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PARTISAN REVIEW
a rather remarkable predicament vis-a.-vis, let's say, the evil ...
well, vis-a.-vis the dragon . That is, you can observe him, you can
ascertain and assess him in a better fashion . You can see with
greater clarity - precisely because of all the data available to you
here which wasn't there - all his scales, all his spikes, all his teeth .
On top of that, you are not mesmerized . Your attention is not clouded
by the fear of being grabbed by that dragon at any time . So basi–
cally, if you are to take him on, you can find yourself as well armed
as the dragon is. In fact, you establish a certain parity at this safe
distance . And on top of that, you have always suspected that you
are, perhaps, as bad as the dragon yourself, and given the chance
you would be just as nasty and monstrous as he is . That is, you have
always suspected there is more of a monster in you than of Saint
George . It's not customary for a certain type of writer to regard
himself as a fallen angel. One would rather regard oneself as a devil ,
as one of the devils .
And maybe the fact that I stayed, as you say , prolific reflects
simply the availability of data. Maybe it reflects simply the realiza–
tion that monstrosity is everywhere, while in Russia I thought of it as
being our local specialty.
DM:
It sounds as if you're implying an identification of the victim
with the assailant.
JB:
But of course. No, I would say simply your notion of the dragon
becomes far more subtle . That is, you realize you may play Saint
George
ad infinitum,
because the animal is everywhere . And in a
sense, you become, your armor becomes, in the final analysis, your
own scales . And clarifying these things on paper conspires to bring
the subsequent charge of being prolific. Prose is a more natural
medium for that sort of job, for pondering. And to answer your very
first question, the thing that many fail to realize is that there is a
great bond between a poem and essay writing . Both employ the
technique invented, of course, in poetry by poetry, of montage. It's
not Eisenstein, it's poetry . It's stanzas with those frame-like shapes.
DM:
It's the parts trying to become the whole .
JB:
Yes, exactly.
DM:
In comparing two of your poems, "Elegy for John Donne," an
early poem, and the more recent "Lullaby of Cape Cod," I was
struck by how similar they are in many ways, but also how drastically
different. Both are set at night, both are very solitary poems . The
earlier poem seems to show a spiritual struggle. There's a definite
battle going on. I think in the John Donne poem, you had the
