Surface Tension. Julie Carr

      Epigraph

      But your eyes proclaim

      That everything is surface. The surface is what’s there

      And nothing can exist except what’s there.

      JOHN ASHBERY, “Self Portrait in a Convex Mirror”

      “But the chaos of surfaces compels us to new states of happiness.”

      LISA ROBERTSON, “Occasional Work and 7 Walks from the

      Office for Soft Architecture.”

      CONTENTS

       Cover

       Title Page

      Epigraph

      PREFACE

      INTRODUCTION

      CHAPTER I: Matthew Arnold’s Pregnant Poetry

      I. Introduction

       II. The Future Contained: “Democracy” and Culture and Anarchy

       III. “Thy Remote and Sphered Course”: Desire and Isolation in Arnold’s Marguerite Poems.

       IV. The Poetics of Shame: Wragg

       V. Problems with Birth

       VI. “Empedocles on Etna”: The Unbirthing of the Poem

       VII. Conclusion

      CHAPTER II: Dante Gabriel Rossetti and the Aesthetics of Emergency

      I. Introduction

       II. “Saint Agnes of Intercession”: The Painter of Modern Life and the Critic

       III. “The Blessed Damozel” and “Bridal Birth”: The Ethics of Eros

       IV. Conclusion: “The Monochord” and the Aesthetics of Emergency

      CHAPTER III: Murder in Utopia: William Morris and the Surface of Desire

      I. Introduction

       II. The Surface of Desire

       III. Murder in Utopia

       IV. Conclusion: The Future of Organic Form

      CHAPTER IV: Gerard Manley Hopkins and the Reck of the Moment

      I. Introduction

       II. Early Reception: “Undying Spirit”

       III. “Spelt from Sybil’s Leaves”: The Reck of the Moment

      CODA: Messianism Now, or, Other Victorians

      ENDNOTES

      WORKS CITED

      INDEX

      About the Author

       Copyright

       Other Works by Julie Carr

      PREFACE

      In writing this book over many years, my sense of its audience has shifted. As it began as a dissertation, its earliest drafts were intended for a community of scholars, Victorian scholars specifically, and those interested in Victorian poetry even more. But this group, though one I admire from something of a distance, has not become my primary intellectual or creative community. As a poet and a publisher of poetry and innovative fiction and prose, I belong first and last to a community of contemporary writers, of poets. After such a long time of writing, reading, giving readings, teaching, publishing, and curating within this community, it would be impossible, I think, for me to write anything that was not in some sense “for” them, for the poets, which is to say, for my friends. In America’s literary landscape, in English and Creative Writing departments all over the country, there is often a divide between the scholars and the so-called “creative” writers, one that is generally crossed only by critics of contemporary literature. This book is mostly not about contemporary literature, and yet I hope it ventures across that divide anyway, speaking finally to both scholars and poets about a few figures from a hundred and fifty years ago in a way that might be useful, or at least stimulating. For the poets, I hope to bring those nineteenth-century writers in order to expand what we think of as the present. For the scholars, my hope, of course, is that the arguments here will feel interesting and convincing. But I also hope to reveal something about the ways that contemporary poets think about their work, and in so doing to draw a new line of connection between the Victorians and ourselves. This is not a book that mines the archive for new materials, nor is it a book that finds new figures to draw into our canon. However, in that this is a book by a poet, and one that encourages us to open rather than re-inscribe our sense of the period, of periodization in general, I hope it might, in perhaps revealing something new about contemporary poems and poets, help scholars of Victorian poetry to see the familiar in a different light.

      For me, this has finally become a book about desire—the desire that reading carries. For me—for all writers, I assume—to read a poem of great complexity, mystery, and passion, like the poems discussed here, is to ignite the desire to write. This is also a book about the desire to convince someone, perhaps myself, of the importance, the value, the necessity of poems, of their ability to answer to crisis, to imagine change, to move toward a future. Finally, the writing of this book is about the desire for a life that continues to think through the language of poetry, which is to say, the language of motion and play, the language of question and suspension, the language of surface and depth.

      I have many people

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