Diamonds and Labyrinths

At the core of my literary taste is an antinomy: diamonds here, labyrinths there, and vice-versa.

Been reading Finnegans Wake, which is the ultimate labyrinth, and it is so far gone that I have to pepper my reading of it with works that I think of as diamonds. The complex labyrinth breeds the simple diamond and the simple diamond breeds the complex labyrinth. Yin becomes Yang and Yang becomes Yin; the way up is the way down, and the way down is the way up. Today I searched online for some poems by William Stafford to get my mind out of the relentlessly complicating Wake and back into a simple reality. As in: here. A no-nonsense sentence.

The poems I found are at the end of this post.

I'd like to write a little bit about this, though I don't know how to do it. This is a clear opposition in my mind, an opposition that feeds itself. Even just the words, diamonds and labyrinths, have a great deal of meaning for me, but I have a hard time capturing that meaning in language. These two words are like monoliths. They loom in my mind, and I riff on them--on the tram, the metro, lying in bed, walking the streets--hoping all the while to find a sentence that makes some sense as to why these two words and the interaction between them has fascinated my mind for so long. But I don't ever find THE sentence; I only find another.

But what do I even mean?

Diamonds are powerful and simple sentences. My favorite would probably be: As above, so below. Diamonds condense, but they do not confuse. They appear to be self-evident. They have clarity. They have the touch of grace. When I think of diamonds, I think of the Tao Te Ching, Heraclitus, certain lines by T.S. Eliot--it goes on, but not too far. An successful aphorism is a diamond. Gnomic is an appropriate adjective for what I think of as the diamond style--not to be confused with gnome-like, though in a way both words associate with short. The trick to writing in this style is to trap the profound in the simple, and that's no easy trick.

But my preference normally runs to the labyrinth. This is a complex style, endlessly diverting into subclauses, side thoughts--perhaps even into a dead end!--yet constantly pushing forward and outward in a way that makes you forget where you started or where you were supposed to go, so your only choice is to hang on in the present and to appreciate it for what it is. When I think labyrinths, I think Joyce, Pynchon. The more is more is more is always more and more and more school of thought. It looks like the brain scan of a highly active mind: method in madness; order in confusion. For me, a labyrinthine style is a challenge worth meeting. The complexity of the structure forces the mind to form new neural pathways, and I believe I can actually feel that this feels good, which is why I enjoy challenging books. If you read these sorts of books, you can measure your improvement as you notice that what was once difficult has become relatively simple. It is also associative. The impossible ideal of this style is to connect everything with everything through everything. The labyrinth aims to light up every neuron at once, which is also the aim of the diamond, except with the labyrinth it comes not in a single flash but with a movement, a progression, a building of momentum, as if the brain is picking up every disparate piece of information and incorporating it with everything that came before and racing along with it all until maybe in the next moment if it works it explodes like a fireworks display that shows--reveals--whatever it is we believe we are meant to see.

So I go between them both. I get a bit bored with stuff in the middle; I want one or the other. Usually it's the labyrinth, but there is a danger here: to associate everything with everything through everything is the province of God and the insane. Nevertheless it's what I like to try to do. When it goes too far, I read some Heraclitus and feel zenned back to balanced. Today I felt like I needed some William Stafford to put some solid ground beneath my feet.

I could write forever about this but all I really wanted to do was to post some poems by William Stafford and to provide some kind of reason as to why I felt compelled to find them while reading Finnegans Wake.

It's a necessary counter-force.

---

A Ritual to Read to Each Other

If you don't know the kind of person I am
and I don't know the kind of person you are
a pattern that others made may prevail in the world
and following the wrong god home we may miss our star.

For there is many a small betrayal in the mind,
a shrug that lets the fragile sequence break
sending with shouts the horrible errors of childhood
storming out to play through the broken dike.

And as elephants parade holding each elephant's tail,
but if one wanders the circus won't find the park,
I call it cruel and maybe the root of all cruelty
to know what occurs but not recognize the fact.

And so I appeal to a voice, to something shadowy,
a remote important region in all who talk:
though we could fool each other, we should consider-
lest the parade of our mutual life get lost in the dark.

For it is important that awake people be awake,
or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep;
the signals we give-yes or no, or maybe-

should be clear: the darkness around us is deep.

* * *

Purifying the Language of the Tribe

Walking away means
"Goodbye."

Pointing a knife at your stomach means
"Please don't say that again."

Leaning toward you means
"I love you."

Raising a finger means
"I enthusiastically agree."

"Maybe" means
"No."

"Yes" means
"Maybe."

Looking like this at you means
"You had your chance."