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13. At Woodward’s Gardens
A boy, presuming on his intellect,
Once showed two little monkeys in a cage
A burning-glass they could not understand
And never could be made to understand
Words are no good: to say it was a lens
For gathering solar rays would not have helped
But let him show them how the weapon worked.
He made the sun a pin-point on the nose
Of first one, then the other till it brought
A look of puzzled dimness to their eyes
That blinking could not seem to blink away.
They stood arms laced together at the bars,
And exchanged troubled glances over life.
One put a thoughtful hand up to his nose
As if reminded—or as if perhaps
Within a million years of an idea.
He got his purple little knuckles stung.
knuckle : 손가락 관절, 주먹
The already known had once more been confirmed
By psychological experiment,
And that were all the finding to announce
Had the boy not presumed too close and long.
There was a sudden flash of arm, a snatch,
And the glass was the monkeys’, not the boy’s.
Precipitately they retired back cage
precipitately : 줄달음쳐, 황급히
And instituted an investigation
On their part, though without the needed insight.
They bit the glass and listened for the flavor.
They broke the handle and the binding off it.
Then none the wiser, frankly gave it up,
And having bid it in their bedding straw
Against the day of prisoners’ ennui,
Came dryly forward to the bars again
To answer for themselves: Who said it mattered
What monkeys did or didn’t understand?
They might not understand a burning-glass.
They might not understand the sun itself.
It’s knowing what to do With things that counts.
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우드워스 대공원에서
한 소년이, 자신의 지식에 우쭐하여,
우리 안의 두 마리 작은 원숭이들에게
그들이 이해할 수 없으며 이해시킬 수도 없는
화경(火鏡)을 보여준 적이 있었다.
말이 소용없다. 그것이 태양열을 모으는
볼록렌즈라고 말해봤자 소용이 없으리라.
하지만 그 무기가 어떻게 작동하는지 보여주자.
그는 첫 원숭이의 코에 햇볕을 정확히 모았고,
그다음 다른 원숭이에 모으니, 눈을 깜빡거려도
침침한 눈이 도저히 맑아질 할 수 없을 것 같은
곤혹스러운 표정이 그들의 눈에 서렸다.
그들은 팔짱을 끼고 쇠창살에 서서,
고통스러운 삶의 눈초리를 교환했다.
한 원숭이가 생각에 잠긴 손을 코까지 올린 게
어떤 생각이 났거나―
백만 년 이내에 생각이 날 것 같았다.
그는 작은 자줏빛 손가락 관절에 화상을 입었다.
심리적 실험에 의해서
이미 알려진 사실이 다시 한 번 확인되었고
공표할 발견이라곤 그것뿐이었지만
소년은 너무 가까이서 너무 오래 우쭐거렸다.
갑자기 한 팔이 번쩍하더니, 확 낚아챘다.
렌즈는 소년의 것이 아니라, 원숭이 것이었다.
그들은 황급히 우리 뒤쪽으로 물러나서,
필요한 통찰력은 없지만, 그들 나름의
조사를 시작했다.
그들은 유리를 깨물면서 맛을 음미했다.
그들은 손잡이를 부러뜨려 잡아 뺐다.
그다음 전혀 모르겠는지, 솔직히 포기하고,
죄수들의 권태로운 날에 대비(對備)하여
그것을 그들의 침구 밀짚 속에 감춰두고,
무뚝뚝하게 다시 쇠창살로 나오는 것으로
대답을 대신했다. 원숭이들이 무엇을 이해하거나
이해 못하는 것이 중요하다고 누가 말했는가?
그들은 화경(火鏡)을 이해하지 못할 것이다.
그들은 태양 자체를 이해하지 못할 것이다.
중요한 것은 물건을 어떻게 할지 아는 것이다.
-신재실 옮김-
단상(斷想): 화경(火鏡)은 성냥 대용으로 쓸 수 있는 도구지만, 무기로 사용할 수도 있다. 화경을 사용할 줄 아는 한 소년이 있었다. 그가 동물원의 원숭이를 찾았다. 그는 “자신의 지식에 우쭐하여,” 인간처럼 생각할 능력이 원숭이들에게 없다는 것을 증명하려고 한다. 그는 화경의 효능에 대한 자신의 지식을 뽐내고자, 차례로 두 원숭이의 코에 화경의 초점을 모았고, 아무것도 모르는 한 원숭이에게 화상을 입힘으로써, 그의 우월한 능력을 증명했다. 진화의 하위 단계에 있는 원숭이들이 매우 무식하다는 사실을 확인하고, 소년은 스스로 흐뭇해했다. 하지만 “소년은 너무 가까이서 너무 오래 우쭐거렸다.” 갑자기 한 원숭이가 화경을 낚아채 우리 뒤쪽으로 사라졌다. 소년은 속수무책이었다.
화경을 탈취당하지 않았더라면, 소년은 자기도취에 빠져 더 이상 아무것도 깨닫지 못했을 것이다. 원숭이들은 “황급히 우리 뒤쪽으로 물러나서,/ 필요한 통찰력은 없지만, 그들 나름의/ 조사를 시작했다." "전혀 모르겠는지," 솔직히 포기했지만, 두 원숭이는 무료한 날에 다시 조사하려는지 그것을 밀짚 속에 감춰둔다. 그리고 무뚝뚝한 표정으로 소년과 다시 대면하여 대답 대신 침묵의 질문을 던진다.
원숭이들이 무엇을 이해하거나 이해 못하는 것이 중요하다고 누가 말했는가? 화경을 이해하거나 못하는 것은 모두에게 본질적인 문제가 아니다. 그것을 유용하게 쓸 줄 아는지 모르는지가 더 중요하다. 이런 점에서 소년은 틀렸고 원숭이들이 옳았다. 그는 화경을 사용해서 원숭이들을 괴롭혔지만, 원숭이들은 현명하게도 그것을 그에게서 빼앗아 안 보이는 곳에 감춰버림으로써 훗날을 기약했다. 그것을 어떻게 사용할지에 대한 원숭이들의 지식이 소년의 그것보다 낫다고 볼 수 있을 것이다. 창조론이건 진화론이건 인간은 만물의 선두에 있다. 그러나 인간에게 이에 상응하는 도덕적 감각이 항상 있는 것은 아닌 것 같다.
관심의 초점은 오히려 원숭이들이다. 원숭이들은 매우 인간적으로 반응한다. 그들은 소년의 가학(加虐)에 “한 원숭이가 어떤 생각이 생각난 듯―/ 혹은 아마 백만 년 이내에 생각날 듯이/ 고통스러운 삶의 눈초리를 교환했다.” 소년의 잔인한 행동으로 원숭이들의 의식이 깨어난 듯하다. 어떤 의식이 작용한 듯, 원숭이들은 소년의 무기를 탈취한다. 그들의 환경 적응능력이 소년의 잔인과 오만을 물리친 것인가? 원숭이들이 소년의 부당하고 자의적인 힘에 대항하여 반란군이 되었다는 것인가? 신은 인간의 특권을 조롱할 수 있는 지능을 원숭이에게 허용했다는 것인가? 아니면 인간은 원숭이를 대상으로 실험하는 것 자체가 인간의 진화론적 위상을 하향시키는 것은 아닌가?
소년과 달리 원숭이들은 너무 가까이서 너무 오래 “우쭐대지” 않는다. 인간들이 자신의 지식에 우쭐해서 만물의 영장이라고 믿는 것은 허구적인 자기 정당화에 그칠 수 있다. 원숭이들에게 무기를 빼앗김으로써, 소년은 증명하려고 나섰던 것 또는 증명할 수 있는 그의 능력을 의심받게 되었다. 우리는 우리의 직관 능력을 확인하고자 또는 계시나 신성을 발견하고자 자연을 탐구하지만, 우리의 타고난 지각능력의 한계를 확인하거나, 우리 또한 진화하는 동물계의 일부에 지나지 않는다는 사실을 발견한다.
-신재실 씀-
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#
Frost entered the second grade without a hitch, excelling in geography and writing. His mother and Aunt Blanche hovered over him, making sure that he did not lose his focus. They were indulgent and kindly, much in contrast to Will Frost, who could be difficult, a fierce disciplinarian whose progressively worsening illness made life hard for everyone. Fortunately for the children, Will Frost was busy with his work, trying hard to earn enough money to support the family and himself in the manner he thought appropriate, while having to deal simultaneously with bouts of spitting up blood and his own urge to drink heavily.
Frost could recall many scenes of violence, such as the time he and a friend were building a ship from wood fragments gathered from a nearby lot. Will Frost came home drunk in the late afternoon, saw sticks and glue lying all over the living room carpet, and flew into a rage; he stepped on the half-built ship and hit young Robbie several times with the back of his hand while Belle stood anxiously in the doorway, unable to restrain him. She knew enough to wait until he was sober.
Belle tried her best to make life pleasant for Robbie and Jeanie, taking them for long walks on weekends, climbing Telegraph Hill, Russian Hill, and Nob Hill to show them the views from the top. The grand mansions on Nob Hill made a lasting impression on the young boy. They would sometimes trek to the waterfront to see the massive schooners loading or unloading, and to watch the flocks of cormorants and gulls feeding on scraps dropped overboard. They would go for long drives in horse-drawn carriages, sometimes crossing the peninsula for lunch or dinner at the Cliff House restaurant below Lands End, where they would follow the winding paths along the cliffs to see the ocean blast and shatter against Seal Rocks, a well-known landmark. On warm Sundays in spring, they often went to the botanical displays at Woodward’s Gardens in the old mission district—the setting for “At Woodward’s Gardens,” which Frost published in 1936. As a boy, Frost was most impressed by the aquatic marry-go-round at the gardens.
from "Robert Frost, a Life"
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evolution - Deirdre Fagan
Charles Darwin’s (1809–82) Voyage of
the Beagle (1839) and The Origin of Species (1859)
had a profound impact on Western understanding
of the world and the transcendent. Frost was born
16 years after the latter was published, when the
fury of debates that followed the publication of the
book were well under way. He first learned about
Darwin from his older friend Charles Burrell, who
introduced him to a number of thinkers (see LITER
ARY FRIENDS AND ACQUAINTANCES). The impact of
Darwin’s theories of evolution are expressed in a
variety of ways throughout Frost’s work, as he con
tinues to turn things this way and that in his own
discovery and evaluation of what it means to exist
in a post-Darwinian world. Robert Faggen, in his
Robert Frost and the Challenge of Darwin, argues
that “much of the tension and power of Frost’s
poetry derives from his lifelong engagement with
implications of science in general and Darwin in
particular” (1). He also adds that “[w]ith Darwin as
a prism Frost was able to view the important tenets
that underlie modern science: change, indetermi
nacy, and relativism, all concepts that imply limits
as much as freedom” (5).
This prism, as Faggen calls it, is evident in a
number of poems. In “At Woodward’s Gardens,” as
the monkeys stand “laced together” behind the
bars, they react in what Faggen calls a “decidedly
human way” when they exchange “troubled glances
over life” (90). One puts his hand up to his nose,
and Frost writes that perhaps he is “[w]ithin a mil
lion years of an idea”—a reference to the theory of
evolution.
What Robert Hass calls “Frost’s final word on his
long struggle with evolution,” “Accidentally on Pur
pose,” postulates existence as a purposeful accident
(86). “The Universe is but the Thing of things” is
the opening line. Respect for the universe’s vastness
is highlighted in the thrice-repeated, almost liturgi
cal “mighty.” The opening stanza reflects on the
universe as a series of “balls all going round in rings,”
making it something of a child’s toy, and the second
stanza focuses on our arrival, when we were but
“albino monkey[s] in a jungle.” With Darwin, evo
lution is explained, and the speaker questions
whether evolution had “no real purpose till it got to
us.” He is concerned with our “purpose,” but he says
it is a mistake to believe that there was no purpose
before. There must always have been a purpose, he
believes, and we are that “purpose coming to a
head,” its culmination. The poem is only cautiously
Darwinian, however. Frost does not know whose
purpose the universe was, admits he has no ability
to discern, and suggests that that sort of speculation
be left to “the scientific wits,” since Darwin himself
never thought that humans were any type of “cul
mination” and never thought that his theory of evo
lution contained any vector of progress.
In “The Literate Farmer and the Planet Venus”
the poet twits evolution, saying that
So much is being now expected of,
To give developments the final shove
And turn us into the next specie folks
Are going to be, unless these monkey jokes
Of the last fifty years are all libel,
And Darwin’s proved mistaken, not the Bible.
The purpose and value of evolutionary traits is
considered in “On a Bird Singing in Its Sleep,”
where the “half wakened” bird sings “halfway
through its little inborn tune.” The question arises
whether singing half asleep has been a threat to the
bird’s survival and, if so, how the species could
have survived. “Singing out of sleep and dream”
apparently has not “made it much more easily
prey.” Evolution is described as traits that “come
down to us so far / Through the interstices of things
ajar / On the long bead chain of repeated birth.”
In “Sitting by a Bush in Broad Daylight” Frost
makes reference to the burning bush of the Old
Testament and reflects on the beginning of all life.
He asserts that if we have been watching for a long
time and have never seen “sun-smitten slime /
Again come to life and crawl off ”—a direct refer
ence to Darwin’s theory—“We must not be too
ready to scoff ” at the notion. He criticizes the
explanations of both religion and science: “sun
smitten slime.” Although we may not feel as though
we came from sun-smitten slime, this does not
make it untrue. Although we no longer speak to
God, this does not make it untrue that we once did.
In this sense there are parallels between evolution
and religion, belief and faith. And Frost presents
himself as somewhere between the two extremes.
In the closing stanza of “The White-Tailed Hor
net,” the speaker asks,
Won’t this whole instinct matter bear revision?
Won’t almost any theory bear revision?
To err is human, not to, animal.
Or so we pay the compliment to instinct,
Only too liberal of our compliment
That really takes away instead of gives.
Alluding to Darwin, the speaker acts troubled by
the comparisons that “yield downward” to “see our
images / Reflected in the mud and even dust” rather
than heavenward. At one time, not long ago, we
looked “stoutly upward” for comparison: “With
gods and angels, we were men at least, / But little
lower than the gods and angels,” he recalls, allud
ing to the Bible, Psalms 8:5: “For thou hast made
him a little lower than the angels, and hast crowned
him with glory and honor.” Now it is all “disillusion
upon disillusion” and “[n]othing but fallibility [is]
left us.”
In his prose pieces “On Taking Poetry,” “Educa
tion by Poetry,” and “The Future of Man,” Frost also
refers to Darwin. In the first he provides the example
of evolution and his mother’s religious distress over
it: “Your idea was that God made man out of mud;
the new idea is that God made man out of prepared
mud. You’ve still got God you see—nothing very dis
turbing about it.” In the second Frost identifies evo
lutionary thinking as metaphorical, and in the third
he wonders whether man will become “another kind
of people.” Drawing on the evolutionary theories of
Darwin and the anthropologists who had caused
“young people” to find that there is “such an amus
ing distance between us and the monkeys,” he asserts
that the young of his day find that there “will only be
another amusing distance from us to the superman,”
referring to the “evolutionary” ideas of philosopher
Friedrich Nietzsche.
Richard Poirier writes that
Politically and intellectually, Frost tended to find
evidences of “system” and its deleterious effects
not in anything that has “come down” to us
but in what had been more recently contrived.
Darwinism, socialism, the New Deal, Freudian
sm were all to him the dangerous imposition of
“system” upon the free movements of life. It was
against these that he directed his sometimes
vulgar contempt.” (49)
Poirier later writes, “Frost seldom misses a chance
to bring Darwinism into question, more in a teasing
than a dogmatically organized way. Darwinian evo
lution for him implied too much linear predictabil
ity, and while it proposed the necessity of waste it
was indifferent to its virtues (265). Just how Frost
speaks of Darwin through his poems continues to
be debatable.
While Lawrance Thompson relates that “Frost
spoke with sincerity about his early delight in read
ing and re-reading Charles Darwin’s book on the
famous voyage of the Beagle to the islands of the
South Seas,” he also mentions a letter Frost wrote
to Sidney Cox in May 1926 about cornering some
scientists at Ann Arbor on the subject of evolution.
Thompson uses the letter to determine that Frost
was expressing hostility toward Darwin’s theories,
but other interpretations can be drawn. Frost wrote,
“I’m not a good debater but they are so sure of
themselves in evolution that they haven’t taken
the trouble to think out their position. All I had to
do was ask them [Socratic] questions for informa
tion. The last one led up to was, Did they think it
was ever going to be any easier to be good” (284).
While such comments might suggest that Frost was
attacking the theory of evolution, he later said,
“Sometime I’ll tell you about them. I believe I’ll
never forget them. They just jumped off the edge.
Me, I didn’t have to expose myself. I was just out
for information. Tell me, I’d say” (Thompson, 297).
The exposure, it seems, is what it is all about.
Frost never truly exposed himself. He played all
his games from both sides because it was never about
choosing a side but about identifying the difficulties
that lie on both sides. Robert Hass writes that
Frost convinced himself that he could meet the
challenge of Darwin with only a slight remod
eling of his inherited religious beliefs. The
construction of a different kind of God, one
partially reconfigured against Christian ortho
doxy by the trial of evolution, seemed to him a
likely solution to his problem. He only had to
go by contraries, suspend thesis, and antithesis,
extract the most congenial elements of each
system, and acknowledge the limited validity
of both poles without wholly sanctioning either.
To Frost, Darwin had not yet dissolved the
familiar comforts of organized religion, and for
the moment it seemed to him that a wholly sat
isfactory synthesis was still possible.” (46–47)
Jay Parini finds that after Burrell and Frost met,
Frost “divided the world three ways in one of these
pieces, into ‘unquestioning followers’ of religious
custom, ‘enemies,’ and ‘rethinkers’ ” and that he
placed “himself into the ‘rethinker’ category,” iden
tifying with those who “follow custom—not without
question, but where it does not conflict with the
broader habits of life gained by wanderers among
ideas” (29).
The debate continues over Frost’s views on the
conflict between faith and science. What is clear is
that he began the debate. He was a debater, despite
what he might say, only he did his debating in met
aphor and he went by contraries. He denies in
speech what he reveals in poetry. He denies in
poetry what he reveals in speech. It might seem
that he was unsure of himself, but perhaps he sim
ply did not want to be exposed.
FURTHER READING
Faggen, Robert. Robert Frost and the Challenge of Darwin.
Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1997.
Hass, Robert. Going by Contraries: Robert Frost’s Con
flict with Science. Charlottesville: University Press
of Virginia, 2002.
Poirier, Richard. Robert Frost: The Work of Knowing.
New York: Oxford University Press, 1977.
Thompson, Lawrance. Robert Frost: The Later Years,
1938–1963. New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1976.
