Oedipus’s basic error was to have viewed evil as a problem, whereas he learns to his grief that it is actually a mystery, an irresolvable paradox, a natural contradiction between the mutually exclusive possibilities of self-determination and predetermination, between freedom of the will and divine omniscience. This is the quandary as it is perceived by philosophy and religion. In the domains of religion and theology Fate is indeed a mystery. Ill-equipped as I am to elucidate mysteries, I will move the (...) discussion to a firmer ground, where the concept of Fate is merely a problem, where scholars, those who “traffic in words,” as Goethe calls us, stand a fighting chance.1My major concerns will be: 1) to determine what .. (shrink)

Last night I dived my beggar armDays deep in her breast that wore no heartFor me alone but only a rocked drumTelling the heart I broke of a good habitThat her loving, unfriendly limbsWould plunge my betrayal from sheet to skySo the betrayed might learn in the sun beamsOf the death in a bed in another country.1This poem, as far as I have been able to determine, has never been the object of any published critical commentary. The only help that (...) I have had in my reading of it has come from groups of students to whom I have regularly assigned it as a midterm paper, largely because I knew in advance that they would have to confront it entirely on their own. My interest in this text stems from its unique status as a poem.. (shrink)

Twenty-four years remind the tears of my eyes.In the groin of the natural doorway I crouched like a tailorSewing a shroud for a journeyBy the light of the meat-eating sun.Dressed to die, the sensual strut begun,With my red veins full of money,In the final direction of the elementary townI advance for as long as forever is.1The first problem raised in this poem is the agrammatical status of the word remind, which in normal usage governs either a verbal or phrasal complement. (...) The reader’s question is: “reminds you of what?” And it is a natural expectation, as the poem unfolds, that this lacuna.. (shrink)

As every teacher of literature knows, obscure writing is not necessarily the most problematic kind to deal with. A sonnet by Donne or an equal number of lines by Dylan Thomas will handily fill the teaching hour. But what about that other kind of writing, the kind that imposes silence, not by its obvious difficulty but by its infuriating obviousness, the perfection of its form, the simplicity of its language, the transparency of its meaning? There is no trouble filling the (...) hour with Yeats’s Byzantium poems, but what about this one?The fascination of what’s difficultHas dried the sap out of my veins, and rentSpontaneous joy and natural contentOut of my heart. There’s something ails our coltThat must, as if it had not.. (shrink)