Winter for a moment takes the mind; the snow Falls past the arclight; icicles guard a wall; The wind moans through a crack in the window; A keen sparkle of frost is on the sill. Only for a moment; as spring too might engage it, With a single crocus in the loam, or a pair of birds; Or summer with hot grass; or autumn with a yellow leaf. Winter is there, outside, is here in me: Drapes the planets with snow, deepens the ice on the moon, Darkens the darkness that was already darkness. The mind too has its snows, its slippery paths, Wall bayonetted with ice, leave ice-encased. Here is the in-drawn room, to which you return When the wind blows from Arcturus: here is the fire At which your warm your hands and glaze your eyes: The piano, on which you touch the cold treble; Five notes like breathing icicles; and then silence.
The alarm-clock ticks, the pulse keeps time with it, Night and the mind are full of sounds. I walk from the fire-place, with his imaginary fire, To the window, with its imaginary view. Darkness, and snow ticking the window: silence, And the knocking of chains on a motor-car, the tolling Of a bronze bell, dedicated to Christ. And then the uprush of angelic wings, the beating Of wings demonic, from the abyss of the mind: The darkness filled with a feathery whistling, wings Numberless as the flakes of angelic snow, The deep void swarming with wings and sound of wings, The winnowing of chaos, the aliveness Of depth and depth and depth dedicated to death.
Here are the bickerings of the inconsequential, The chatterings of the ridiculous, the iterations Of the meaningless. Memory, like a juggler, Tosses its colored ball into the light, and again Receives them into darkness. Here is the absurd, Grinning like an idiot, and the omnivorous quotidian, Which will have its day. A handful of coins, Tickets, items for the news, a soiled handkerchief, A letter to be answered, notice of a telephone call, the petal of a flower in a volume of Shakspere, The program of a concert. The photograph, too, Propped on the mantel, and beneath it a dry rosebud; The laundry bill, matches, an ash-tray, Utamaro’s Pearl-fishers. And the rug, on which are still the crumbs Of yesterday’s feast. These are the void, the night, And the angelic wings that make it sound.
What is the flower? It is not a sigh of color, Suspiration of purple, sibilation of saffron, Nor aureate exhalation from the tomb. Yet it is these because you think of these, An emanation of emanation, fragile As light, or glisten, or gleam, or coruscation, Creature of brightness, and as brightness brief. What is the frost? It is not the sparkle of death, The flash of time’s wing, seeds of eternity; Yet it is these because you think of these. And you, because you think of these, are both Frost and flower, the bright ambiguous syllable Of which the meaning is both no and yes.
Here is the tragic, the distorting mirror In which you gesture becomes grandiose; Tears form and fall from your magnificent eyes, The brow is noble, and the mouth of God’s. Here is God who seeks his mother, Chaos, – Confusion seeking solution, and life seeking death. Here is the rose that woos the icicle; the icicle That woos the rose. Here is the silence of silences Which dreams of becoming a sound, and the sound Which will perfect itself in silence. And all These things are only the uprush from the void, the wings angelic and demonic, the sound of the abyss Dedicated to death. And this is you.
from Conrad Aiken's "Preludes for Memnon"
It's interesting how my dance through English poetic history (with Harold Bloom as my guide) has lead me to the 20th century and an exemplar piece of stream of consciousness. Where I think Faulkner struggles at times to accurately replicate the flow of thought, Joyce and Aiken succeed.
Ulysses is of course challenging and difficult because not only is it a virtuoso performance by a master knowing that he is creating a masterpiece, but because it forces you to become another person.
Aiken succeeds here in a poetic way (although Ulysses is poetic too!) because his invitation to another's mind is invitatory rather than demanding. Where Faulkner's novels are attempts to become a character rooted in time and place, Aiken's "Preludes" and even Joyce's Bloom might be tied to a specific setting they are far more universal.
Great literature is ultimately the universal. Good literature is an invitation to a new viewpoint. Passable literature merely reinforces what is already know. Bad literature fails to enlighten at all.
