The art of verse is without doubt the most difficult, the most moving and the most hidden of all the arts. Voltaire wrote thousands of verses, and not one is any good. Chateaubriand approaches poetry in his singing prose; but when he writes in verse he sinks lower than the plainest prose. Anything can be put into verse, a game of chess, tiddlywinks, gardens; it only requires patience. But true verse, fine verse, also requires a kind of patience. A fine poem matures slowly, like a fruit. Where’s the difference? Perhaps as between a natural fruit and one made from wax; for patience is needed to make fruits in wax.
A true poem is a fruit of nature. It’s what is immediately felt through the ear, the moment it is understood, and even more through the throat and breath, and even by the whole body, as it’s read out loud. It’s first a kind of music, which is physiologically right, I mean to the measure of the human, which regulates our interior movements as it should, a music which stirs, and stretches, and releases this difficult body from anxiety. We are so constructed that almost all our emotions are troubling; think of the untamed shyness, the impatience, the irritation that can be seen already in a child, and from the slightest causes. We are strangely agitated by a lock that won’t open, by a false step, by a surprise, by an unexpected reply. It’s then that all becomes tense, frustrated, inhibited. The first effect of poetry, and even before it is understood, is one of grace, in all senses of that fine word. It is certainly moving and surprising, for it’s a human cry; but at the same time a reassurance, a happy release, even against melancholy, sadness, tragedy; and it’s then a striking contrast between what we should feel and what we actually feel.
The poet is one who, at the touch of misfortune, finds a kind of song, without words at first, a certain measure of verse, without content at first, a future of feeling what will save all our thoughts. These powerful signs subsist in a true poem, which is always a promise of happiness. This last word is clear through its double meaning, for we speak of happiness of expression, which everyone understands. In this way the poet seeks out his thoughts, not by way of reason, but through a healthy rhythm, which waits for the words to come. The great affair of the poet, where he is never too intelligent, too knowledgeable, is to reject what almost fits with the rhythm, and to wait for the miracle of words that fall exactly, which possess the length, the sonority, the meaning precisely as needed. And sometime the poet finishes too quickly; a word too much, a little padding. As painters often say of a canvas: “It’s not painted enough”, so one can well say of nearly every poem that it hasn’t ripened slowly enough. At least a fine verse has this fullness, this perfection, this marvellous reconciliation of rhythm, rhyme and meaning.
Writing is always an art full of encounters. The simplest letter assumes choosing among thousands of words, the majority of which are alien to what you want to say; you wait, you choose. On what grounds? According to a thought you have, which you sketch in advance, but which will only become fully precise if you have patience and luck. And that’s still not poetry. Why not? Because here it’s the thought that is advancing first, because you want to prove or explain something. The poet doesn’t begin with a thought; he sees, he feels according to a certain system, salutary, that fits with the human form. He sets out from this vital rhythm and, never letting it weaken, he calls up words and arranges them according to stress, rhythm, sound; that’s how he discovers his thought. And that wouldn’t be possible if there were not, in every language, hidden harmonies between sound and sense. This faith in language is the right faith for a poet. And now, don’t expect that the thoughts he finds in this way, in making his body resound like a resonant pipe, will be thoughts that you expected according to logic alone. On the contrary, they surprise; and you should prepare yourself though the rhythm, that’s to say, the incantation, as the poet has done. This is why, first recite, first accept, and the thoughts will take on another radiance, another power through the agreement with the deepest feelings. Let’s simply say that they will be thoughts.
La Psychologie et la Vie, janvier 1930
Libres Propos, Nouvelle Série, Quatrième année, n°2, 20 février 1930 (CCLXXXVI)
Propos de littérature, III
Translation copyright Michel Petheram
To read the French version of this text