Hardy looks at the ocean and sees the ocean:<\/p>\n
A distant verge morosely gray Dickinson looks in a meadow and sees a snake:<\/p>\n The grass divides as with a comb, Wordsworth looks at a landscape and sees — Wordsworth:<\/p>\n — Once again A landscape presses, on most of us, thoughts of our own insignificance. Not Wordsworth: Nature puffs him up. Wordsworth beholds, Wordsworth reposes, and Wordsworth sees. Yet Wordsworth notices nothing. The scene is a blur; Wordsworth favors blurring, and there will be a great deal more of it later on. Cliffs, “steep and lofty” God help us, “connect,” oddly enough, the land with the sky; green fruits “lose themselves” in the green meadows. The one distinct feature is Wordsworth himself, who is everywhere, like Ali in the ring. Tintern Abbey<\/span> would not be worth discussing except that it is commonly considered a great poem and has intelligent admirers<\/a> who do not make their living exhuming Wordsworth. So here we go.<\/p>\n Begin with the title, which is not merely Tintern Abbey<\/span> but Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey, On Revisiting the Banks of the Wye During a Tour, July 13, 1798<\/span>. This is lucky for the reader unacquainted with the geography of the Lake District, to whom the lines<\/p>\n How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, might otherwise give pause. The significance of July 13, 1798, remains unclear. The unfortunate half-pun “oft, in” with “often” is characteristic. In this Bogan poem<\/a> such near-repetition is used effectively. Of course Bogan had talent. <\/p>\n I grant that bloggers are not in the best position to criticize someone else for being deeply moved by the sound of his own voice; but this is a man who needs a line and a half to clear his throat:<\/p>\n Nor less, I trust, A gift, it turns out, for unintentional comedy:<\/p>\n Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first A man whose thoughts are never interesting, for all his devotion to them. Tintern Abbey<\/span> runs to 158 lines, and what thought we get is summarized in its most famous passage:<\/p>\n A presence that disturbs me with the joy These elevated thoughts amount to nothing more than a very mild version of the ecstatic merger with all existence that we find later, at excruciating length, in Whitman, and still later, with tragic consequences<\/a>, in Crane. I confess I find the doctrine incoherent. Thirty lines later Wordsworth complains of “rash judgments,” “greetings where no kindness is,” and “the dreary intercourse of daily life,” all surely objectionable but equally surely included in the class of “all objects of all thought.” Where’s that something far more deeply interfused when you really need it? The essence of life, as Nabokov puts it in Pnin<\/span>, is “discreteness,” and we shall all be one with the sun and the flowers and the trees and the dirt and the worms soon enough. Wordsworth may mean only that God is in all things, but he never mentions Him, and the thought scarcely seems adequate to the occasion. <\/p>\n The experience, to be fair, must be distinguished from the doctrine. One can accept its value, or at least its intensity, and agree that “blue sky” and “sense sublime” (a pointless inversion, a Wordsworth specialty) do little to illuminate it. Again we have “deep,” often favored by people who, like Wordsworth, have trouble seeing surfaces; its derivations appear seven times in Tintern Abbey<\/span>. “Living air” conveys, in a small way, what he is after; but after numerous readings of this poem I am convinced this is an accident. For Wordsworth flatness, which he calls “the real language of men,” was a matter of theory as well as practice. We are taught in English class that Wordsworth’s and Coleridge’s Preface to the Lyrical Ballads<\/span><\/a> began the counter-revolution toward simple language after more than a century of Miltonic ornament. In fact Dr. Johnson parodied this sort of thing before Wordsworth was born:<\/p>\n I put my hat upon my head Wordsworth quotes this parody in the preface, and his efforts to explain it away make for amusing reading. The difference in style between this and the Lucy poems is very fine indeed.<\/p>\n Wordsworth owes his reputation to several happy accidents, major and minor. He wrote his best verse at the turn of the 19th century, just as the toff and the heroic couplet were going out of style and the peasant and blank verse were coming in, which has made him a convenient stand-in for wide cultural change. He wrote so much and so repetitively, in both verse and prose, that his point is impossible to miss, and scholars have dined for two centuries on his vast corpus like buzzards on carrion. His more deservedly influential friend Coleridge promoted him mightily. He uniquely has a psychiatric cure on his r\u00c3\u00a9sum\u00c3\u00a9: John Stuart Mill, better known as a philosopher than a literary critic, says in his Autobiography<\/span> that reading Wordsworth helped him recover his sanity after a mental breakdown. Above all, perhaps, Wordsworth firmly believed in his own greatness, and the fact that so many people still do, after so much time has passed, testifies to the awful, the lofty, the sublime, the deep<\/i> power of suggestion. <\/p>\n (Update:<\/b> Ben H.<\/a> casts the movie version of The Idiot Boy<\/span>. Esme<\/a> comments. David Fiore<\/a> comments. Jim Henley<\/a> slags Hardy for the same reasons I slag Wordsworth, by way of praising Frost. Fair enough; but note that in The Darkling Thrush<\/span>, which he quotes in full, the description of the thrush itself, “frail, gaunt, and small, \/ In blast-beruffled plume,” is exactly<\/i> what a thrush looks like. Tim Hulsey<\/a> is more generous than I am, and you should read him before you believe me. Also much<\/a>, much<\/a> more<\/a> Wordsworth over at Bandarlog<\/a>.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Hardy looks at the ocean and sees the ocean: A distant verge morosely gray Appears, while clots of flying foam Break from its muddy monochrome, And a light blinks up far away. (The Wind’s Prophecy) Dickinson looks in a meadow and sees a snake: The grass divides as with a comb, A spotted shaft is […]<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[2],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-551","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-poetry","category-2-id","post-seq-1","post-parity-odd","meta-position-corners","fix"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.godofthemachine.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/551","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.godofthemachine.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.godofthemachine.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.godofthemachine.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.godofthemachine.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=551"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.godofthemachine.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/551\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.godofthemachine.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=551"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.godofthemachine.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=551"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.godofthemachine.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=551"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nAppears, while clots of flying foam
\nBreak from its muddy monochrome,
\nAnd a light blinks up far away.
\n(The Wind’s Prophecy<\/span>)<\/p>\n
\nA spotted shaft is seen;
\nAnd then it closes at your feet
\nAnd opens farther on.
\n(A narrow fellow in the grass<\/span>)<\/p>\n
\nDo I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
\nThat on a wild secluded scene impress
\nThoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect
\nThe landscape with the quiet of the sky.
\nThe day is come when I again repose
\nHere, under the dark sycamore, and view
\nThese plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts,
\nWhich at this season, with their unripe fruits,
\nAre clad in one green hue, and lose themselves
\n‘Mid groves and copses. Once again I see
\nThese hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines
\nOf sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farms,
\nGreen to the very door…
\n(Tintern Abbey<\/span>)<\/p>\n
\nO sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro’ the woods,
\nHow often has my spirit turned to thee!<\/p>\n
\nTo them I may have owed another gift…<\/p>\n
\nI came among these hills; when like a roe
\nI bounded o’er the mountain…<\/p>\n
\nOf elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
\nOf something far more deeply interfused,
\nWhose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
\nAnd the round ocean and the living air,
\nAnd the blue sky, and in the mind of man;
\nA motion and a spirit, that impels
\nAll thinking things, all objects of all thought,
\nAnd rolls through all things.<\/p>\n
\nAnd walked into the Strand;
\nAnd there I met another man
\nWhose hat was in his hand.<\/p>\n