Anne Carson, the destruction of art and an inventory of space

"... the most exciting poet writing in English today."
- Michael Ondaatje

The entirety of art serves to tell one story, the story of loss. The story of destruction. The irony (read: what makes it art) is that the story of loss is inevitably told by means of creation.

Everything was fine until Anne Carson ruined it. She is a destroyer of art and dreams and integrity. For once, I had thought I was original (really, I hadn't) and unique (perhaps, I didn't) and singular (still true). The story: her story, and her (that of another) story and her (another, yet again) story told, interwoven, collected through perhaps nefarious means. The asexualization of sexuality by written word; the inevitable (because, by definition, inadequate) translation of three dimensions into two.

What you would see: A blue striped polo shirt (base color darker than that of the stripes), black slacks, orange socks, brown shoes.
What else you would see: A desk, a keyboard, a computer, two telephones, a book thrown to the side, a glass of water.
And beyond that?: Concrete, steel, glass, pavement, asphalt, cold biting wind, clouded skies.

Her story (Anne Carson) is one that we've all lived. At least in our own interpretations of events. The violence of sexuality and the endless road of trying to please one's mother despite the obvious impossibility.

This part is important: The city of New York comprises 468.9 square miles, located at a latitude of 40° 43′ 0″ N and a longitude of 74° 0′ 0″ W. It was officially settled in 1624 and contains 165.6 square miles of water. As of July 1, 2007, the population of the city of New York was 8,274,527, with a density of 27,147 people per square mile spread across five boroughs.

She (Anne Carson) is a literary demagogue. A destroyer of art and dreams. I don't think I had any artistic integrity before Anne Carson, Christine killed that long ago.

Her (Anne Carson) story is my story. The loss, the moor, pleasing one's mother. I do draw the line at the Brontë sisters, but she (Anne Carson) seems to understand them to the point of integration. I won't go so far as to call it appropriation, but one could successfully argue that point, I suppose. Obviously, plagiarism is out (citations are given at times, quotation marks used).

"She is one the few writers writing in English that I would read anything she wrote. If there's a magazine that has something of hers in it, I buy it automatically."
- Susan Sontag

Strong, eloquent words, Susan. (Not really.)

Here's what I see: Why do Susan Sontag and Michael Ondaatje both qualify/objectify her (Anne Carson) by means of labeling her (Anne Carson) a writer working in the English language? Is there a writer writing in French that Susan Sontag would read anything she wrote? Is there a most exciting poet writing in Japanese that Michael Ondaatje would care to recommend?

Here is why she (Anne Carson) is truly a destroyer: She does as they all do. She know what she is doing. She is using creation to close the doors on the past. When one writes about it, it becomes fiction; the brain can accept the non-reality of the written word much better than the (verisimilitude of the) reality of memory.

Here is why she (Anne Carson) ruined everything: I am forced to confront my own process, and admit that I am nothing.

* * *

When the sun came up on that day (if it came up on that day; I am ignorant of the weather of that day) there was one less. Only scraps of debris, of artifact and memory remained. These things lay scattered across two continents and traversed an ocean.

There wasn't much to see, which is why I never went back. Everything was sold or destroyed, I presume. Pieces of myself that I had already left behind, lost forever. Space empty, tidied, cleaned, scrubbed, shown, resold. The view for another to see. The cathedral and lights of the lower city peppering the nightly view so few times for us.

I lived on a mountain top. If I had wanted to be destructive, I could have watched it all from the heights and laughed an evil laugh as pandemonium set in and rioting occurred. From the top of it all.

Fred was the first to call anyone. Then, the chain continued. Over and over and over. I was called early in the chain. I called no one.

Things I wouldn't express: guilt, shame. (Just like the turning of one's back to an uninterested lover, as she (Anne Carson) did on page 12.)

I'd like to think it was cold that day. The wind was tumultuous. The sun, perhaps showing its face, even if slightly. Although, I would wish it a very sunny day, with the perfection of azure skies.

"Perhaps the hardest thing about losing a lover is
to watch the year repeat its days."
- Anne Carson

* * *

Those who understand, as I do, do the same thing over and over again. They tell the same story. They relay the same information. I know this because Dominique Barbéris told me as much. It is a struggle of repetition and self-censure. It is the reflective nature of the writing process.

In the retelling of Anaïs Nin by Christine Angot (L'Inceste) and the retelling of the Heights by Anne Carson, one notes that interplay of reality, non-reality, and fictitious reality. Acquaintances are made, bond of friendship bonded, lovers exalted. Then, destroyed. Once over and again until the a new resolution is formed. This is called "conflict". Making the knot, then comes the dénouement.

In comedy, the formula is union, désunion, réunion. Hence, the preponderance of weddings at the ending. Tragedy does not allow for this. Fiction writing, devoid of such rigid schematics, can have any ending possible. It is up to the creator to determine the ending. The ending comes solely through the imaginative powers of he who blackens the page with words. The ending, so long as it is not a carbon copy of the beginning (which it could never be due to the journey in between), is valid either way.