Carson also reminds us these connections between literature and lived experience extend beyond the classical world. Consider her long poem about unrequited love The Glass Essay, collected in Glass, Irony and God (1995) – and cited by the Nobel committee. The poem’s speaker visits her mother after the end of a relationship, taking Emily Brontë with her in the form of a book. Reading is part of her effort to understand what has happened.
The relationship between learning and loss becomes especially stark in Nox (2010), Carson’s astonishing elegy for her estranged brother, Michael, who died in 2000.
Running through it is Carson’s engagement with Catullus’ poem mourning his own brother. Poet-critic Dan Chiasson explains how the book brings the limited record of Carson’s brother’s life into contact with a Latin–English lexicon keyed to ancient Roman poet Catullus’ elegy. Chiasson also draws attention to a difficulty at the centre of Nox: accumulated material does not produce a clearer understanding of the person being mourned.
Carson acknowledges this at the start of the book:
I wanted to fill my elegy with light of all kinds. But death makes us stingy. There is nothing more to be expended on that, we think. He’s dead. Love cannot alter it. Words cannot add to it.
That tension helps explain the book’s deeply thoughtful method of assemblage. Nox needs to be seen – and ideally, held – to be properly appreciated. Published as an accordion-folded book in a box, it reproduces a handmade assortment of photographs and fragmentary scraps of text.
Archival documentation can be preserved and examined, but cannot answer every question Carson might have asked of her brother. The form of the thing allows evidence and uncertainty to sit side by side, encouraging further reflection on the part of the reader.
Breathtaking emotional forceThe gaps in Nox find a counterpart in Carson’s work as a translator. In If Not, Winter (2002), her bilingual edition of ancient Greek poet Sappho’s work, brackets and blanks mark what has been lost. The reader encounters words that have endured for centuries alongside the white space where others should be. Carson makes that incomplete transition part of the reading process. Absence acquires a visible form.
Her recent collection, Wrong Norma, finds a different use for discontinuity. Its 25 entries, accompanied by images, move between subjects as far apart as the legal representation of detainees at Guantánamo Bay and deepening footsteps left in snow (the latter is one of Carson’s longstanding preoccupations).
Carson describes the pieces as unlinked – hence the title’s supposed wrongness. The collection gives readers no continuous narrative to follow. Each exploratory text is a point of departure: an opportunity for fresh discovery and the potential for new ways of thinking.
For readers drawn to Carson in the wake of the Nobel, this willingness to depart from an expected course may take some getting used to. But it is also part of the pleasure and reward of reading her.
Her writing might be grounded in the trappings of scholarly inquiry, but she consistently arrives at observations and insights whose emotional force can take the breath away. The learning matters. So does the surprise.
https://theconversation.com/anne-carson-has-won-the-nobel-prize-for-literature-f...