obligation to fight back.” And he went on reading.
77
Ezra Pound has one mad eye: his left. And there were times I thought he saw the world through it alone, as if the other eye were blind. But now, as I write this here, I think about the world outside these windows and I see it as being the world that Ezra always saw: the world of chaos, fire and rage. I never heard him once remark upon the beauty of the world, the stuff of other poet’s dreams—of splendour in the grass; but only of the human world, whose beauty all was lost or passed.
Ezra will be condemned, 1 know, for what he’s said and
done: his broadcasts and his writings. But he will only be condemned because the world cannot acknowledge that the mad have visions of the truth. Ezra will be destroyed for no better reason than that no one wants to be seen by a madman—lest the madman call him “brother”. It will be somebody’s
job to pull him down and say he was the cause of
madness; thus disposing of the madness in themselves,
blaming it all on him. “We should never have done these things,” they will say, “were it not that men like Pound and Mussolini, Doctor Goebbels and Hitler drove us to them.
Otherwise, we should have stayed at home by our quiet
hearths and dandled our children on our knees and lived out lives of usefulness and peace. …” Missing the fact entirely that what they were responding to were the whispers
of chaos, fire and anger in themselves. All of which Ezra could see from the very first with his one mad eye.
Rapallo: March 7th, 1936
Ezra is feeding the cat. He tosses little bits of goatmeat at it where it sits on the roof. Most of the pieces of goatmeat roll down off the tiles and land on the grass, but the cat won’t come down after them. It just sits there, stupefied by heat and flies. Ezra thinks this is all very amusing—rolling meat into tight little bullets and firing them up at the cat. But I find it rather irritating, since I’m desperate to concentrate
78
on the pile of newspapers down beside my deckchair and
the notebook balanced on my lap and the fact that every single piece of lead I insert in my pencil is determined to break today, no matter how many times I fill it. Maybe it doesn’t want to write. Maybe it has the same sense I have—
cum sybiHa—of impending doom.
They’ve done it. The Germans. Hitler, rather. He sent in the Reichsivehr to occupy the Rhineland. Yesterday. In spite of all his promises, he just went in and did it; no fuss: nothing. Not a word from France or England. Mute. The
murder of Dollfuss; the invasion of Abyssinia. Now this.
Games of chance. And it makes me very nervous. I say so to Ezra.
Ezra says; “the world is too much with us” and flings
another ball of meat. Amen. My father said so too.
“But what if there’s a war?”
“Then good.”
“Good?”
“It’s what the Boche do best, ain’t it?” fDiaIects. Everything is a joke.) “Better a var—vot? Oddervise we got a rheffolution.
. .hunh?”
My mouth hangs open. Damn him. He doesn’t care if they
pull it all down. The whole precarious structure.
“We have their assurances,” I remind him. “Their promises.
No more wars. Hitler and Mussolini…”
Ezra’s eyes glaze over. His mouth moves. Silence.
“Listen,” I say to him, “don’t you understand how fine
the line is here?” I lean out towards him, clutching my notebook, stabbing my wrist with my pencil. “All we’re
asking for is a bulwark against the Bolshevists! Not 1914!”
“BuJIshitists, please.”
I refuse to laugh. “They’re changing the definitions, Ezra”, I say to him. “Hitler and Mussolini are changing the definitions.
Breaking their promises. It’s…”
“Ids da Joos vot done it. Dey was da Bolsheveki. Nod da Rooshun pipple. Jus da )oos. Hidler gonna kip a promis mid a Joo? Ya crazy! So mek var! Good an goddam var. Dat vey we got kaput! No more rheffolution.”
All I can do is sit back and stare at
77
Ezra Pound has one mad eye: his left. And there were times I thought he saw the world through it alone, as if the other eye were blind. But now, as I write this here, I think about the world outside these windows and I see it as being the world that Ezra always saw: the world of chaos, fire and rage. I never heard him once remark upon the beauty of the world, the stuff of other poet’s dreams—of splendour in the grass; but only of the human world, whose beauty all was lost or passed.
Ezra will be condemned, 1 know, for what he’s said and
done: his broadcasts and his writings. But he will only be condemned because the world cannot acknowledge that the mad have visions of the truth. Ezra will be destroyed for no better reason than that no one wants to be seen by a madman—lest the madman call him “brother”. It will be somebody’s
job to pull him down and say he was the cause of
madness; thus disposing of the madness in themselves,
blaming it all on him. “We should never have done these things,” they will say, “were it not that men like Pound and Mussolini, Doctor Goebbels and Hitler drove us to them.
Otherwise, we should have stayed at home by our quiet
hearths and dandled our children on our knees and lived out lives of usefulness and peace. …” Missing the fact entirely that what they were responding to were the whispers
of chaos, fire and anger in themselves. All of which Ezra could see from the very first with his one mad eye.
Rapallo: March 7th, 1936
Ezra is feeding the cat. He tosses little bits of goatmeat at it where it sits on the roof. Most of the pieces of goatmeat roll down off the tiles and land on the grass, but the cat won’t come down after them. It just sits there, stupefied by heat and flies. Ezra thinks this is all very amusing—rolling meat into tight little bullets and firing them up at the cat. But I find it rather irritating, since I’m desperate to concentrate
78
on the pile of newspapers down beside my deckchair and
the notebook balanced on my lap and the fact that every single piece of lead I insert in my pencil is determined to break today, no matter how many times I fill it. Maybe it doesn’t want to write. Maybe it has the same sense I have—
cum sybiHa—of impending doom.
They’ve done it. The Germans. Hitler, rather. He sent in the Reichsivehr to occupy the Rhineland. Yesterday. In spite of all his promises, he just went in and did it; no fuss: nothing. Not a word from France or England. Mute. The
murder of Dollfuss; the invasion of Abyssinia. Now this.
Games of chance. And it makes me very nervous. I say so to Ezra.
Ezra says; “the world is too much with us” and flings
another ball of meat. Amen. My father said so too.
“But what if there’s a war?”
“Then good.”
“Good?”
“It’s what the Boche do best, ain’t it?” fDiaIects. Everything is a joke.) “Better a var—vot? Oddervise we got a rheffolution.
. .hunh?”
My mouth hangs open. Damn him. He doesn’t care if they
pull it all down. The whole precarious structure.
“We have their assurances,” I remind him. “Their promises.
No more wars. Hitler and Mussolini…”
Ezra’s eyes glaze over. His mouth moves. Silence.
“Listen,” I say to him, “don’t you understand how fine
the line is here?” I lean out towards him, clutching my notebook, stabbing my wrist with my pencil. “All we’re
asking for is a bulwark against the Bolshevists! Not 1914!”
“BuJIshitists, please.”
I refuse to laugh. “They’re changing the definitions, Ezra”, I say to him. “Hitler and Mussolini are changing the definitions.
Breaking their promises. It’s…”
“Ids da Joos vot done it. Dey was da Bolsheveki. Nod da Rooshun pipple. Jus da )oos. Hidler gonna kip a promis mid a Joo? Ya crazy! So mek var! Good an goddam var. Dat vey we got kaput! No more rheffolution.”
All I can do is sit back and stare at
Similar Books
