Of all the ALSCW conferences in which I have taken part, this one was my favorite, not only because of its setting (Yale University, my undergraduate and graduate alma mater), not only because of the Hungarian group (I traveled to the conference with seven Hungarian adults and a baby; six of them presented in my “Setting Poetry to Music” seminar), not only because of the “Setting Poetry to Music” seminar itself, not only because of the many occasions for meeting and conversing with others (receptions, outdoor lunches, and the banquet), not only because of the excellent lineup of panels, seminars, and readings, not only because of the glorious October weather and foliage, not only because we had waited three years for this conference, but because it leaves me now with so much to think about and return to. The conference took place in the Humanities Quadrangle (formerly the Hall of Graduate Studies); its large windows and luminous corridors arrested me several times when I was rushing somewhere or other.
Those days were so thick with detail that time constantly overlapped; at any moment, I was thinking about what was, is, and will be, but in concrete terms (is the laptop hookup working? Will we have time to receive the guitar?). So, unlike yesterday’s post, which gave a rundown of the whole trip, this one will focus on a few highights.
All along, what I have loved about ALSCW conferences is their high quality and their unabashed devotion to literature. The people who attend these conferences love literature and participate in it as writers, critics, readers, scholars, students. The seminars present attendees with difficult choices: Do I go listen to a discussion of Proust or on literary portraiture? Literature and science or Muriel Spark? For me, these choices were mostly absent, because my seminar had two sessions, I was presenting in yet another seminar, and I skipped the Saturday morning seminar block to have coffee with a friend (who had come up to the conference in part to see a few people, including me).
The conference began with a reception (appetizers upon appetizers, and a generous assortment of vegetables), followed, in an auditorium downstairs, by readings by Meringoff Prize winners and a plenary reading by Vivian Gornick. The readings were terrific and ended with”Rubythroat” by Hope Coulter.
Vivian Gornick then spoke about the art of personal narrative: the distinction between situation and story, and the stringent requirements of the latter. To write a good story about your own life, she said, you have to keep yourself somewhat out of it—that is, you need a keen ear for the false note, the pretense. Strip all that pretense away, and you end up with something different from what you might originally have planned to tell. She brought up the example of Natalia Ginzburg, whose experience of devastation leads her to ask others for help and to offer help too, actions which carry the understanding that (in Ginzburg’s words) “we could look at our neighbor with a gaze that would always be just and free, not the timid or contemptuous gaze of someone who whenever he is with his neighbor always asks himself if he is his master or his servant.” This revelation is hard-earned, not glib; to attain it, Ginzburg had to face her capacity for cruelty. Gornick spoke, for her part, with the authority that comes from looking directly at yourself at the times when it is most difficult to do so.
The next day (Friday, October 21) began with a panel on T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land. I listened with absorption and later reread the poem, which I have not read in years. This rereading is just a step, I hope, to many slow returns.
Then came the first round of seminars, including the first session of “Setting Poetry to Music.” Both sessions had eight presenters, most of whom used the technology in the room to play recordings or show images. (One presenter had to miss the conference, but I presented briefly in her stead.) So between the presentations and technology switches, we were left with little time for discussion—but what we had was lively and intriguing.
Gergely Balla gave a commanding opening as the first presenter; he spoke about the Platon Karataev song “Nem felelhet” (“It Cannot Answer”), which draws on nine poems by Sándor Csoóri. He introduced Platon Karataev, then Csoóri; he discussed the subjectivity of definitions of poem, and proposed his own definition: “a poem begins where, at the level of words, the fabric of the language cannot be woven any denser than the word phrase, line, or stanza that is being composed.” He then took us into the song itself and played aloud an unreleased recording—not the final version. (I believe the song will be released later this year.)
Then came Claudia Gary, who spoke on “Song as Conversation,” giving a thoughtful overview and a personal perspective on the questions involved in setting poetry to music. She was followed by Emily Grace, who contrasted two very different musical settings—by Benjamin Britten and John Adams—of John Donne’s sonnet “Batter my heart, three-person’d God.”
The fourth presenter was Todd Hearon, who spoke about his poem “Caliban in After-Life” and its musical setting by Gregory Brown (who was present in the audience) as a monodrama for soprano, violin, and piano. His essay takes the form of a dialogue between him and Brown. In the video below, Mary Hubbell performs the piece with Joel Pitchon and Judith Gordon.
Kata Heller then spoke about the Hungarian rapper Holi and his long work Roadmovie (Sírok és nevetek). She first asked whether rap can be considered poetry (and arrived at the affirmative). She then explored, from a linguistic perspective, whether it is verbs of motion that create the roadmovie atmosphere of the song, or whether it is something else. She concluded that the song does convey motion, but not primarily through the verbs.
In Anna Maria Hong’s stead, I read aloud her poem “Patisserie du Monde” and played a recording of its transformation into the aria “Cloudberry Pie” in the experimental chamber opera H&G, a great and terrible story, a collaboration between the poet (Hong) and the composer Allen Shawn. (The libretto is based mostly on her novella H&G, which tells the story of Hansel and Gretel from the perspective of different characters.)
Csenger Kertai then spoke of the essential oppositions and their resolution in Attila József’s poem “Tudod, hogy nincs bocsánat” (“Mercy Denied Forever”) and its musical setting by Kaláka. In particular, he explored how the instrumental part of the song reflects a breakdown of the “I” (which in some ways reminds me of Vivian Gornick’s talk).
Alyse O’Hara’s presentation on her song rendition of Sir Walter Ralegh’s “The Nymph’s Reply to the Shepherd“—brought the first part of the session to a thoughtful and moving close. You can listen to the song here.
Discussion followed. The audience members had all sorts of questions: about different kinds of repetitions, about tonality, about collaboration, and much more. We passed around the microphone for a multi-part dialogue and fugue. I was delighted to hear the presenters refer to each other’s presentations and respond in different ways to the questions. I only wish we had had an additional hour to talk.
I will tell about the second session in the next post! The two differed from each other in focus and scope. This first session stayed more or less within the topic of setting poetry to music; the second session branched out a bit into visual renditions, theatre, and more (while also staying with the original theme and questions).
From here, we had lunch in the courtyard. Then, in the afternoon, I presented in Ernest Suarez and David Bromwich’s seminar on “General Education and the Idea of a Common Culture”—in which we examined what happens to education when a common culture is waning or absent—and what questions arise when educators endeavor to build something common. Questions of curriculum, canon, allusion, ideals, “we,” student response, institutional integrity, and more came into play. I spoke about the problems with the very concept of “liking” a work: how “liking” has become superficial, and why it is important for students to grapple with works that they do not necessarily like at first. (I also argued for a counterbalance to this: students also need room and time to read for pure fun, or out of their own interest.)
Then came the Dwight Chapel session, which I described yesterday, and the pizza dinner. As for the Friday evening readings, I wish I could say something about them, but as I mentioned yesterday, I fell asleep in the auditorium—which was no comment on the readings, as I would have fallen asleep anywhere at that point. The combination of jet lag, excitement, pressure, joy, and numerous details all coalesced to knock me out. An incredible day! To be followed.
I made a few edits to this piece after posting it.
Take Away the Takeaway 
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