Received: from mgmt.utoronto.ca (fmgmt.mgmt.utoronto.ca [128.100.43.253]) by tapehost.texas.net (8.8.8/2.4) with SMTP id WAA28729 for ; Tue, 7 Apr 1998 22:42:28 -0500 (CDT) Received: by mgmt.utoronto.ca (5.65v4.0/1.1.10.7/26Jan98-0432AM) id AA28110; Tue, 7 Apr 1998 23:40:50 -0400 From: LouisFors Message-Id: Date: Tue, 7 Apr 1998 23:40:35 EDT To: emweb@fmgmt.mgmt.utoronto.ca Mime-Version: 1.0 Subject: Re: Pondering # 544 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Mailer: AOL 3.0 for Windows 95 sub 49 Sender: owner-emweb@fmgmt.mgmt.utoronto.ca Precedence: bulk Reply-To: emweb@fmgmt.mgmt.utoronto.ca Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII X-UIDL: 1fc2534f5b82d33d0fafe82cff15f770 In a message dated 98-04-07 21:59:23 EDT, Joe Sharaba wrote about # 544 > > > I feel that ED was speaking for all creative people, a group in which she,of > course, numbers herself. Since, at the time of her writing the poem, she had > not reaped any rewards of her craft, she may have been adressing the idea > that > the most most creative among us give much and receive little. If that were > so, > it might seem that any true poet, writer of prose, artist, musical composer, > etc. is self-driven to achieve a level of perfection which necessitates > great > sacrifice. These people, thefore, are martyrs to their craft. They seek > perfection which is ellusive and so are living in a state of torment. The > same > art which serves as the hard master they have given up most of life's simple > pleasures for does offer them some satisfaction in what they have achieved. > > It seems ironic that the thing which gives the most peace causes the > greatest > pain (wrought their Pang in syllable). The poem presents, to me, the > realization that dedicated artists in many fields sacrifice their lives and > talents in hopes of creating something fine enough to be recognized by > future > generations. The only problem is that they will never be aware of the > achievement, therefore, they may be referred to as martyrs in some sense. > > If the above represents, an any form, what ED was getting at, I marvel that > she could do well in eight lines what I am unsure of after rambling all over > the place. A problem I have with this is that I think ED was speaking only for a certain segment of the artistic community. She may in fact be speaking of herself, for she received litte public recognition during your life, and she may have been quite aware that she was writing for the future. (I have no direct evidence about that, although she did carefully find her poems and put them in a safe place. On the other hand, Martha Nell Smith in _Rowing In Eden__makes quiter a compelling case that ED did publish (in her letters) exactly the way she wanted to, and received rewards in return from her specified audience. I still have difficulty in seeing ED regarding herself as a martyr. Yes, she is talking about future generations "appreciating" what the martyred artists, whoever they may be, did. In the artistic world there are many people who do not fall into the martyred class. Verdi, for example, devoted his life to opera, and, in return became a very rich man who was idolized. He also led an extensive social life aside from his opera work. In our time, Ballanchine fully realized success from his approaches to ballet. A great figure in the history of ballet, I cannot see him as a martyr. Even the great Russian composers during the cruelest regime (Stalin, I assume) did not martyr themselves. Prokofiev and Shostakovitch subdued their work, yes, but I do not see them as martyrs. In Iran, under Khomeni, truly *great* films (largely unknown in the west) were made by producers and directors who often cleverly hid their anti-establishment messages so that the politician in power could not read them. Repressed, again, but martyrs? So ED may indeed be referring to the unknown writer, like herself, who gains greater recognition after death. I really not sure that the most creative among us give the most and receive the least, and thus can be considered martyrs. I agree with in spades that ED writes 8 lines and we spend scores of lines. But she liked to pack; we are trying to unpack. an opinion from Santa Fe where the hail has stopped, Louis Forsdale > > >>