Vol. 22 No. 12 · 22 June 2000
pages 10-11 | 3218 words

The heart of standing is you cannot fly
Frank Kermode
- The Complete Poems of William Empson edited by John Haffenden
Allen Lane, 410 pp, £30.00, April 2000, ISBN 0 7139 9287 5
Empson has been dead these 16 years, and although his voice was often recorded it now seems difficult to describe it. John Haffenden says he had one voice for poetry and another for prose. Empson himself thought ‘the reader should throw himself into the verse, and not do it with “reserved” English good taste.’ The best idea was to ham it ‘like a provincial Shakespeare a hundred years ago’. According to Naomi Lewis this resulted in his ‘presenting his love poems in the sardonic tones of a 17th-century New England elder directing the trial of a witch’. Haffenden describes Empson’s as ‘a patrician voice, with a slightly sardonic timbre’, which seems a fair description of his everyday tones, and so is G.S. Fraser’s – ‘an odd, sad, snarly voice’. Of his poetry reading John Wain said he rendered some passages ‘like a Neapolitan stevedore, laryngitically croaking others’. In private sitting-rooms he used a quieter tone, ‘though the curious angularity of rhythm’, which some like and some do not, was still present.
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Letters
Vol. 22 No. 14 · 20 July 2000
From David Hawkes
Zeus' incandescent epiphany didn't make Semele conceive, as Frank Kermode suggests (LRB, 22 June), it made her miscarry. Zeus retrieved the aborted foetus and brought it to term inside his thigh. The comparison still works, in a way, even if Empson didn't know this, if you think of the earth receiving the ejected pine-seeds rather as the god's thigh gave womb-like accommodation to the foetus.
David Hawkes
Oxford
Vol. 22 No. 15 · 10 August 2000
From Eileen Shubb Lottman
Frank Kermode's tribute to William Empson's memorable voice (LRB, 22 June) made me think of the occasion, more than fifty years ago, when I was a student in the Writers Workshop at the University of Iowa and Empson came to read to us. His presence was as enthralling as his words and I have still clearly in my ear the moment at which his voice, without changing pitch or urgency, segued from 'Slowly the poison the whole bloodstream fills -' to 'Oh dear, I've set my beard on fire.' At which point he removed the long cigarette-holder from his mouth, set it carefully down on the edge of a table, and clapped his beard between his hands several times to put out the blaze. He then picked up the cigarette-holder, placed it back in his mouth, and continued with the poem. No one laughed, although there were, as I remember, a few discreet coughing fits, possibly brought on by the acrid smell of crisp black hairs going up in smoke.
Eileen Shubb Lottman
Remsenburg<br />New York
From John Langton
William Empson was on to something with his tree that would 'ripen only in a forest fire'. A few years ago, Northern TV News reported that vandals had set fire during the night to a rare, exotic tree in a South Yorkshire park, and we were shown a sorry group of park-keepers looking at a scorched, bristly stump. Two or three evenings later, the news showed astonished keepers and various happy observers gazing at the stump, now covered in scarlet and crimson flowers.
John Langton
York