Ann Lauterbach — "What We Know as We Know
Reading 'Litany' with J.A."
The truth of an idea is not a stagnant property inherent in it. Truth happens to an idea. It becomes true, is made true by events.
To copy a reality is, indeed, one very important way of agreeing with it, but it is far from being essential. The essential thing is the process of being guided.
William James, "Pragmatism's Conception of Truth"
It has long been my contention, or suspicion, or just unverified hunch, that John Ashbery (like Gertrude Stein) has had some relation to William James and American pragmatism. Ashbery's reluctance to make any statement or declaration that does not appear to arrive and disappear on the heels of his miraculous syntax seems to me evidence of the kind of conceptual relativity that James first enunciated in the early years of the twentieth century. Ashbery's joyous investment in a present reality as being inimical to what James called "copying" is further evidence: Ashberian poetics insists on the multi-dimensionality of time-space duration, as opposed to either pictorial mimesis or the cause-and-effect order of conventional, developmental, narration: reality, for Ashbery, has neither linearity nor replica. Connections among thinking and feeling, knowing and doing are always in flux.
"The light that was shadowed then
"An idea I had talked about
"We must first trick the idea
"The difficulty with that is
As We Know, John Ashbery's eighth book, was published in 1979. It has a unique, horizontal shape, associated in the visual arts with landscape, as the vertical is with portraiture. Indeed, the book's jacket art, by the Renaissance Dutch painter Pietre Jansz Saenredam (1597-1665), features a scene, "St. Mary's Square and St. Mary's Church, Utrecht." In muted, evening tones of ochre and pale blue, a few persons gathered here and there, the painting depicts the large stone church at the right, a clocktower, and a second church spire rising behind it into the veiled, cloud-studded, sky.
This ecclesiastical subject-matter might have given prospective readers a clue to the book's contents. Indeed, as we now know, the reason for the eccentric landscape format was to accommodate "Litany," a long poem in three parts for two voices, meant, as the Author's Note tells us, "to be read as simultaneous but independent monologues." Of the book's 118 pages, sixty-eight belong to "Litany."
A litany, in liturgical ceremonies, is a form of prayer that usually involves invocations or supplications by the preacher, followed by fixed responses from the congregation. In common usage, the word has come to mean any list, enumeration, or prolonged account, "the whole litany of complaint."
The Greek root of the word is litaneia, an entreaty.
The little black cassette is lost; I have looked for it everywhere. The sound was beginning to deteriorate, the voices stretched into slow motion. I played it often at the end of a term for my students as a kind of gift, since unless you hear "Litany" you cannot really know, or have, it. After it was first recorded, I would play it at night, with the lights out, as a fantastic lullaby: my own voice merging and diverging from his, his from mine, two uttering instruments playing in tandem. The musical analogy is obvious ii. Indeed, in a recent e-mail to me, Ashbery wrote: "Elliott Carter's Duo for Violin and Piano was an influence on 'Litany.' I heard it performed at Cooper Union (the premiere, I think). For that performance the violinist was at one end of the stage and the piano at the other, emphasizing the separateness of the two parts. I don't believe I was conscious of this as an influence at the time I wrote 'Litany.' Only afterwards did it dawn on me that the music doubtless affected the poem." (NB: Carter's piece was written in 1974)
We went north one day on Amtrak to Saratoga Springs, New York. I was extremely tired, I remember, having had too much wine the night before and not enough sleep. Although John and I had already performed part of "Litany" at a bar on lower University Place in Manhattan, I had never read the whole poem; he gave me a copy of it to read on the train. I seem to recall it was in manuscript form, or perhaps galleys, so maybe the book had not yet been published. We were headed up to ZBS recording studios. ZBS stands for "Zero Bull Shit." Sited on a forty-five acre farm in Fort Edward, New York, it was founded in 1970 in the midst of the counter-culture, "to support alternative radio and audio production, creation, inspiration, good vibes and self-development." Artists were to be invited for residences. If you Google it, you will find a lot of interesting information, but nowhere will you find reference to John Ashbery and Ann Lauterbach recording "Litany." Perhaps I dreamed it up.
We were situated across from each other at a small high table, with two microphones. It was later that same day, after some
tea and a chat with the recording engineer. Ready, set, go.
In the second stanza, the tonal clarity of the first voice proceeds, as does the miasma of the second. But two new formal
elements appear. Two words, town and knowledge, migrate across the two voices; also, the first of a number of
isolations or singularities occurs.
Voice One has seven lines; Voice Two has only five. Voice One has "town" at the end of his second line; Voice Two has "town" at the end of her first. It's a kind of syncopated sound enjambment, in which the perfect rhyme slides, causing what might feel like an echo-effect, so that, for example, the parents of the town might be heard to be over the whole town. The other repeated word, also an end word for both Voices, is "knowledge." A listener might also hear this chime, as if two instruments were playing the same note. For Voice One, the parents in the town "escape knowledge"just as it shifts over to Voice Two, "behind tall hedges/Of dark, lissome knowledge."
The syntactical interplay is so subtle and indeterminate that any number of possible sentences might emerge. For example, one might hear "The milk of enchantment like having wine and cheese," or "Could be happening / Once and for all" or "Snapdragons consumed in a wind / Of dark lissome knowledge." The strange phrase "pissing elegantly" is likely to come unmoored from its subject, "the parents," to idle until, perhaps, finding its way "behind tall hedges."
Meanwhile, a single line springs loose from the duet. Just as Voice Two ends her stanza with "of dark, lissome knowledge," Voice One says, "Of fire and rage far over." This is the poem's first unaccompanied line; it falls into a tiny pause before Voice Two takes up her third stanza. A listener will hear its grim, stark description: of fire and rage far over. Suddenly a new content arises: "of dark, lissome knowledge / of fire and rage far over/ the streets as they end."
I made a terrible botch of it. I stumbled over the syntax and mispronounced words; most egregious, I found myself out of sync, in totally wrong places — way ahead or way behind, so the poem was undergoing radical distortions. I couldn't read my part and his — to the left across the page — simultaneously, and so I went merrily, well, unmerrily, along until suddenly I was nowhere near where I was supposed to be according to the poem's lineation.
Meanwhile, Ashbery's implacable mild tonalities went on at their steady, stately rate, gliding over the poem's surface with unruffled ease, as I slipped and fell, and began again, each time having to stop the proceedings, each time feeling increasingly humiliated and anxious; breathless, one might say: inundated.
Finally, we decided to quit. I think I said something to the effect that it was too difficult to read my part with the author sitting not two feet away, which was true. But I feared that, even with sleep, I would not be able to keep in step. A compromise was found: John should continue to read and record "his" part of the poem, and I, on the following morning, would read mine, while listening through earphones to the recording of his reading. This change proved to be astonishingly successful; somehow, hearing the First Voice made it possible for me to play, or be, the Second.
In Part 1 of "Litany," each Voice has almost the same number of isolated, solo lines; the First Voice has one more than the
Second, but the Second has two together, a couplet (discontinuous — maybe — in terms of sense) at the end of the
section. Otherwise, each has only single lines that break out from the ongoing duet. Of course, it is almost impossible to
imagine that any two persons could read the poem with such exactitude that each of these lines would be "revealed," since
the line-lengths, and thus the pacing, throughout are extremely varied. Still, it might be interesting to have a look at
these isolated lines as they appear on the printed page.
Do such distinctions, even if they were true, matter? Probably not. They are the curse of a desire to make meaning align with sense through the operations of the analytic, what William James called the "rational," whereas the poem, like so much of Ashbery's work, insists that meaning and sense-making, how we know what we know, are more complicated, intractable and irretrievable, than we care to admit. James says, "pragmatism gets her general notion of truth as something bound up with the way in which one moment in our experience may lead us towards other moments which it will be worth while to have been led to iii." "Litany"'s solo lines are exposed leads, where the audience "glimpses" some passing event or object, which may or may not connect to another event, another object.
And so to the Second Voice's last two lines of the poem's first section: "of reading and listening to the wireless. We never should have parted, you and me." One might consider that the "you and me" not only to two persons, but also to two activities: reading and listening. As usual with Ashbery, the poem speaks to, and for, itself.
I have come to believe, or think, or understand, that when someone dies, the most acute sense of loss is that of his or her voice. (For a while, one can "hear" a person's voice in one's inner ear, but slowly that fades.) This is odd, since sound is of course immaterial; one would think that the body would be the most felt absence. But sound is a distinctive marker of living presence more than any material object can possibly be; sound and lived time are indissoluble: they are, so to speak, part of the continuity of a landscape rather than the singularity of a portrait. Sound is embedded in context.
The two Voices of "Litany" enact an interactive arc of proximity and solitude: near and far shuttle across the articulations of the middle distance. The poem evokes the intimacy of erotic connection; it hovers on the miraculous, as if at any moment a revelation might be, at last, at hand. But as with almost all experiences, these revelatory moments might or might not be shared among the assembled, as we (come to) know — feel, beliefe — what we know. One person will perceive an illuminating moment, another will discern a different one: the subjectivity of the listening self is allowed to move, and choose, among the great mass and flow of particulars. "Litany" asks of its performers, as of its audience, an acceptance of difference as a necessity of contiguity. The poem flares and contracts from personal intimacy to demotic community; and, as ever in Ashbery, it swerves happily around the plainness and comedy of the mundane, "day by day." "Litany" offers a dissonant harmonic in which two Voices must simultaneously speak and listen, to themselves and to each other. Both call, both respond.
There have been now several occasions in which I have performed the Second Voice. Around the time of the session at ZBS, there was a reading at a bar — now gone — on University Place, just across from Washington Square. Then Michael Lally and I performed the poem together for Ada Katz's Poet's Theatre, standing opposite each other on a stage. Then there was a long lapse, twenty years or more. When Ashbery's 80th birthday celebration began to gain momentum, I suggested to John and David (Kermani) that perhaps this might be a good time for new recital of "Litany," since so many among younger poets are interested in sound/performance, intertextuality, glossolalia. For the New School's Ashbery celebration, John and I read Part I, and James Tate and Dara Wier read Part 3 at the Bowery Poetry Club iv; John and I read Part 3 for The New Yorker Festival in Fall 2006.
"Litany" ends with Voice One having an extended solo aria of fifteen lines.
© 2008 Ann Lauterbach. All rights reserved. Used with permission of the author. Distributed by PennSound.
i. All quotes are from poems in John Ashbery's As We Know ((New York, The Viking Press, 1979). [return to article]
ii. In an e-mail to me, Ashbery wrote: "Elliott Carter's for Violin and Piano was an influence on 'Litany.' I heard it performed at Cooper Union (the premiere, I think). For that performance the violinist was at one end of the stage and the piano at the other, emphasizing the separateness of the two parts. I don't believe I was conscious of this as an influence at the time I wrote 'Litany.' afterwards did it dawn on me that the music doubtless affected the poem." NB: Carter's piece was written in 1974. [return to article]
iii. William James, "Pragmatism's Conception of Truth," in Pragmatism, A Reader, , edited and with an introduction by Louis Menand (New York, Vintage Books, 1997) [return to article]
iv. Here follows a report from a person in the audience of the reading at the Bowery Poetry Club at the conclusion of the New School's celebration:
For those familiar with "Litany," you know it exists as two parallel columns of text. Mr. Ashbery chose to read the columns simultaneously, with the help of James Tate, Ann Lauterbach, and Dara Weir, to accurately represent the poem. Initially, I thought that this was going to be a well-intended disaster, but Mr. Ashbery proceeded with confidence and a sly smile, saying that "Maybe in all that gets lost, you'll find something."v. James, op. cit., p. 134 [return to article]