Mary McCarthy by Thomas Mallon

Author:Thomas Mallon [Mallon, Thomas]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781598535167
Publisher: Library of America
Published: 2016-12-06T05:00:00+00:00

Meanwhile, over fried sausages, red-apple rings, fried potatoes, fried chicken, fried onions, in the coffee-shop of the old hotel, the poets who were still on schedule were relenting somewhat toward the conference. The old mountain town was very picturesque, with red-brick dwellings, trimmed in white, with green shutters, fronting directly on the single street, which, from its open end, looked out onto rolling farm country, stone houses and great barns, as onto the land of Canaan seen from Mount Nebo. The young poets were insensible to scenery and to the spirit of history, as well as to good farm-style cooking, but the older poets’ lyres were more attuned to the atmospheric. The resemblance to the Promised Land, first pointed out by Miss Mansell, tempted them into speculations on the influence of the Old Testament on American history. They wondered whether this likeness to the prophesied Canaan had not been seized upon by the early settlers as a form of verification, which had led them into the theological controversies so characteristic of this region, and so much more prolonged and literal than the theocratic rivalries of New England—“These people,” proclaimed the red-faced poet, with a billow of the arm that included the startled waitress and the cashier, “still imagine that they are living in the Bible.” “And up there on the hill, we still imagine it, in our own fashion,” edged in Furness, with a plaintive smile, trying to draw the conversation back to Jocelyn itself. “Our progressive methodology,” he announced, “with its emphasis on faith and individual salvation, is a Protestant return to the Old Testament.” Miss Mansell turned to look at him politely, but the others went on eating, as though he had not spoken. “And our presidents, poor fellows,” he continued, on a diminishing scale of assurance, “live the dishonored life of prophets, a life of exposure and contumely, for trying to put into practice literally the precepts of a primitive liberalism.” The poets still ignored him, except for the whiskered poet, who threw him a glance of fiery rebuke—this was the sort of observation that the poets were supposed to frame, and it was unseemly to have it supplied, ready made up, by jackanapes on the faculty.

The poets had no interest in Jocelyn or its President, whom they took for granted as the usual money-raiser, not too successful, to judge by the size of the fee. The President they knew generically, and this was sufficient. At a given point in the afternoon’s proceedings, he could be counted on to rise from his seat and put a question that had long been bothering him—why did not modern poetry communicate to him? Somewhat more perplexed than the publishers, but vigorous and manly, he would call on modern poetry to step down from its pedestal and meet with the ordinary man in the marketplace; he would ask for a positive contribution to the vexed debates of our times. This speech, which was not yet known to the President or his

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