PRESERVATION PHOTOCOPY: ORIGINAL MATERIAL RESTRICTED

in blood red or black is going to alter the parti. The Melancholy of
Hiranimos
Brügel, the use of gold by Fra Angelico or the work of Boesch# is not to
be ignored.

But René Char is a man in the modern world, he is not English or
an American and it is somewhat difficult thing for him to
approach the world which is reprisenre by those countries. Even a modern
French audience has difficulty with him: they acknowledge that of course
he is a poet but a rather difficult one to understand - that I have been
attempting to make clear.

It may be that I haven't gone plainly enough in my explanations.
René Char has his eye fastened on something that we do not see and no
amount of staring at the page will help us. It is simply not there. He
is not interested in making it appear before us. But the details of its
appearance whatever it is are crustal clear. This exasperating habit of
his is largely linguistic. Plain good composition, the telescoping of
images by a quick wit to get as much before the eye as possible but
there is more than that: there is a whole world between the eye of the
artist and our own which beffles.

Yet what is the artist to do. We are, the public is, on the whole
dull witted. He may be as René Char is a humane man schooled in life
and of an extraordinary courage, physical as well as moral, but he cannot
pause in what he has to do just because we are too stupid to follow
him. The artist is inevitably an innovator but not because he wants
to be, but because he must. He must, in order to see at all surrounded
as he is by the garbage of our daily lives. He does not like garbage
even when it is served up to him in the best recepticles, our
books and daily papers.

But the artist, the poet, René Char for instance, is not by his
nature a contemptuous man. He is a determined man and possibly a wronheaded
one at time if he has not gone far in his craft but not blind

When I myself attempted to translat something that René Char had
written in French into English I had to warn myself, as I always do
under such circumstance, that I was attempting to use not English at all
for my work but the American idiom. That gave a certain stylistic
advantages, rhythmical I could approach the French much more confidently
than if we'll say an Oxford Don or even Evelin Waugh. But would my
language be recognized even by my fellow countrymen? I can't stop for
that. The French should come over into my own language much better than
into German or Russian, its subtle variation of poetic accent is I feel
much more congenial to our idiom that formal English. These are gradations
more to be spoken of as feelings which we approach each other out of racial
approaches - which cannot be trusted, any more than in the Greek. Of
course it is best to read what we want to enjoy in the original.

Is it worth sweating our souls out about? because René Char's poems are
difficult for an American reader - not because his French is difficult
but because the sense of the work is difficult to recognize # in any
specific case as a poem. For instance: what is the meaning of this? Go
back to what I said at the beginning of this article, it is a special
area which René Char occupies and therefore what he writes is to be taken
as a poem. Sometimes he catches the tail of an idea, as it were passing,
and follows as in one series of poem in the Bottega Oscure where he well
succeeds with it; once he gets the theme he follows it in example
after example with telling effect until gradually it becomes clear by
sheer persistence what he has to say.

That is a perfectly legitimate device of the artist and increases
the pleasure of the reader by piling up the emphasis with variation of
detail for emphasis and and clarity until the total effect is overwhelming.
Therefore it is to be seen at once what is being attempted and what is
the meaning of such an apparently insignificant detail. How does he
have the nerve to call that a poem? (example) Well, it leads to a poem
and so is part of it.

We are not used in America to that approach. We are used to a
formal work that is more cut and dried, We; as poets, tink too much of
ourselves. We think of Milton and Herric, even Shakespeare, as poets who
wrote great poems. Why thal we not write great poems also? Our object
when we write poemsis to write great poem . We cannot understand the
French who us more modestm we cannto understand René Char who has
lived through a hell's life being modest! As a Frenchman # not a n
Italian, a D'anuncio of a Dante, only moved by greatness. The art
itself and allthat the art itself implies, not to be god but leaving
that to pthers to remove myself to another reginn where there is not
so much competition.

René Char is # French to his very marrow. It might be supplied
that he has river water in his veines. If so he would smile it a go on
writing. He could say ### like that other great Frenchmen when
in old age they came to present him with a medal, Soon ### if they
had waited a little longer the fiddles would have come too late.

William Carlos Williams

9 Ridge Road, Rutherford, NJ

René Char

The impression I get from the poems and fragments of
poems of René Char is that they are parts of something larger, from the
same block. There is always a disturbing element about them, a
sense of awe which comes over from whatever he writes. It is himself,
a somewhat enigmatic person who escapes; defying too close a
scrutiny. If we draw a line about a thing, we exclude only ourselves.
René Char draws no lines. He is said to have no formal religion, it
is only that he is not a dreamer.

A Frenchman and an artist, he writes with all the
respect of his kind for accuracy of detail. At the same time, were he
a painter he would not paint like Picasso but Braque. He has all the
attachment, its birds and rivers and in short the whole topography
of his native land which he knows and loves passionately. He might
have been a Henri Fabre or for that matter a Versingetorix save
that his customary manner appears to be too mild. He is attached to
the-immediately-before-him, which he would investigate to its last
feeling. We must not forget that Freud had a precursor in the person
of the French physician Chracot, with whom he first studied in Paris.
Char, like him, is not taken over by the abstract.

As far as I can see, and I acknowledge that it may not be
far, the abstract as a thing in itself is a man without a body. We
know by this time, I hope, that art is not nature, but if we had been
alert Aristotle should have taught us that long since. But the
relation between nature and art remains still to be laid bare, no
amount of random daubing by the painters in pursuit of the psyche in
blood-red and black is going to alter the parti. The Melancholy of
Brugel, the use of gold by Fra Angelico or the works of Hiranimos

Boesch is not to be ignored.

René Char is a man of the modern world but he is not an Englishman, an American or a Russian; it is impossible to approach the world represented by those countries. Even a modern French audience has difficulty with him: they acknowledge that of course he is a poet but a rather difficult one to understand.

It may be that I haven't been plain enough in my explanations. René Char has his eye fastened on something that we do not see. No amount of staring at the page will help us, he is not interested in making it appear before us. But the details of its appearance, whatever it is, are crystal clear. This exasperating habit of his is largely linguistic. Plain good composition, the telescoping of images by a quick, if gentle, wit to get as much before the eyes as possible, but there is more than that: there is a whole world between the eye of the artist and our own which sometimes baffles us.

Yet what is the artist to do? We are, the public is, on the whole dull witted. René Char is, a man schooled in a long life of multiple experiences, a man of extraordinary patience and courage both moral and physical; he cannot pause in what he has to do because we are too slow to follow him. The artist is inevitably an innovator, not because he wants to be, but because he must. He must, in order to see at all, surrlunded as he is by his own garbage, look about him. He does not like garbage even when it is served up to him in the best receptibles, our books and daily papers.

But the artist, the poet, René Char for instance, is not by his nature a contemptuous man. He is a determined man and often possibly

a wrongheaded one at times when he has not gone far enough in his
craft, but never a blind man. When I myself attempted to translate
something that René Char had written in French into English, I had to
warn myself, as I always do under such circumstances, that I was using
not English at all for my work, but the American idiom. That gave me
a certain stylistic advantage; rhymical! I could approach the French
much more confidently than if, we'll say, than if I were an Oford
don or even an Evelyn Waugh. But could my language be recognized for
what it was even by my own countrymen? I can't stop for that. The French
should come over into my language than into German or Russian. It's
subtle variations of poetic accent are, I feel, much more congenial
to a modern turn of phrase than, at least, to formal English. But these
are gradations more to be spoken of as feelings rather than facts. Of
if you want to enjoy a René Char text to read it in the original.

Is it worth sweating our souls out for? because René Char's
poems are difficult for an American reader - not because of his French
but because the sense of the words themselves are difficult to recognize
in any specific poem:

L'Aloutte

Extrême brais du ciel et première ardeur du jour,
Elle reste sertie dans l'aurore et chante la terre agitée,
Carrillon maitre de son haleine et libre de sa route.

Fascinante, on la tue en l'emerveillant.

- or:

III (of a long suite)

Le poète transforme indifféremment la défaite en victoire, la
victoire en défaite, empereur pré-natal seulement soucieux du receuil
de l'azure.

What is the meaning of all this? To go back to the beginning of this
article, it is a special _area_ of thought which René Char is occupying
so that what he puts down is to be taken as the poem itself. Sometimes
he catches no more than the tail of an idea as it were in passing and
follows, as in one series of poems in the _Bottege Oscure_, where he
well succeeds in developing a cumulative interest; once he gets the
theme he follows it in example after example with telling effect until
gradually it becomes clear by the sheer persistence of what he has
to say.

It is a perfectly legitimate device of the artist and increases
the pleasure of the reader by piling up the emphasis with variation of
detail for emphasis and clarity, until the total effect is overwhelming.
Therefore, it is to be seen at once what is being attempted and what is
the object of such a reiteration of detail. How does he have the nerve to
call each stated detail a separate poem? Well, it leads to a poem in
the making and so is part of it.

We are not used in America to that approach. We are used,
strange to say, to formal work that is more cut and dried. We, as poets,
think too much of ourselves - in other words we are self-conscious. We
think of Milton and Herrick, even Shakespeare when we write, as poets
who have written great poems. Shall we not write great poems, we are
addicted as a nation to great sonnet sequences! We cannot understand
the French who are more modest. We cannot understand René Char who has
lived through hell in his life being reticent. We must remember that
he is a Frenchman, not an Italian, not d'Anuncio, not even Dante, not
a moved only by "greatness". The art itself and all that the art
implies; not to be God but leaving that to others to be content with

another regime where there is not so much competition.

René Char is France to his very marrow. It might be offered
perhaps that he has river-water in his veins. If so he would smile and
go on writing. He could say like that other great Frenchman, Fabre,
when in old age they came to present him with a medal, A little longer
and the fiddles would have come too late! But he is still a compara-
tively young man.

William Carlos Williams

9 Ridge Road, Rutherford, N.J.

His philosoph is simple: he does not believe in god. To quote
what he says on the subgect is to give a view of modern man
that is devastating in its candor but not without hope. René Char
is nobody's fool. He is a poet, a poet whose verses pry
continually about in that inhuman area where flesh cannot go
and goes willy nilly, in that musical area where the poem leads
to man's despair or triumph. The triumphant tone of many of
his conclusions must be the despair of most moralists.

In that exists his mystery and his good sense. I don't
know of a poet in my own language to equal him or that I more
enjoy reading. He bewilders me with his factual statements, but
when the computations have been completed
it comes out that I have been led through my Hell by a very
understanding guide - a poet in this modern hell much as was
Virgil to Dante. Virgil was a poet, which has largely been lost
sighr of in the furor about his more spectacular brother.
René Char is a poet more like Virgil than Dante Alligieri, a poet
whom it should not be forgotten that Dante worshipped.

208

Rene Char

The total area comprised in the province of the poem
is a sphere which may be called musical rather than didactic.
It touches the borders of prose but will eternally refuse to
be contained by them. That will be the perennial despair of
the critic who wants to confine it within rules of grammar
or taste or morals or a systematic religion or philosophy
of some didactic sort. Its essence is a sound, not the mean-
ing of words.

Rene Char knows this, therefore he has not taken too
seriously the claims of the Existentialists, the Surrealists or
any of the brother schools of the moment, though he is pro-
foundly sympathetic to all experimentation. A friend and
critic, M. Andre Rousseaux, describes Char's critical position
as "engagee" which means, as I take it, definitely committed,
as the surrealists never were, to the factual meaning of their
words and images. That seems to be a contradiction to what
I have just been saying, but in truth it is merely carrying
a step further than they what they are pretending--an unstable
world. Of course the world is unstable; do we have to confuse
ourselves by revealing ourselves more unstable than the objects
which come under our scrutiny? Rene Char is one of the most
reasonable men you could imagine, facing the void, which he
celebrates.

He listens in the early morning to the sound made by a
millstream at the escape from the dam or the hollow sound of
his own footsteps in the corridor of a Paris subway station,

-2-

also to other, lighter footsteps that dog his own. He listened
the same, with a beating heart, to the fading steps of his
pursuers during the war whom he had eluded. It was a musical
note that he heard, the essence of the poem.

A druidic fellowship with trees makes him at home in the
forest which he shares with the memory of Vercingetorix who
was born perhaps among the same trees the remains of which he
worships. He does not crave the city though he is at home in
it, a man who is never surprised at the music that thoughts
make in the head as they spin their intricate patterns after
Descarts. It is as poems that he follows the gyrations of
la bourse or la patri.

His philosophy is simple: he does not believe in god.
To repeat what he says on the subject is to give a view of modern
man that is devastating in its candor but not without hope.
Rene Char is nobody's fool. He is a poet, a poet whose verses
pry continually about in that inhuman area where flesh cannot
go and goes willy nilly, in that musical area where the poem
leads to man's despair or triumph. The triumphant tone of many
of his conclusions is the despair of the moralists.

In that exists his mystery and his good sense. I don't
know of a poet in my own language to equal him or that I more
enjoy reading. He bewilders me with his factual statement, but
when the computations have been completed it comes out that I
have been led through my Hell by a very understanding guide--
a poet in this modern hell much as was Virgil to Dante. Virgil
was a pastoral poet, which has largely been lost sight of in
the furor about his more spectacular brother. Rene Char is a