230
PARTISAN REVIEW
all,
it is the traditional beat of English poetry where it deals with
serious subjects as Ginsberg's poems so often do. A poet, one thought
- and it was a poignant thought because it came so immediately
and humanly rather than as an abstraction - may choose to walk
whatever zany path in his life as a man; but when it comes to
mourning and mothers and such, he will be drawn into the line of
tradition; at least in this far he has a hard time avoiding respectability.
The evening was over, we were dismissed to return to our homes.
A crowd formed around Ginsberg; he extricated himself and came to
his
father a few rows ahead of us. I resisted the temptation to over–
hear their greeting. In some part of me I wanted to speak to Ginsberg,
tell him I had liked the poem he had written to my husband, but I
didn't do it: I couldn't be sure that Ginsberg wouldn't take my
meaning wrong; after all, his social behavior is not fantasy. Outside,
it had blown up a bit - or was it just the chill of unreallity against
which we hurried to find shelter?
There was a meeting going on at home of the pleasant profess–
ional sort which, like the comfortable living-room in which it usually
takes place, at a certain point in a successful modern literary career
confirms the writer in his sense of disciplined achievement and well–
earned reward. I had found myself hurrying as
if
I were needed,
but there was really no reason for my haste; my entrance was an in–
terruption, even a disturbance of the attractive scene. Auden, alone
of the eight men in the room not dressed in a proper suit but wearing
his battered old brown leather jacket, was first to inquire about my
experience. I told him I had been moved; he answered that he was
ashamed of me. I said, "It's different when it's a sociological phe–
nomenon and when it's human beings," and he of course knew and
accepted what I said. Yet as I prepared to get out of the room so
that the men could sit down again with their drinks, I felt there was
something more I had to add - it was not enough to leave the
"beats" only as human beings - and so I said, "Allen Ginsberg read
a love-poem to you, Lionel. I liked
it
very much." It was a strange
thing to say in the circumstances, perhaps even a little foolish. But
I'm sure that Ginsberg's old teacher knew what I was saying, and why
I was impelled to say it.
