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11. Two Witches / New Hampshire(1923) - Robert Frost
I stayed the night for shelter at a farm
Behind the mountain, with a mother and son,
Two old-believers. They did all the talking.
Mother. Folks think a witch who has familiar spirits
She could call up to pass a winter evening,
But won't, should be burned at the stake or something.
Summoning spirits isn't "Button, button,
Who's got the button," I would have them know.
Son. Mother can make a common table rear
And kiss with two legs like an army mule.
Mother. And when I've done it, what good have I done?
Rather than tip a table for you, let me
Tell you what Ralle the Sioux Control once told me.
He said the dead had souls, but when I asked him
How could that be―I thought the dead were souls―
He broke my trance. Don't that make you suspicious
That there's something the dead are keeping back?
Yes, there's something the dead are keeping back.
trance : 비몽사몽, 최면상태, 신들린 상태
keeping back : 가까이하지 않다, 억누르다, 을 제지하다
Son. You wouldn't want to tell him what we have
Up attic, mother?
Mother. Bones―a skeleton.
Son. But the headboard of mother's bed is pushed
Against the attic door: the door is nailed.
It's harmless. Mother hears it in the night,
Halting perplexed behind the barrier
Of door and headboard. Where it wants to get
Is back into the cellar where it came from.
Mother. We'll never let them, will we, son? We'll never!
Son. It left the cellar forty years ago
And carried itself like a pile of dishes
Up one flight from the cellar to the kitchen,
Another from the kitchen to the bedroom,
Another from the bedroom to the attic,
Right past both father and mother, and neither stopped it.
Father had gone upstairs; mother was downstairs.
I was a boy: I don't know where I was.
Mother. The only fault my husband found with me―
I went to sleep before I went to bed,
Especially in winter when the bed
Might just as well be ice and the clothes snow.
The night the bones came up the cellar stairs
Toffile had gone to bed alone and left me,
But left an open door to cool the room off
So as to sort of turn me out of it.
I was just coming to myself enough
To wonder where the cold was coming from,
When I heard Toffile upstairs in the bedroom
And thought I heard him downstairs in the cellar.
The board we had laid down to walk dry-shod on
When there was water in the cellar in spring
Struck the hard cellar bottom. And then someone
Began the stairs, two footsteps for each step,
The way a man with one leg and a crutch,
Or a little child, comes up. It wasn't Toffile:
It wasn't anyone who could be there.
The bulkhead double doors were double-locked
And swollen tight and buried under snow.
The cellar windows were banked up with sawdust
And swollen tight and buried under snow.
It was the bones. I know them―and good reason.
My first impulse was to get to the knob
And hold the door. But the bones didn't try
The door; they halted helpless on the landing,
Waiting for things to happen in their favor.
The faintest restless rustling ran all through them.
I never could have done the thing I did
If the wish hadn't been too strong in me
To see how they were mounted for this walk.
I had a vision of them put together
Not like a man, but like a chandelier.
So suddenly I flung the door wide on him.
A moment he stood balancing with emotion,
And all but lost himself. (A tongue of fire
Flashed out and licked along his upper teeth.
Smoke rolled inside the sockets of his eyes.)
Then he came at me with one hand outstretched,
The way he did in life once; but this time
I struck the hand off brittle on the floor,
And fell back from him on the floor myself.
The finger-pieces slid in all directions.
(Where did I see one of those pieces lately?
Hand me my button box―it must be there.)
I sat up on the floor and shouted, "Toffile,
It's coming up to you." It had its choice
Of the door to the cellar or the hall.
It took the hall door for the novelty,
And set off briskly for so slow a thing,
Still going every which way in the joints, though,
So that it looked like lightning or a scribble,
From the slap I had just now given its hand.
I listened till it almost climbed the stairs
From the hall to the only finished bedroom,
Before I got up to do anything;
Then ran and shouted, "Shut the bedroom door,
Toffile, for my sake!" "Company?" he said,
"Don't make me get up; I'm too warm in bed."
So lying forward weakly on the handrail
I pushed myself upstairs, and in the light
(The kitchen had been dark) I had to own
I could see nothing. "Toffile, I don't see it.
It's with us in the room, though. It's the bones."
"What bones?" "The cellar bones―out of the grave."
That made him throw his bare legs out of bed
And sit up by me and take hold of me.
I wanted to put out the light and see
If I could see it, or else mow the room,
With our arms at the level of our knees,
And bring the chalk-pile down. "I'll tell you what―
It's looking for another door to try.
The uncommonly deep snow has made him think
Of his old song, 'The Wild Colonial Boy,'
He always used to sing along the tote road.
He's after an open door to get outdoors.
Let's trap him with an open door up attic."
Toffile agreed to that, and sure enough,
Almost the moment he was given an opening,
The steps began to climb the attic stairs.
I heard them. Toffile didn't seem to hear them.
"Quick!" I slammed to the door and held the knob.
"Toffile, get nails." I made him nail the door shut
And push the headboard of the bed against it.
Then we asked was there anything
Up attic that we'd ever want again.
The attic was less to us than the cellar.
If the bones liked the attic, let them have it.
Let them stay in the attic. When they sometimes
Come down the stairs at night and stand perplexed
Behind the door and headboard of the bed,
Brushing their chalky skull with chalky fingers,
With sounds like the dry rattling of a shutter,
That's what I sit up in the dark to say―
To no one anymore since Toffile died.
Let them stay in the attic since they went there.
I promised Toffile to be cruel to them
For helping them be cruel once to him.
Son. We think they had a grave down in the cellar.
Mother. We know they had a grave down in the cellar.
Son. We never could find out whose bones they were.
Mother. Yes, we could too, son. Tell the truth for once.
They were a man's his father killed for me.
I mean a man he killed instead of me.
The least I could do was help dig their grave.
We were about it one night in the cellar.
Son knows the story: but 'twas not for him
To tell the truth, suppose the time had come.
Son looks surprised to see me end a lie
We'd kept up all these years between ourselves
So as to have it ready for outsiders.
But tonight I don't care enough to lie―
I don't remember why I ever cared.
Toffile, if he were here, I don't believe
Could tell you why he ever cared himself …
She hadn't found the finger-bone she wanted
Among the buttons poured out in her lap
I verified the name next morning: Toffile.
The rural letter box said Toffile Lajway.
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코어스의 마녀
나는 어머니와 아들이 함께 사는 산 뒤의
어느 농가로 대피해서 그 밤을 지냈다.
둘 다 심령주의 신자들이었다. 이야기는 모두 그들이 했다.
어머니. 낯익은 혼령(魂靈)을 불러내서 겨울 저녁을
지낼 수 있는데도, 불러내지 않으려는 마녀는
마땅히 화형 등에 처해야 한다는 게 사람들의 생각이지요.
혼령 호출은 “단추, 단추, 누가 단추 가졌게?”같은
아이들의 놀이가 아니란 걸 그들에게 알려주고 싶어요.
아들. 어머니는 흔히 보는 테이블을 일으켜 세워서
노새처럼 두 다리로 발길질을 하게 할 수 있잖아요.
어머니. 내가 그렇게 한들 무슨 쓸모가 있겠느냐?
당신을 위해서 테이블을 뒤엎기보다는 수 족(族)의 신령 랄레가
언젠가 나에게 한 이야기를 들려드리는 게 좋겠어요.
그가 망자(亡者)는 혼이 있다고 말하기에, 어찌
그럴 수 있냐고 물었더니―난 망자가 곧 혼이라고 생각했거든요―
그 신령이 나의 최면상태를 깨버렸어요. 그러니까
그 망자가 무엇인가를 말하지 않으려 한다고 의심할 만하잖아요?
그래요, 그 망자가 말하지 않으려는 무엇인가가 있어요.
아들. 어머니, 저 위 다락방에 있는 것을 말하려는 것은
아니겠죠?
어머니. 뼈들―백골(白骨)을 말하는 거구나.
아들. 그러나 그 다락의 문에 어머니 침대 헤드보드를
바싹 밀어놨어요. 그리고 문에 못질을 했고요.
백골은 무해(無害)해요. 어머니는 밤에 그것이
문과 헤드보드 장벽 뒤에서 곤혹스럽게
머뭇거리고 있는 소리가 들린대요. 그것이 원하는 것은
그것이 본래 왔던 지하실로 돌아가는 것이에요.
어머니. 아들아, 우리 절대 허용하지 말자. 절대 안 된다!
아들. 그것은 40년 전에 지하실을 떠나
포개놓은 접시들 같은 걸음걸이로 움직여서
지하실에서 부엌까지 한바탕 올라오고,
부엌에서 침실까지 또 한바탕 올라오고,
침실에서 다락까지 또 한바탕 올라왔는데,
아버지와 어머니를 모두 지나갔지만, 아무도 가로막지 않았어요.
아버지는 이층에 올라갔었고, 어머니는 아래층에 있었지요.
나는 아기였고요. 나는 그때 어디 있었는지 몰라요.
어머니. 내 남편이 발견한 나의 유일한 결함은―
내가 침실에 들기도 전에 벌써 잠드는 거였어요.
침대가 얼음장 같이 차고 옷도 눈 같이 차가운
겨울에 특히 그랬다는 거예요.
그 뼈들이 지하실 계단을 올라왔던 밤에도
투파일은 나를 아래층에 두고 혼자 이층 침실에 갔지만,
나를 침실에서 돌려세우기 위해서 그랬는지
문을 열어놓아서 침실에 찬바람이 돌게 했어요.
내가 방금 정신이 퍼뜩 들어서
찬바람이 어디서 나오나 궁금해 하는데,
이층 침실에서 투파일의 소리가 들렸고,
아래 지하실에서 그의 소리가 들렸다고 생각했어요.
봄에 지하실에 물이 스밀 때
발을 적시지 않고 딛고 걷도록 깔아둔 판자가
단단한 지하실 바닥에 딱딱 부딪쳤어요. 그다음 누군가가
계단을 오르기 시작했는데, 한 걸음에 두 발소리가 나는 것이,
다리가 하나고 목발이 하나인 사람, 아니면 작은 어린이가
올라오는 걸음걸이였어요. 그건 투파일은 아니었고,
지하실에 있을 수 있는 사람이 아무도 없었거든요.
이중 격벽(隔璧)문이 이중으로 잠겨있는 채로
불쑥 눈 속에 단단히 묻혀있었어요.
지하실 창문들도 둑 싸듯 톱밥에 에워 쌓여
불쑥 눈 속에 단단히 묻혀있었고요.
그건 백골들이었죠. 그들을 내가 알고 있었고―알 만했죠.
나의 첫 충동은 부엌문 손잡이로 달려가서
문을 잡고 있는 것이었어요. 그러나 백골들은 문을
열려고 하지 않고, 층계참에 속절없이 멈춰 서서,
사정이 호전되기를 기다리는 것이었어요.
백골들이 초조히 바스락대는 희미한 소리가 계속 들렸어요.
백골들이 이렇게 걷기 위해 어떤 차림을 했는지
보고픈 아주 강렬한 욕망이 나에게 없었더라면
나는 내가 한 일을 결코 할 수 없었을 거예요.
나는 백골들이 사람 모습이 아니라,
샹들리에처럼 결합되었으리라 상상했지요.
나는 아주 갑자기 문을 활짝 열어줬어요.
그는 한 순간 감정의 균형을 잡고 서있더니,
그다음 거의 실성했어요. (불의 혀가
번쩍번쩍 불을 뿜으면서 그의 윗니를 핥았어요.
그의 눈구멍 안에서는 연기가 출렁거렸고요.)
그다음 그가 한 손을 뻗치고 내게 덤벼들었는데,
언젠가 살았을 때 덤벼들던 모습이었어요. 그러나
이번에는 내가 그의 손을 쳐서 바닥에 박살냈고,
나 자신도 그에게서 물러서다 바닥에 쓰러졌지요.
손가락 마디들이 사방으로 미끄러졌어요.
(손가락 마디 하나를 근래 어디서 봤더라?
단추 상자를 내개 건네 주거라―거기 있을 게다.)
나는 부엌 바닥에 일어나 앉아서 소리쳤어요.
"투파일, 그것이 당신에게로 올라가고 있어요."
그것은 지하실 문 또는 홀 문을 골라잡을 수 있었지요.
그것은 색다른지 홀 문을 잡더니,
아주 느린 것 치고는 씩씩하게 출발했어요.
하지만 관절 마디들이 사방팔방으로 움직였기에,
그것은 번갯불이나 낙서가 움직이는 것 같았어요.
내가 방금 그의 손을 탁 쳐서 박살냈기 때문이었죠.
그것이 홀에서 방금 깔아놓은 침실까지의
계단을 거의 오를 때까지 귀를 기울였다가,
마침내 나는 어떤 일을 하려고 일어섰고,
그 다음 뛰어가며 소리쳤죠. "침실 문 닫아요,
투파일, 제발!" 그는 말했어요. "손님 왔어요?
나를 깨우지 말아요. 침대가 너무 따뜻하니까."
그래서 나는 난간에 힘없이 엎드린 채로
내 몸을 밀어서 이층에 올라갔는데, 환한 불빛에
(부엌은 어두웠었어요.) 보이는 게 아무 것도
없더군요. "투파일, 당신은 그게 보이지 않는군요.
하지만, 그게 방에 우리와 함께 있어요. 백골들 말이에요."
"무슨 백골들 말이요?" "지하실 백골들―무덤에서 나온."
그 말에 그는 맨발로 침대에서 뛰쳐나와,
내 옆에 일어나 앉아서 나를 꼭 잡았어요.
나는 불을 끄면 그걸 볼 수 있을 것인지 확인하거나,
아니면 우리들의 무릎 높이로 양팔을 벌리고 방을
휘둘러서 백골 더미를 박살내고 싶었어요. "내 말 들어요―
백골이 또 다른 문을 찾아서 열려는가 봐요.
눈이 아주 많이 쌓여서 그 사람이 그의 옛 노래,
‘식민시대의 거친 소년’이 생각났나 봐요.
그 사람이 시골의 수송로를 달리면서 불렀던 노래에요.
그가 밖으로 나가려는지 열린 문을 찾고 있어요.
열린 문으로 그를 유인해서 다락으로 올려 보냅시다."
토필은 내 말에 동의했고, 아니나 다를까,
우리가 그에게 틈새를 열어주자 곧바로,
다락의 층계를 올라가는 그의 걸음이 시작됐어요.
내 귀엔 발소리가 들렸는데 토필의 귀엔 들리지 않는 듯했어요.
"빨리!" 나는 다락문을 콱 닫고 문고리를 잡았어요.
"토필, 못질을 해요." 내 말에 그는 문에 못질을 하고
그 문에 침대의 헤드보드를 밀어붙였어요.
그다음 우리는 혹시 다락에 올려놔야 할
물건이 또 있을 것인지 생각해봤지요.
우리에겐 다락보다 지하실이 더 필요했어요.
백골들이 다락을 좋아하면, 그들이 차지하라지.
그들이 다락에 머물도록 하지. 그들이 때때로
밤에 계단을 내려와 문과 침대 헤드보드 뒤에서
어쩔 줄을 모르고 서있는 경우에는,
백악질 손가락으로 백악질 머리뼈를 빗질하는데,
마치 덧문이 건성으로 달그락거리는 소리가 나요.
그 소리에 나는 어둠속에 일어나 앉기 일쑤인데―
토필이 죽은 이후에는 아무에게도 말도 못했어요.
그것들이 그곳으로 간 이후 거기에 그냥 놔뒀지요.
내가 한때 그것들을 도와 토필에게 잔인하게 굴었기에
이젠 그것들에게 잔인하겠노라고 그에게 약속했어요.
아들. 아래 지하실에 그것들의 무덤이 있었잖아요.
어머니. 그래, 아래 지하실에 무덤이 있었지.
아들. 우리는 그게 누구의 백골인지 알아내지 못했잖아요.
어머니. 아냐, 알 수 있었단다, 얘야. 이번만은 털어놓자.
백골들은 얘 아버지가 날 위해 살해한 사람의 것이지요.
그가 나를 죽이는 대신 살해한 사람이란 뜻입니다.
내가 할 수 있었던 것은 무덤 파는 걸 도와준 것뿐이었어요.
우리는 어느 날 밤 지하실에 무덤을 팠지요.
아들도 그 이야기를 알지만, 때가 왔다고 해도
그 사실을 털어놓는 것은 그 애 몫이 아니었어요.
외부인들에 대비할 목적으로 이제까지 여러 해 동안
우리 모자끼리만 아는 비밀로 유지하던 거짓말을
오늘 내가 끝내는 걸 보고 아들이 놀라는 눈치군요.
그러나 오늘밤은 내가 거짓말할 생각이 없어요―
나는 내가 왜 거짓말하려 했는지 잘 모르겠어요.
토필이 여기에 있다면, 그 역시 왜 거짓말하려 했는지
당신에게 말할 수가 없을 것이라고 믿어요.
그녀는 그녀의 무릎에 쏟은 단추들 가운데서
그녀가 원했던 손가락뼈를 아직 찾지 못했다.
나는 다음 날 아침에 이름을 확인했다. 토필이었다.
시골의 편지통엔 토필 어웨이라 쓰여 있었다.
-신재실 옮김-
단상(斷想): 이 시는 칩거하는 여인의 이야기다. 여인은 산중의 농가에서 마흔이 넘은 정신박약자인 듯 보이는 아들과 단둘이 산다. 모자는 심령주의(spiritualism) 신봉자다.
하룻밤 묵어가는 길손에게 모자가 자기들의 이야기를 들려준다. 우선 어머니는 망자(亡者)의 영혼과 대화하는 마녀로서의 명성을 은근히 뽐내고, 아들도 어머니의 능력을 치켜세운다. 어머니는 그녀의 신령 랄레에게서 들은 이야기를 하겠다고 했지만, 막상 그녀는 신령마저도 털어놓기를 망설이고 숨겨온, 그녀 자신에 얽힌 이야기를 들려준다.
마녀(witch)는 본래 남자를 유혹하는 마력(魔力)을 가진 여자를 뜻했다. 그리고 시의 제목에 쓰인 코어스(Coös)란 지명은 뉴햄프셔의 한 카운티일 뿐만 아니라 뉴잉글랜드의 속어로 창녀(whore)를 뜻하기도 한다. 지금은 아들과 함께 사는 어머니일 뿐이지만, 그녀의 비밀에 대한 실마리를 시의 제목에서 찾을 수 있을 것이다.
그녀는 40여 년 전 결혼했고 아들 하나를 두었다. 남편은 죽고, 그녀는 과부다. 그녀의 부부생활은 행복하지 못했다. 마녀에 어울리지 않게 남편과의 관계는 차갑고, 성욕은 충족되지 않았다. 그러기에 부정(不貞)의 가능성이 상존했다. 아들이 출생했다. 남편은 아내를 의심했다. 아내에게 애인이 있다는 사실이 확인된다. 남편은 아내 대신 그 애인을 살해했다. 아내는 어쩔 수 없이 남편을 도와 시신을 지하실에 매장했다. 40여년의 세월이 흘렀고, 지금은 남편도 죽고 없다.
그녀는 남모르는 죄의식에 시달렸고, 그 죄의식이 판타지의 형태로 나타났다. 오늘 밤 길손에게 털어놓는 그녀의 이야기는 애인의 해골에 대한 판타지다. 그녀는 지하실의 해골이 40년 전 어느 겨울밤에 “포개놓은 접시들 같은 걸음걸이로 움직여서,”지하실에서 1층 부엌, 부엌에서 2층 침실, 침실에서 침실 위의 다락으로 올라갔다고 상상한다. 이동하는 해골은 그녀의 눈에만 보였다. 그러나 남편은 그녀의 말을 믿었고, 그녀는 남편에게 해골을 다락에 영원히 가둬놓자고 제안한다. 그들은 다락으로 통하는 문으로 해골을 유인해 다락으로 올려 보낸 뒤, 다락문에 못질을 하고, 침대 헤드보드로 문에 빗장을 걸어 이중으로 봉쇄했다. 지금도 밤마다 봉쇄된 다락 계단에서 당황스러워하는 해골들의 소리가 들린다.
마침내 그녀는 살인을 고백했다. 마녀에게 잠재하는 욕정이 원인이었다. 그녀에게는 애인이 필요했다. 하지만 남편은 복수를 위해, 그리고 거친 욕구로부터 아내를 보호하기 위해 그 애인을 살해했고, 마녀 역시 공범이 될 수밖에 없었다. 그리고 남편에게 “잔인하게 굴었기에,” 애인의 해골들에게도 “잔인하겠노라고” 남편에게 약속하고, 오늘에 이르렀다. 남편의 이름 “토필 어웨이”가 암시하듯이, 이번 고해로 40여년 시달려온 죄의식과 환상을 깨끗이 정리할 수 있을까?
-신재실 씀-
출처 : http://blog.naver.com/PostList.nhn?from=postList&blogId=js9660&categoryNo=31¤tPage=50
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Pieces of knitting to go on with
Mr. Frost was the commencement speaker at Colby College on June 11, 1956, and on that occasion was also a recipient of the institution’s honorary Doctor of Laws degree.
FIRST I WANT to say to you that up to your graduation, as between entertainment and improvement, the emphasis has been on improvement. If you go on into the graduate schools and so on, it’ll be just the same. The emphasis will be on improvement, rather than on entertainment.
But out in the world, as you go, the emphasis will be on entertainment. What entertains you will improve you enough. Adult education that we talk so much about is, as I look at it, more entertainment than anything else.
And, now, when we talk about what’s expected of you from now on—assuming that this is the end of schoolwork; assuming that for all of you—what’s expected of you is to make some play with what you’ve got jumbled together in your education, out of this department and that department and this course and that course—to kick it round, to be sweeping with it, to be unscrupulous with it—to say it and bid your will about you.
Suppose you’re Mr. Nehru in jail, where he wrote his great history of the world. Without any card cases at all or any books to consult, he wrote a history of the world. You may have read it.
And Mr. Toynbee, I don’t know just what he did, whether he commanded a card case and all. But, anyway, he took a whole lot of everything that he knew and threw it together and delivered it very sweepingly, so as to leave out anything that wasn’t to his purpose. That’s what I mean by being “unscrupulous.”
Not “corrupt.” You see, that’s a different word. Not corrupt; but unscrupulous. By unscrupulous I mean not sticking at trifles, in your talk and in your thought. […]
What I mean is that you’ve picked up a number of interests to go on making play with. Let’s put it this way. You have not reached decisions about a good many things. I suppose you have about some. I have about some at my age, a few. And I’m not confused. I have just a certain number of things that I’m picking up every little while as unfinished business.
A woman’s name for that is “knitting.” A woman carries with her, always has with her—(She ought to have.)—eight or ten pieces of knitting to go on with. And that’s what I mean. It’s as if you’d picked up here, acquired, eight or ten things to go on with, that you’ll pick up at intervals.
For instance, the origin of the species. It’s an endless subject. It’s been freshened lately by the discovery of one man’s jaw—(About eighty years ago, I believe, or so; but the jaw’s just got into public.)—a very interesting little jaw. And it’s possible to reason from it that we didn’t come from the apes or the monkeys at all. We came from the lemurs, those creatures with big innocent eyes. That might be us.
But that goes on. That I don’t consider conclusive. That’s my knitting, my unfinished business. I’ll always be thinking about it. Another one that I’ll always be picking up now and then, to go on with a little way, is the immortality of the soul.
Now, that doesn’t mean changing my opinion. That means picking up or having or hearing, listening to, an idea on the subject. Sometimes it’s a humorous one. Sometimes it’s a deeper one.
A friend said to me, rather sadly, about that the other day, he said: “As I get older, I seem to be playing in more luck in this world. And you know what I think? It’s because I have a larger party in heaven; so many of my friends have gone there.” That’s what I mean by having an idea on the subject.
Another idea, less touching than that: “What’s grandma reading the Bible so much for lately?” somebody said. “She’s cramming for her finals.”
Things you think of for yourself that add to it, that come in on that theme. That theme is, you see, picked up again.
Now, the one I wanted to say the most about was a “dream.” I don’t know how much you’ve come across it in your courses. But I’m always coming across it—in public, in editorials and places—that there was a “dream.” And there’s always this tone about it as if it hadn’t been fulfilled or quite fulfilled.
There was a “dream.” A poem puts it this way:
For each age is a dream that is dying,
Or one that is coming to birth.23
Now, the question right away is: What is an age? How long is an age? Is our dream, our American dream—that I think Dreiser thought was “an American tragedy”—is that dream over? And are we on a new dream?
Or is the Constitution something that isn’t performing—a sort of a vanishing act, fading as we watch it, and turning into something else? When they call it a “living document,” that means they can have it any way they want it for this generation. That’s the danger. […]
I know many of my friends who consider themselves right to be disappointed in the dream, just as Henry Adams was. That fella! He did more toward disillusionment about the dream than Dreiser did, because he did it more exquisitely, more beautifully, in writing.
But he considered himself justified in his disappointment. He gave everything a chance to educate him. He gave Harvard a chance. He gave America a chance. He gave the world a chance. He gave God a chance. And you had to admit that he was something worth educating. But they couldn’t educate him. America failed him.
Well now, again, as you come across it. People say to me: “I don’t think the dream has come true. It has merely ‘materialized.’” You see, like a ghost or something.
That’s a dangerous word. In a visit abroad last year—southward a way; South America—at a convention I heard nothing but that charge—that anxiety for us, for the world—that the American dream had merely materialized, and materialized grossly.
Well, I’m not here to decide that for you. I simply present it as a piece of knitting to go on with.
Let me say what I’d do about it if I were you. Right now, while the Supreme Court is making decisions between confederacy and union, I’d go back and read some of the “Federal Papers.” I’d go back and see whose dream it was. Plenty of time, you’ve got it all before you. There’s a whole lot of it in it.
Was it George Washington’s dream? Was it Thomas Jefferson’s dream? Was it Tom Paine’s dream? Was it Gouverneur Morris’s dream? Those people were all thinking about it, and a good deal at loggerheads about it.
And then for me—to tell you how far I’ve got on my knitting—(I haven’t finished it; it’s still unfinished business with it.)—for me the man that comes the nearest what I think was the dream, that may be ours still, was Madison. In the “Federal Papers,” go to Madison and see what he thought it was going to be.
What was it going to be? Go along and think about that—using the “think” in the slang: “You’ve got another think coming.” You see? I’ve got another think coming. But that’s what I mean. You have these things to go on with.
I would think that Tom Paine was very little in it. I was with a friend just two nights ago who is a Tom Paine-ite. He said, “It’s all Tom Paine.” But, no; not for me.
I’ve read a good deal of Tom Paine, and I know a good deal of what he thought. He thought that there was something started about the brotherhood of man that was going to set the whole world on fire, sweep the world.
So, he rushed right off to France about it. And we see what came of it. They had a revolution there. And they’ve had four republics—and not to mention three or four monarchies—since then. Their dream was a very confused dream, if they had a dream.
Another thing that I pick up—(I don’t want to be too decisive about it.) about freedom and equality. It occurred to me not so terribly long ago—rather recently—that the more equality I have, the less freedom I have. Those two things balance each other.
If one party leans a little more toward the freedom—freedom of enterprise, freedom to assert yourself, freedom to achieve, freedom to win—the other comes in with the tone of mercy and says: “Let’s not let anybody get too far ahead. Let’s have a Sherman Act or something, to keep people from getting too rich.” That’s toward the equality, the fraternity of it.
I didn’t know that for years, didn’t know that the more freedom I had, the less equality I could expect—somebody’d beat me and get ahead of me if we have freedom. (I’m willing to let him get ahead of me, if he can.)
Now, just for the fun of it—winding this up—the theme is, you see, the knitting, the unfinished business—the many pieces of knitting; the half a dozen or dozen. I don’t know how many. I’m not going to spend the time on that. I spent the time on two or three, just to indicate what you’ll pick up and go on with.
You won’t lie awake nights about it. And if you lie awake nights from too much coffee, you might pick one of these up. But you won’t be lying awake on purpose for that.
And probably the best you do with that unfinished business is when you aren’t putting your mind too intensely on them. You just pick ’em up and have another think about them. And sometimes you think of something amusing.
For instance, I remember thinking once that all men are created equally funny.That was a step forward for me. That, anyway, comes in: equally absurd.
—at Hill School, November 5, 1961:
IT USED TO BE a consideration with me, when I was teaching in an academy, to find the handle end of poetry—handle end. Now I think that I was wrong in hunting for it: What would be the handle end of poetry, the thing to get hold of?
But I don’t think it was necessary to look for that particularly. I think you’ve got the handle end with you. It must be very few of you haven’t found poetry and rhyming rather catchy. You know what a catchy couplet is and a catchy rhyme, a lucky rhyme. […]
Looking back at a freshman class now and then in college, I wonder how many of them entered into poetry a little in this way, before ever they started to study it. I’ve tried to find that out sometimes: if they entered into it at home. […]
For me as a teacher it always was: What’s the best handle I can offer them for the whole thing in poetry? I should think the best handle was rhymes, couplets, and lucky words and lucky sentences.