It is a matter of record that this blog has not always agreed with everything that PM Boris Johnson has written, said or done; that in no way lessens my concern, at the deepest level, for his current state of health. I wish no one, friend or stranger, ill; and as a Catholic, believe the best of everyone, even a total rogue; we can be forgiven to the last. Nor have I always agreed with everything I have written, said or done. We are all imperfect, angels with clay feet, sinners through and through. I will have no glee at this time. Those who think the PM's plight is ironic, or any other sort of literary trope, are missing the human story. Here is a man, brilliant, enterprising, witty, forceful, driven, and by nature, seeking the betterment of his country, engaged to be married, with a child on the way, who many people admire or love, a natural-born leader of rare charisma and intellect - fighting to regain full health, felled by a perfidious invisible foe. Many leaders would have taken to bed, and rested - he worked on, tired but tirelessly. He is heroic, and we must, for our own humanity, urge him on to fully recover. Boris the man may be flawed, but Boris the classicist is rarely wrong. It may be he would not want Roman-directed prayer at such a time, preferring earlier Romans like Cicero or Catullus to say things on his behalf; the gods or God or a blank canvass watch on, and determine either everything or nothing. Either way, to pray is not illogical, and not unwise. As Pascal wagered, if prayers are heard, all the better; if not, what harm? I am praying for Boris Johnson, as father, man, writer, politician, leader, friend, lover and son - in all ways he displays the heights and depths of Britishness - one would need to be heartless not to care for both our deep lakes and windy crags; all parts of a nation's soul geography are vital - no country of total saints ever won a war. Athens needs Sparta, Dionysius is required after Apollo's day is done. We need carnival and quiet, rollicking and stillness - feast and famine hardens our sinews. The full breadth of Boris's compass is massive, and he is great, if not always good. I love the man, and forgive the sinner. I wish him only the best, and hope the best comes to him now.
When you open your mouth to speak, are you smart? A funny question from a great song, but also, a good one, when it comes to poets, and poetry. We tend to have a very ambiguous view of intelligence in poetry, one that I'd say is dysfunctional. Basically, it goes like this: once you are safely dead, it no longer matters how smart you were. For instance, Auden was smarter than Yeats , but most would still say Yeats is the finer poet; Eliot is clearly highly intelligent, but how much of Larkin 's work required a high IQ? Meanwhile, poets while alive tend to be celebrated if they are deemed intelligent: Anne Carson, Geoffrey Hill , and Jorie Graham , are all, clearly, very intelligent people, aside from their work as poets. But who reads Marianne Moore now, or Robert Lowell , smart poets? Or, Pound ? How smart could Pound be with his madcap views? Less intelligent poets are often more popular. John Betjeman was not a very smart poet, per se....
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