Is story-telling food for the fool?

Scarriet often gives poetry a hard time, and this, we are sure, offends various poets and those who teach poetry—who are really trying the best they can, etc ok don’t cry.  To restore a little balance, we thought we might take a brief look at poetry’s brother: narrative fiction.

We make a big deal about how important “the public” is, and how poetry has no “public,” and this is all true—but we know people look around (especially the proud and self-flattering avant-garde) and think, yea but the public is stupid!  And much that gets the public’s attention is really, really stupid.  So how does that fit into all this talk about the importance of “the public?”

We’re glad you asked.

First, the public doesn’t have to be smart to be important; the public is important because it’s the public—that’s simply a given, and any imbecile who tries to make themselves feel better by saying they are smarter than the public, or the public doesn’t understand them, etc does not earn our admiration; nor should this attitude earn anyone’s admiration.  It is pure folly.  The public doesn’t have to have any admirable qualities: the public is us; the public, good or bad, is the clay from which all models are made.

But let’s put that aside for a moment—we know you, dear reader, are one of those exceptions who are truly smart, etc.   No, we are serious.  Let’s assume you are.  This still does not change the truth put forth in the previous paragraph on the importance of the public.  If this is understood, we may proceed. 

Why does this public, too slovenly and short-0f-attention-span to enjoy the ‘news-that-stays-news’ of poetry, gobble up best-selling novels—which take such a long time to read?  Dear Public: You won’t take one minute to read a poem—but you’ll take a month to read a novel??  Does that make any sense?

The public is supposedly too unfocused to concentrate for sixty seconds on a poem, but dwells for hours in front of made-up abstractions otherwise known as video narratives. 

We hear so often about the importance of narrative, and how narrative is the basis of everything, and how everyone loves a story, and poetry is no longer popular because it has abandoned narrative.

Is narrative the solution to poetry’s demise?

We think not.

Narrative—and its popularity—may just be at the heart of that stupidity of which the public is so often accused.  The public cannot (should not) be impugned, but narrative may be affecting the public negatively if we examine the matter at hand, instead of merely flattering ourselves by denigrating the public.

To make a proper judgement, we should begin with nature, rather than the words of some professor. 

A beautiful face, (and painters here will know what I mean) a beautiful physique, a form, or picture of great beauty, instantaneously recognized, is nature’s language, and the languge of the most profound art through the ages.

But imagine then, a face which requires a narrative to unfold its beauty.

It would not be a face at all.

Nature would laugh at such a crude method as narrative to present her wares.

The greatest beauty is destroyed by narrative.

Narrative does not enhance attention and focus and appreciation of beauty; it weakens and attenuates it.

Narrative depends on forgetfulness and primitive curiosity—an infant’s peek-a-boo amusement.

Gaps in memory, gaps which destroy the continuity of artistic unity, are the building blocks of narrative.

No wonder frivolously infatuated simpletons are capable of sustaining tremendous focus on novels and films—it is precisely because narrative amuses the part of the brain which keeps forgetting what has just transpired, essentially training it away from artistic unity and towards abstracted know-nothing-ism.

That which is impressive, and beautiful, is so immediately, and should be able to sustain that excellence in every part.

Narrative deceives and lulls us into an expectation that: ‘well, eventually, if I stick with this, it will all make sense—or, there will be a pay-off.’ 

When there is no pay-off, it is too late; the investment has been made, the text has been read, the gaps of memory have asserted themselves, the focus has lapsed, and pride prevents the reader from admitting the narrative, as narrative, betrayed them.

The standard has been imperceptibly lowered.

The TempestThe David, The Mona Lisa, The Ode To A Nightingale have been replaced by The Sad and Pitiful Narrative of Boozy Suzy Singsaw.

The poem should be precisely like the painting, or the work of architecture, in its appeal to artistic unity, in its beauty immediately seen in its first line and apparent to its last, even in that unfolding temporality which sets it somewhat apart from products for the eye.

The novel is far too long to sustain true artistic unity.  (See Poe: A long poem does not exist.)  The novel—because of its length—is for simpletons.

The short novel, The Great Gatsby, a favorite with the public, and published when many were producing either political tracts or miserable little experiments of Modernism, is often produced as a movie—which turns out to be a miserable failure.  Why?  Because the purveyors of narrative are unable to comprehend why The Great Gatsby is popular.  Stripped of the narrative-less beauty of its prose and produced as a narrative (film), the movie-maker, still uncomprehending, no doubt, comes face to face with the truth.

%d bloggers like this: