Raskolnikov — Chapter 1, Stanzas 5 and 5(b)

Piranesi, le Carceri d'Invenzione, Plate XIV

Two stanzas this time — but I think 1.5(b) is probably superfluous, hence the ‘(b)’.

1.5

A languid month he’d lain — and waited –
Withdrawn into his attic room,
Had let that thought gestate — debated:
‘Shall I abort that seed of doom?…
Why bother? It’s a plaything! Foolish!…
Starvation’s made my thinking ghoulish
And added to my stomach-pains
The morbid toys of addled brains…’
Yet as he viewed with deep derision
Those radical dark reveries
He’d once indulged, his fantasies…
His impotence and indecision –
He’d feel anew the desperate need
To do some — no… to do that deed.

1.5(b)

But even now, the town surrounds him
With spying windows, statues, eyes.
Some thing – within? without him? – hounds him.
How compromised is his disguise?
He’s overdone with endless stewing –
Excessive thought, deficient doing:
Is he the gloomy dithering Dane,
Or Cawdor’s gory-handed thane?
… On third thought — fourth? — far better fearful
And yet uncaught than overbold.
(Siberia is very cold.)
So: ‘Step by step. Stay cool. Look cheerful.’
Rodya, resolved, regains the street;
The cobbles flash beneath his feet!

Raskolnikov — Chapter 1, Stanza 4

Your advice on whether/how to improve this stanza is more than welcome. I suspect it’s one of the weakest.

1.4

‘My hat!’ At once, Rodion clutches
The toque that totters atop his hair.
The drunk goes, but his jibe still touches
A nerve. It sparks an awful scare:
‘This brimless, tall, lopsided chimney-
pipe’s a clue! — It could condemn me!
Some sot would spot it, miles away,
Would notice as I passed… that day
Would notice… Talk… Give testimony — !
It’s always small things men forget
That bring their ruin and regret…
Just so — This hat could have foredone me!
… I’ll wear some cap, some… “average” hat
The day that I go through with… that.’

Raskolnikov — Chapter 1, Stanza 3

Chapter 1 continues. Constructive criticism of the writing would be helpful. Destructive criticism might be fun.

1.3

Past bridges, markets, intersections,
He lurches at an urgent pace
And marks of his dark introspections
Are marring his fine youthful face.
In Petersburg’s dank underbelly
(Packed thick with humans, humid, smelly)
He navigates a nasty maze
And shoots a darting, dark-eyed gaze
Right through a thousand fellow Russians –
Each wretched body bears some stamp:
Pickpocket, muzhik, monger, tramp –
Past migrant Finns and Poles and Prussians….
A drunk now points and bellows out
At Rodya’s head, ‘Nice hat, you Kraut!’

Raskolnikov — Chapter 1, Stanza 2

More of Crime and Punishment à la Pushkin.

If you read, please feel free to critique.

1.2

Although his clothes are all a motley
Crazy quilt of rag and patch,
Down here, nobody eyes him oddly:
In this poor neighborhood, they match.
He’s in arrears to his landlady.
(He dodged her on the stairs.) He’s prayed he
Won’t be made by fate to meet
Some former classmate in the street.
‘Raskolnikov!’ the fool would holler,
‘At last! What happened? Don’t pretend
You haven’t time to talk, old friend.
Please, let me help a fellow scholar….’
The fancied friendship makes him sick.
He strides the sidewalk triple-quick.

Raskolnikov — Chapter 1, Stanza 1

For some reason, a close personal frenemy of mine has decided to adapt Crime and Punishment into Onegin sonnet-stanzas. The first stanza of this (inadvertent?) insult to 19th-century Russian literature is below. The author claims that he seriously wants to improve his work — so, if you choose to read the following travesty, please criticize with candor.

1.1
That deed is done if I but dare it –
That thing I can’t stop thinking of!’
So thinks, as he slinks from his garret,
One Rodion Raskolnikov.
His head is light; his stomach rumbles
As down the dingy stair he stumbles
Into the muggy summer throng.
Anonymous, he’s swept along.
The sunset oozes out a bloody
Light that stains the steamy streets,
And Rodion’s own blood now beats
To force his fevered brain to study
What banes his every waking thought:
‘How shall I execute that plot?’

Today in Porno : ‘Even Porn Needs Style’

Style rules, that is.

A former copy editor for Hustler gave a presentation on ‘What it’s like to edit at Hustler magazine’ at the 2012 conference of the American Copy Editors [sic] Society (in New Orleans!). The conference’s blog has a brief write-up, linked above. If you click through, you’ll learn that Hustler‘s stylebook prefers ‘porn’ to ‘porno’, and ‘girl-next-door’ to ‘girl next door’, inter alia.

But the main story here is not in the semi-prurient content of the session and the write-up: It’s in the mainstreaming of pornography — the trend that made this presentation at a professional conference thinkable at all (even if the conference is in New Orleans).

(Can anyone suggest a less curmudgeonly note on which to end this post?)

Signpost in a Strange Land

Apparently, that there is a Japanese death poem.

I will show you fear on a package of butter.

Matthew Lickona, Swimming with Scapulars:

‘I cannot bear to think of the vastness of space. If humanity is a singular creation, so beloved by God that He redeemed it by the death of His Son, what is all that vastness doing there? I am shaken by images from the Hubble telescope; there are times when simply gazing into the night sky frightens me.’ (‘The World, …’, p. 203)

‘I feared eternity, even in heaven. “I think there should be a time when my spirit dies out,” I once told my father as he tucked me into bed. “Mom says that when my spirit leaves my body, it will still feel like me, but I don’t think it will.”‘ (‘The Janitor Prophet’, p. 6)

Cf. Andre Jacquemetton & Maria Jacquemetton, Mad Men, Season 4, Episode 12 (‘Blowing Smoke’):

SALLY DRAPER

This [dream] felt like I was going to heaven. Except that I don’t believe in it.

GLEN BISHOP

You don’t? Then what happens when you die? Nothing?

SALLY DRAPER

It doesn’t really bother me except that it’s forever. When I think about forever, I get upset. Like the Land O’ Lakes butter has that Indian girl sitting, holding a box, and it has a picture of her on it holding a box, with a picture of her on it holding a box. Have you ever noticed that?

GLEN BISHOP

I wish you wouldn’t have said that.

Hello, Newman.

Nothing is more common in an age like this, when books abound, than to fancy that the gratification of a love of reading is real study. Of course there are youths who shrink even from story books, and cannot be coaxed into getting through a tale of romance. Such Mr. Brown was not; but there are others, and I suppose he was in their number, who certainly have a taste for reading, but in whom it is little more than the result of mental restlessness and curiosity. Such minds cannot fix their gaze on one object for two seconds together; the very impulse which leads them to read at all, leads them to read on, and never to stay or hang over any one idea. The pleasurable excitement of reading what is new is their motive principle; and the imagination that they are doing something, and the boyish vanity which accompanies it, are their reward. Such youths often profess to like poetry, or to like history or biography; they are fond of lectures on certain of the physical sciences; or they may possibly have a real and true taste for natural history or other cognate subjects;—and so far they may be regarded with satisfaction; but on the other hand they profess that they do not like logic, they do not like algebra, they have no taste for mathematics; which only means that they do not like application, they do not like attention, they shrink from the effort and labour of thinking, and the process of true intellectual gymnastics. The consequence will be that, when they grow up, they may, if it so happen, be agreeable in conversation, they may be well informed in this or that department of knowledge, they may be what is called literary; but they will have no consistency, steadiness, or perseverance; they will not be able to make a telling speech, or to write a good letter, or to fling in debate a smart antagonist, unless so far as, now and then, mother-wit supplies a sudden capacity, which cannot be ordinarily counted on. They cannot state an argument or a question, or take a clear survey of a whole transaction, or give sensible and appropriate advice under difficulties, or do any of those things which inspire confidence and gain influence, which raise a man in life, and make him useful to his religion or his country.

John Henry Cardinal Newman, The Idea of a University, Part 2, Article 4, Section 1

Okay…

…y’all heard The Beer Song down in New Orleans.  I don’t want to be in any was presumptive, but given the Kirkegaaaardian Kharakter of the Korrektiv, whaddya think of naming our eventual album Beer and Stumbling?