It is preposterous to agree to write a short piece on Anne Carson’s work. The task is impossible, akin to that of solving the mathematical problem of dividing zero by zero. If one had the power to solve it, perhaps one would have some confidence in attempting to write about Anne Carson’s work.
Attempting, I say, not succeeding. In attempting to do so, I shall emphasise that all words fall short in extreme situations, which not only include unfathomable losses (of children, in my case) but also include articulating anything about Anne Carson’s work. One could start with Carson’s words.
But, oh no, mastery is the wrong word here. Only the minor and the greedy and the power-thirsty writers want to be the masters of the words. Carson does not subjugate or manipulate her words.
She lets them be; and lets herself be led by the words – hers, and the ancients’ translated into unforgettable English by her. And what extraordinary words they are! Say, let’s suppose every person in the world could be viewed as a formation of some words – a poem, a story, a play, a novel, an earnest and muddle-minded op-ed, a loud slogan, or a much repeated and tired cliche, or, simply, a line of ellipses, or some white space (if we include words in this game, we must also include punctuations and silences).
In a gathering of a vast number of word formations, those written by Anne Carson would surely be easily recognisable. The fact that they exist at all is a miracle, because many rules have been bent or broken to make them possible. Nevertheless, they are not anarchists or revolutionaries.
They are both mortal and immortal because they know their priorities (“Love is not conditional. / Living is very conditional.”– The Beauty of the Husband). They are compelling because they are compelled (“I know / you find me extreme / in my grief. / I bear it hard. / But I tell you I have no choice. / It compels. I act because it compels” – Elektra, translated by Carson).
Extract — continue reading at the source.
