vaqueiras, for example, offers a back and forth dialogue between a Provençal suitor and a Genoese lady who isn’t having any of it:

YOU THINK you’re being courtly, joglar?
What you think you’re asking for?
Wouldn’t do it anyway, not if I
saw you were going to be hanged and quartered.
A friend of yours? – Look, I’d prefer
better to cut you up instead.
O, very tough luck, Provensal.
Here are some sweet nothings for you:
You cruddy dope, bald-headed asshole!
Think I’d ever love you? Never!
I’ve even got a husband better
looking. Clear off, you swine!
I don’t know you and I’m better off,
I like it fine.

Blackburn, however, reports that the poem may be seen as mocking the woman,  “a joke at the expense of the Genoese dialect” (and adds, in one of his typically wry notes, that he first tried to “do the lady’s stanzas in a kind of stage Italian-American: ‘I’ma goona slitta you throat’ etc., it was too embarrassing, and I settled for a tough New Yorkese tone’”).

Though at least one of the anonymous selections appears to be from a female troubadour, the only definite example of the trobairitz in the volume is Beatriz de Dia. It’s too bad, as more poems like hers would help one from wanting to whack some of these male troubadours over the head with their stringed instruments. In any case, hers is a refreshing perspective:

I have been in heavy thought
over a cavalier I’d had.
I want it clear to everyone
that I’ve loved him to excess,
and now I see he’s left me: pre-
text, I refused him my love.
I seem to be mistaken, then,
as to what was going on,
dressed or in bed.

Needless to say, I found Proensa enchanting, a wonder of marvelous poetic conceits and lines. I’ve conclude with two passages that demonstrate the poems’ tonal range. The first is a rather somber few lines from Aimeric de Belenoi:

                                    The full rich fact remains
that my heart in its clumsiness cannot fulfill.
So I suffer
a pain so great
it should be credited me as feat
having borne, having overborne it.

And finally, I’ll leave off with a passage from Peire D’Alvernhe, who seems to sum up the critical, self-deprecating joy to be found in this rich tradition and this delightful book:

My tune is of troubadours who sing variously,
and the worst believe he chants nobly.
I wish they would go somewhere else:
                                    two hundred shepherds
                                    trying to pipe
and not a damn one knows whether the tune
                                    rises or descends.

Monday, February 13, 2017

Gabriele D'Annunzio: A Taste Too Far

Image from Edoardo Sylos Labini's production of
  Gabriele D'Annunzio, Tra Amore e Battiglie
Teatro Manzoni (Milan) 2013

Since a couple of commenters on my 2016 recap mentioned Gabriele D’Annunzio, I thought I’d go back and see what I could make of the few notes I’d written about him. Certainly, D’Annunzio’s name had loomed among those of authors I’d skirted so far in my reading of Italian literature. D’Annunzio looms in a lot of contexts, from his playboy lifestyle to his rogue military missions to his super-charged reputation as the Fascist hero who might well have been Mussolini had not Mussolini steered him away from party leadership. In the literary realm, he looms thanks to a singular, provocative, flourishingly lyrical and melodramatically decadent style. The Fascism and the style have both made D’Annunzio something of a bête noir in Italy; a taste of his writing is almost enough to hypothesize that the mid-century return towards realism in Italian arts and letters might have had as much to do with D’Annunzio’s excesses as with the ravages of war. One can hardly imagine a writer more likely to produce in the reader, as the most generous response one could ever hope to have, a love-hate relationship.

Curiously, there’s a relative paucity of D’Annunzio’s works available in English, or at least in English that hasn’t been scrubbed and tidied up in translations that tamp down the works’ sexual elements. It took until 2013 for a bravely non-prudish translation of D’Annunzio’s best-known prose work, Il Piacere (Pleasure), to appear in English.

Though I read about half of that novel, I’m going to skip it and go straight to my entry point for D’Annunzio: a collection of short works translated by Raymond Rosenthal: Nocturne and Five Stories of Love and Death (1997). “Nocturne,” the book’s signature piece, represents a fragment of D’Annunzio’s lengthy prose poem Notturno, the first complete English translation of which also appeared only recently, in 2014. I read some of that new edition, and found the poem itself - a long meditation on war, patriotism, injury, recovery and memory, amplified with melodrama – little more interesting than the circumstances of the poem’s composition: the author, his eyes completely bandaged from being nearly blinded in a plane crash, composed the entire poem on tiny, individual strips of paper. These were just large enough for a single line and thus provided a means for measuring, in a tactile way, what he was writing, a method given typical D’Annunzian sentiment by his comparing it to “the way of the Sybils, who wrote their brief sentences on leaves scattered to the winds by fate.”

The conceits around which D’Annunzio builds the five stories in the collection are conceptually simple and punitively cruel. In “The Virgin Orsola,” a young teacher awakens from a near fatal case of typhoid fever to discover her sexuality, only to have this blossoming cut down by a brutal rape and subsequent pregnancy. In “The Sea-Going Surgeon,” a rapidly growing abscess on the neck of a sailor at sea becomes catastrophic when his inept shipmates attempt an amateur treatment. The narrator of “Giovanni Episcopo” recounts (perhaps to the person who has come to arrest him?) an abject tale of self-abasement and submission that leads him to murder. In “Leda Without Swan,” a chance love affair begins badly, and worse remains ahead. Even the book’s sunniest piece, “A Vigil,” involves a couple who, previously kept from expressing their feelings for one another by the man whose funeral they prepare together, now copulate next to his corpse.

I think it hardly matters that I reveal these plots, since, although they give a flavor of D’Annunzio’s adolescently provocative interests, nearly all of the stories’ attraction lies in their explosive, voluptuous, vital language. From the first pages of “The Virgin Orsola,” which opens the book, D’Annunzio’s hyper-rich prose announces a writer of impressive linguistic dexterity, and one who, far from shrinking from the ugliest scenes life has to offer, seems to exalt in them:

Supine on her bed lay the virgin Orsola in the grip of a feverish stupor, of an inert somnolence, her rapid breathing broken by sharp, rattling gasps. On the pillow rested her head almost completely striped of hair and her face of an almost bluish color in which the lids half-hid her viscous eyeballs and the nostrils seemed to be smeared with soot. With her fleshless hands she made small, uncertain gestures, vague attempts to seize something from the void, weird, startling signs which gave those around her a feeling almost of terror; her pale arms were shot through by muscular contractions, twitchings of the tendons; and now and then an unintelligible babble came from her lips, as if the words were caught in the soot on her tongue, the clinging mucus on her gums. 

A similar appetite for the lurid appears in “The Sea-Going Surgeon,” when the sailor’s abscess worsens:

…the next day the cuticle covering the abscess was forced up by a blood-colored serum and split open, And the entire areas took on the appearance of a wasp’s next from which a flow of purulent matter oozed profusely. The inflammation and the suppuration went deeper and spread very rapidly.

In “Giovanni Episcopo,” the narrator encounters his fiancée’s father, turned to alcoholism due to being forced out of work by an eye disease, and accompanies the man to a tavern, where he gets a good look at the man’s face for the first time:

He lifted his glasses; and so much had the expression of his face changed, it almost seemed to me that he lifted a mask. His lids were lacerated, swollen, without lashes, filled with decay, horrible; and in the midst of that redness and that swollenness barely opened two tear-filled pupils, infinitely sad, with the profound and incomprehensible sadness one can see in the eyes of a suffering animal.

Such theatrical descriptions are often as not accompanied by rafts of meditations, or rather rhetorical questions, since usually D’Annunzio seems prepared to supply ready-made answers that offer little assurance or optimism (again from “Giovanni Episcopo”):

What can we change? Do our tears have any effect? – Each man is just anyone, to whom just anything can happen. This is the whole story; there is nothing else. Amen.

Has is ever happened to you, when looking for a long time at a woman, to suddenly lose all notion of her humanity, her social condition, the emotional ties which bind you to her, and to see, with an obviousness that terrifies you, the bestiality, the sheer femaleness, the blatant brutality of sex?

I liked D’Annunzio best when he left his questions open-ended and dialed his “vitality” back a bit (and compared to the lavish language and profligate rhetoric of Pleasure, these five stories are practically models of restraint). His descriptions can then turn from gaudily ornamental to supple and even delicate. Here, for example, from “The Virgin Orsola”:

Little by little, in the unconsciousness of sleep, Rosa’s head, almost tracing a semi-circle on the wall, bent towards the perturbed cleric. The slow reclining of that beautiful feminine head inspired a melting tenderness; and, since the movement somewhat altered the woman’s sleep, between her ever so slightly parted lids the rims of the iris appeared and immediately disappeared in the white cornea, like the petal of a violet floating in milk.

And lest I give the unfair impression that D’Annunzio’s writing is little more than a succession of grotesqueries and weighty, pedantic pronouncements, the narrative drive in these stories shows, despite D’Annunzio’s playing for effect, an ability to tell a compelling story with glimpses of human sympathy. In “Giovanni Episcopo,” for example, the story begins poignantly as the anguished narrator recounts to his unidentified listener the story of his 11-year-old son’s death. But such sympathy rarely lasts for long in D’Annunzio’s pessimistic world. What can one say about a writer who, with scarcely a trace of irony, can deliver lines like “No human creature loves another human creature – man has never been loved by another human creature,” or “Truly, the sun is the saddest thing in the universe”? Though Episcopo utters these words, the punishing endings to these stories suggest that D’Annunzio himself might have willingly spoken them.

Nonetheless, I suspect that I may not be done with D’Annunzio. Not many writers wallow as much in overblown, hyperbolic, eye-rolling melodrama as D’Annuzio does, but neither can many make one sit up straight when confronted with such density of voluptuous language. And while D’Annunzio makes an easy target, almost inviting criticism that could serve as equal and opposite reaction to his extravagances, it would be a mistake to dismiss him as a hack. Linguistic power like this doesn’t come along every day. I doubt I will ever be a subscriber, but the mere act of writing this post has my curiosity slightly piqued with regard to his late work about Venice, Il Fuoco (The Flame). Obsessed with that city as I am, I feel almost obligated to read the novel at some point. But that doesn’t mean that I’m not a little afraid. And besides, life is short.