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a dustcoa t who is trying to make her listen to him : " But wha t grey man
among the vines is thi s / Whose words are dry and fa int as in a dream? /
Bac k from my trellis, Sir, befo re I scream !"
Thi s is Ransom 's
memento mori
poem , of course, and the gentl e–
man in the dustcoa t is Dea th . Jo hn Ransom , on the o ther hand, was
one of the most thoroughl y a live men I've ever known. H e was
constantl y specul a tin g, continua ll y turning over fres h ideas, a lways
revi sing hi s tho ught and was usua ll y in the process of planning some
new venture. He became an exceptiona l poet, a first-rank litera ry critic,
a di stingui shed edito r, and one of the grea t teachers of hi s time in this
country. T o equa te him with tha t figure of dusty dea th in hi s poem is
absurd.
I ma ke such a po int o f the titl e because it seems
to
me
to
show a
m isapprehension of Ransom tha t runs th rough thi s schola rl y, kindl y,
intelli gent , overl ong bi ograph y. Much of the book, for instance, is a
sort o f famil y album a ffa ir-sketches of Ransom 's grandfa ther and
fa ther; chronicl es of trips, vaca ti ons , interim teaching jo bs; deta ils of
Engli sh Department affa irs a t Vanderbilt. The memorabilia of our
close fri ends is interes ting to us, of course, but it is no t meant fo r
strangers. Pa rti cul a rl y in Ransom 's case, a lifetime's memorabilia has
a lmos t no bea ring on the rea l tho ught and accompli shment. H e was a
p reacher 's son who studi ed a t Vanderbilt and Oxford , was a behind–
the-lines instructo r in Wo rld Wa r I, taught fo r many years at Vander–
bilt and a t Ken yon and had a rewarding famil y life- a worthy histo ry
but no t an uncommon one.
Even in the anecdo tes-and-trivi a part of the book, Mr. Yo ung
mi sses a lo t tha t would cha racteri ze hi s subj ect. Ransom 's ironic kind
o f humo r, fo r exampl e. At one peri od (in the la te 30s and 40s) he was
o ften invited to address ladi es' literary clubs on the subj ec t o f poe try. At
tha t time, in those circl es, Joyce Kilmer's "Trees" and similar verse
were regarded as the
fin~s t
fl owers of modern poesy. Before these clubs,
Ransom wo uld give a compl etely deadpan but hil a ri ous texture-and–
structure a na lys is of "Trees," pretendin g tha t it was , indeed , worthy of
the intense scrutin y one mi ght appl y to Sha kes peare, but ending up by
stripping it, leaf by a rtifi cia l leaf. H e enj oyed the consterna tion tha t
caused , much as he la ter enj oyed the consterna ti on of university
professors when, in effect, he po inted out the enormous irrelevance
they brought to bea r in their study of litera ture.
Fo r me, Ransom is first of a ll a poe t. I di scovered him one day
when I was a freshman a t Oli v.et Coll ege and I was startl ed and
entranced . Even though I had no ambiti ons to be a poet, it seemed clear
th a t the onl y thing I wanted to do was to enter Kenyon to study under a
