“I'm never going to accomplish anything; that's perfectly clear to me. I'm never going to be famous. My name will never be writ large on the roster of Those Who Do Things. I don't do anything. Not one single thing. I used to bite my nails, but I don't even do that any more.” -From “The Little Hours” by Dorothy Parker
Is it cheating to include a book of poetry in my list of Top Ten?
Maybe.
But, see, poetry is one of those… things. Like modern art, or wine, or cars. There is a general sort of consensus that it exists because it offers something, whether practical or aesthetic, yet there’s such a strong divide about it. One can acknowledge its importance and right to exist without enjoying it. In fact, many people can’t stand it. There are those that take a general interest in it, learn a few important things to improve their ability to interact with it, but otherwise devote their time and interest to other passions.
Then there are people who are… into it.
Who have their opinions.
Their favorites (five will follow) and their passions (or the lack of therein).
Their authors of derision and scorn.
Their memorized verses and struggles for meaning.
The wall that divides these groups, of course, is in part due of the nature of poetry itself. Poetry, while not necessarily designed to be something unintelligible, is designed to be more than regular speech and writing. In describing what exactly this means, I said to a friend once: “Imagine the difference of saying, ‘I’m anxious,’ in comparison to ‘It feels like I am the last survivor in a sinking submarine and I just stepped in water.”
Maybe a bad example, but the point stood (stands?).
In short, quoting a quote already used in a previous book’s blog post, “Words are the only bullets in truth's bandolier. And poets are the snipers.”
And by God does Dorothy Parker have good aim.
She had it in all forms of communication, as much as she may be dismayed by her reputation of cutting wit. Maybe she’d enjoy the thought of being a verbal sniper more, I can’t say. My interest in Dorothy Parker begins here, and comes before the actual discussion of her work. There is something endearing, almost relatable, about how little she thought of her work, legacy, and her influence. When reflecting on Edna St. Vincent Millay, she is reported to have said something to the effect of following in her footsteps, “unhappily in my own horrible sneakers…” When discussing her old luncheon circle at the Algonquin, Parker commented, “These were no giants. Think who was writing in those days—Lardner, Fitzgerald, Faulkner and Hemingway. Those were the real giants. The Round Table was just a lot of people telling jokes and telling each other how good they were.”
Of the most beautiful words in the English language?
“Cheque enclosed.”
Much of this stems naturally from the way in which any creator of art is critical of their own work, about as much from Dorothy Parker’s unique, sardonic worldview (“If you have any young friends who aspire to become writers, the second greatest favor you can do them is to present them with copies of The Elements of Style. The first greatest, of course, is to shoot them now, while they're happy.”), and much of the latter there from a difficult, diverse, and active life. From a wholesale embrace of protest politics and causes of justice (her estate being left to Martin Luther King Jr. and then the NAACP (a recent source of drama in that regard being somewhat newsworthy (and at the time this and related activities led to her eventual blacklisting))), to her biting list of reviews (“Katharine Hepburn delivered a striking performance that ran the gamut of emotions, from A to B.”), to frequently-referenced failed romantic endeavors, to the (in)famous Round Table lunches, to her short stories (my favorite being the above-quoted “Little Hours,” the right and just theme-story of night owls and insomniacs everywhere), to her struggles with despair, alcohol, and authority, there is much encapsulated in the experiences building the life of Dorothy Parker, and so much of it brought fully to the fore in her poetry.
What, then, of it all, brings me to be interested in her poetry?
It, as a few of the other works mentioned, appeared in my life at an opportune time, and in the form of one of her better-known works.
(Oh, look! I’m reading poetry again).
(I’m going to remind the audience that I lack anything resembling good recording equipment).
Struggles with mental illness, of the thoughts that occasionally accompany them, and how best to respond to their darker arguments are, like poetry… a thing. To those unable to comprehend that struggle it can be difficult to accurately describe. Sometimes, though, the attitude is not so much that life is worth living but that the cost of ending it appears too dear. I can’t speak to everyone’s experiences with these things, just my own, but sometimes that’s… enough. Sometimes it’s all there is. Reading a poem like that, for the first time, that so perfectly encapsulated the attitudes embraced in just staying alive was a revelation.
The attitude takes the opposite form, as well, in a poem I use frequently as a toast.
A somewhat jaunty spin on the idea of living like one is dying and the relief (or disappointment) that comes from waking up the next day in spite of it. It makes a serviceable toast, a wonderful remark upon how one feels the morning after too many of the things, and a general, almost spiteful remark on the nature of living. There’s a beauty to that kind of existential spite I appreciate, of living despite of the things that ought to have killed us (and what’s the point of a life without a few of those stories?), and Parker, I think, realized this better than most. It’s apparent even in her longer poems, where room to maneuver gives Parker even more room to twist the knife of life.
Here we see two themes, tied line-by-line, in the general reflection of the almost humorous darkness of living through life itself. Art as catharsis (a catharsis I think Dorothy Parker took ready advantage of), and the decided flop of numerous romantic endeavors. There is reflected in much of Parker’s work the adoption of “writing what you know,” something which is encouraged in all writers. Here, although Parker is noted to have admitted that if she ever wrote about her childhood no one would want to sit near her, we see an understanding of pain and the remarkable ability not only to bear it, but snigger through it. That understanding, especially of romantic loss, becomes painfully clear in a poem that helped me through a few related difficult experiences in my life.
In this, though, as in so many things, Dorothy Parker manages to take the long view. I think that’s part of the appeal of her poetry, too. The admission, implicit or otherwise, of life as a long game, taken in its entirety, for its rises and lows, and the almost sheer grit of determination required to get through both. While one can wallow in pain and despair, or at least take it out for drinks, one can also dance, laugh, and sing in the sun. This admission, and its related understanding, is included in another poem from which I’ve extracted my favorite toast.
Maybe discussing the reasons why I’ve connected with these poems isn’t enough to explain to people who are not into poetry why this kind of thing matters. Maybe it really is cheating to include my favorite Dorothy Parker poems on my list of Top Ten Books. But they come from a book, a book that taught me words for a struggle I wasn’t sure how to describe, that helped me laugh through the tears of breakups and heartbreak, to smile and raise a glass to the highest and lowest moments of my life, and to deliver plenty of sharp replies to people, to events, and to life itself. If that isn’t worthy of a place in my Top Ten, then maybe none of the others come close, and maybe I’ve fulfilled one of Dorothy Parker’s own greatest (and possibly misattributed) wishes:
“I don't care what is written about me so long as it isn't true.”