, Research Paper
INTERVIEWER: In The Dream Songs there is a passage about assistant professors
becoming associate professors by working on your poems. How do you feel about being cannon
fodder for aspiring young critics and graduate students?
As for the graduate students, some of the work they do is damned interesting. A woman
somewhere in the South did an eighty-page thesis investigating the three little epigraphs
to the 77 Dream Songs and their bearing on the first three books of the
poem. I must say that her study was exhaustive—very little left to be found out on
that subject! But it’s good, careful work. I take a pleased interest in these things,
though there is ineptness and naivet?, and they get all kinds of things wrong and impute
to me amazing motives. Another woman thought I was influenced by Hebrew elegiac meter.
Now, my Hebrew is primitive, and I don’t even know what Hebrew elegiac meter is—and,
moreover, neither does she. It’s a harmless industry. It gets people degrees. I don’t feel
against it and I don’t feel for it. I sympathize with the students.
The professional critics, those who know what the literary, historical, philosophical,
and theological score is, have not really gone to work yet, and may not do so for a long
time yet. I did have a letter once from a guy who said: "Dear Mr. Berryman, Frankly I
hope to be promoted from assistant professor to associate professor by writing a book
about you. Are you willing to join me in this unworthy endeavor?" So I joined him. I
answered all his questions. I practically flew out to pour out his drinks while he typed.
INTERVIEWER: I would like to change the subject now and talk about your work.
Let’s start with The Dream Songs. As you know, there is some controversy over the
structure of the work— why it was first published in two volumes, why it consists of
seven sections of varying lengths, and so on. What structural notion did you have in mind
in writing it?
[....] I think the model in The Dream Songs was the other greatest
American poem—I am very ambitious—"Song of Myself "—a very long
poem, about sixty pages. It also has a hero, a personality, himself. Henry is accused of
being me and I am accused of being Henry and I deny it and nobody believes me. Various
other things entered into it, but that is where I started.
The narrative such as it is developed as I went along, partly out of my gropings into
and around Henry and his environment and associates, partly out of my readings in theology
and that sort of thing, taking place during thirteen years—awful long time—and
third, out of certain partly preconceived and partly developing as I went along, sometimes
rigid and sometimes plastic, structural notions. That is why the work is divided into
seven books, each book of which is rather well unified, as a matter of fact. Finally, I
left the poem open to the circumstances of my personal life. [...]
The poem does not go as far as "Song of Myself." What I mean by that is this:
Whitman denies that "Song of Myself" is a long poem. He has a passage saying
that he had long thought that there was no such thing as a long poem and that when he read
Poe he found that Poe summed up the problem for him. But here it is, sixty pages. What’s
the notion? He doesn’t regard it as a literary work at all, in my opinion—he doesn’t
quite say so. It proposes a new religion—it is what is called in Old Testament
criticism a wisdom work, a work on the meaning of life and how to conduct it. Now, I don’t
go that far—The Dream Songs is a literary composition, it’s a long
poem—but I buy a little of it. I think Whitman is right with regard to "Song of
Myself." I’m prepared to submit to his opinion. He was crazy, and I don’t contradict
madmen. When William Blake says something, I say thank you, even though he has uttered the
most hopeless fallacy that you can imagine. I’m willing to be their loving audience. I’m
just hoping to hear something marvelous from time to time, marvelous and true. Of course The
Dream Songs does not propose a new system; that is not the point. In that way it is
unlike "Song of Myself." It remains a literary work.
INTERVIEWER: Where do you go from here?
[....] I have a tiny little secret hope that, after a decent period of silence and
prose, I will find myself in some almost impossible life situation and will respond to
this with outcries of rage, rage and love, such as the world has never heard before. Like
Yeats’s great outburst at the end of his life. This comes out of a feeling that endowment
is a very small part of achievement. I would rate it about fifteen or twenty percent, Then
you have historical luck, personal luck, health, things like that, then you have hard
work, sweat. And you have ambition. The incredible difference between the achievement of A
and the achievement of B is that B wanted it, so he made all kinds of sacrifices. A
could have had it, but he didn’t give a damn.[...]
But what I was going on to say is that I do strongly feel that among the greatest
pieces of luck for high achievement is ordeal. Certain great artists can make out without
it, Titian and others, but mostly you need ordeal. My idea is this: the artist is
extremely lucky who is presented with the worst possible ordeal which will not actually
kill him. At that point, he’s in business. Beethoven’s deafness, Goya’s deafness, Milton’s
blindness, that kind of thing. And I think that what happens in my poetic work in the
future will probably largely depend not on my sitting calmly on my ass as I think,
"Hmm, hmm, a long poem again? Hmm," but on being knocked in the face, and thrown
flat, and given cancer, and all kinds of other things short of senile dementia. At that
point, I’m out, but short of that, I don’t know. I hope to be nearly crucified,
INTERVIEWER: You’re not knocking on wood.
I’m scared, but I’m willing. I’m sure this is a preposterous attitude, but I’m not
ashamed of it.
from "The Art of Poetry: An Interview with John Berryman." Conducted by Peter
Stitt on Oct. 27 and 29, 1970. In Berryman’s Understanding: Reflections on the Poetry
of John Berryman. Ed. Harry Thomas. Boston: Northeastern UP, 1988. Copyright ? Paris
INTERVIEWER: Why do you call The Dream Songs one poem rather than a group of
poems in the same form?
Ah—it’s personality—it’s Henry. He thought up all these things over all the
years. The reason I call it one poem is the result of my strong disagreement with Eliot’s
line—the impersonality of poetry, an idea which he got partly from Keats (a letter)
and partly from Goethe (again a letter). I’m very much against that; it seems to me on the
contrary that poetry comes out of personality. For example, Keats—I’m thinking
of "La Belle Dame Sans Merci," I’m thinking of that; and I’m thinking of
Hopkins—any one of the sonnets. So I don’t buy this business about the eighteenth
century being impersonal, either. Now Johnson’s best poem in my opinion is about a factor
in his household—I forget the name of it—and it’s a beautiful poem, and it’s
INTERVIEWER: You admire Stephen Crane, we know, and many of his characters are
named" Henry"; is this the origin of the name?
Oh, no—that’s all just accident and junk. I’ll tell you how the name Henry came
into being. One time my second wife and I were walking down an avenue in Minneapolis and
we decided on the worst names that you could think of for men and women. We decided on
Mabel for women, and Henry for men. So from then on, in the most cozy and adorable way,
she was Mabel and I was Henry; and that’s how Henry came into being.
INTERVIEWER: What is the relationship between you and Henry?
I think I’ll leave that one to the critics. Henry does resemble me, and I resemble
Henry; but on the other hand I am not Henry. You know, I pay income tax; Henry pays no
income tax. And bats come over and they stall in my hair—and fuck them, I’m not
Henry; Henry doesn’t have any bats.
INTERVIEWER: What about the influence of blues and minstrel shows on The Dream
Heavy. I have been interested in the language of the blues and Negro dialects all my
life, always been. Especially Bessie. I picked all of it up from records, although while I
was at Columbia the Apollo on 125th Street used to have blues singers. It was a
completely coony house, and I used to go there sometimes; but mostly from records. For
example, I never heard Bessie herself—she died.
INTERVIEWER: Why did you choose to employ the Negro dialect in The Dream Songs ?
Well, that’s a tough question. I’ll tell you, I wrote a story once called "The
Imaginary Jew." I was in Union Square in New York, waiting to see my girl, and I was
taken for a Jew (I had a beard at the time ). There was a tough Irishman who wanted to
beat me up, and I got into the conversation, and I couldn’t convince them that I wasn’t a
Jew. Well, the Negro business—the blackface—is related to that, That is, I feel
extremely lucky to be white, let me put it that way, so that I don’t have that problem,
Friends of mine—Ralph Ellison, for example, in my opinion one of the best writers in
the country—he has the problem. He’s black, and he and Fanny, wherever they go, they
INTERVIEWER: A formal question about the unit in The Dream Songs of three
stanzas—did you have any idea of this particular length from earlier poems,
specifically The Nervous Songs, which have a similar structure?
Yes, well, the stanza is complicated. It goes 5-5-3-5-5-3, 5-5-3-5-5-3,
5-5-3-5-5 3—that’s the business—and it’s variously rhymed, and often it has no
rhyme at all, but it sounds as if it rhymed, That I got from Yeats—three six-line
stanzas. His songs don’t really resemble mine, but I did get that from him. It’s rather
like an extended, three-part sonnet.
INTERVIEWER: You said yesterday that to be a poet you had to sacrifice everything,
Can you amplify on that, and tell why and how you first decided to make the sacrifice and
be a poet?
Well, being a poet is a funny kind of jazz. It doesn’t get you anything. It
doesn’t get you any money, or not much, and it doesn’t get you any prestige, or not much.
It’s just something you do.
That’s a tough question. I’ll tell you a real answer, I’m taking your
question seriously, This comes from Hamann, quoted by Kierkegaard. There are two voices,
and the first voice says, "Write!" and the second voice says, "For
whom?" I think that’s marvelous; he doesn’t question the imperative, you see that.
And the first voice says, "for the dead whom thou didst love"; again the second
voice doesn’t question it; instead it says, "Will they read me?" And the first
voice says, "Aye, for they return as posterity." Isn’t that good?
from "An Interview with John Berryman" conducted by John Plotz of the Harvard
Advocate on Oct. 27, 1968. In Berryman’s Understanding: Reflections on the Poetry
of John Berryman. Ed. Harry Thomas. Boston: Northeastern UP, 1988. Copyright ? Harvard