Death. Something wrong, brother?
Santa Claus. Yes.
Death. Sick?
Santa Claus. Sick at heart.
Death. What seems to be the trouble? Come – speak out.
Santa Claus. I have so much to give; and nobody will take.
Death. My problem is also one of distribution,
only it happens to be the other way round.
-from nonlecture six: i & am & santa claus, the last of e e cummings’ i-six nonlectures.
Was browsing in the library when the title caught my eye.
Hadn’t read cummings before, and was pleasantly surprised by his unconventional wit and wisdom, and was really surprised at the message of meaning and hope that he conveyed through his rather chaotic writings.
(Dare I liken him to Eliot? But I know too little of either to warrant comment.)
He ends of the series on six nonlectures (describe on the blurb as “an aesthetic self-portrait and a definition of Mr. Cummings’ ’stance’ as a writer”) with an answer to the question, “who, as a writer, am I?”:
I am someone who proudly and humbly affirms that love is the mystery-of-myteries, and that nothing measurable matters “a very good God damn”:
that “an artist, a man, a failure” is no mere whenfully accreting mechanism, but a givingly eternal complexity
- neither some soulless and hearltess ultrapredatory infra-animal nor any un-understandingly knowing and believing and thinking automation, but a naturally and miraculously whole human being -
a feelingly illimitable individual; whose only happiness is to transcend himself, whose every agony is to grow.
Looking forward to nonreading the other 5 nonlectures.
from wikipedia, abt cummings:
“Ostracized as a result of his intellect, he turned to poetry.[citation needed]”
I find this oddly funny.