My friend, Bob Schenck, sent me a poem by W. H. auden, entitled “Voltaire at Ferney”, as a way of chastising me for my arrogant, wretched attitude. It’s a great poem. Here’s the poem, followed by my reply to my friend:
Voltaire at Ferney
W. H. Auden
Perfectly happy now, he looked at his estate.
An exile making watches glanced up as he passed
And went on working; where a hospital was rising fast,
A joiner touched his cap; an agent came to tell
Some of the trees he’d planted were progressing well.
The white alps glittered. It was summer. He was very great.
Far off in Paris where his enemies
Whispered that he was wicked, in an upright chair
A blind old woman longed for death and letters. He would write,
“Nothing is better than life.” But was it? Yes, the fight
Against the false and the unfair
Was always worth it. So was gardening. Civilize.
Cajoling, scolding, screaming, cleverest of them all,
He’d had the other children in a holy war
Against the infamous grown-ups; and, like a child, been sly
And humble, when there was occasion for
The two-faced answer or the plain protective lie,
But, patient like a peasant, waited for their fall.
And never doubted, like D’Alembert, he would win:
Only Pascal was a great enemy, the rest
Were rats already poisoned; there was much, though, to be done,
And only himself to count upon.
Dear Diderot was dull but did his best;
Rousseau, he’d always known, would blubber and give in.
Night fell and made him think of women: Lust
Was one of the great teachers; Pascal was a fool.
How Emilie had loved astronomy and bed;
Pimpette had loved him too, like scandal; he was glad.
He’d done his share of weeping for Jerusalem: As a rule,
It was the pleasure-haters who became unjust.
Yet, like a sentinel, he could not sleep. The night was full of wrong,
Earthquakes and executions: soon he would be dead,
And still all over Europe stood the horrible nurses
Itching to boil their children. Only his verses
Perhaps could stop them: He must go on working: Overhead,
The uncomplaining stars composed their lucid song.
From: jns@pubblog.com
Subject: Re: Auden: Voltaire at Ferney
Date: October 12, 2004 9:57:49 AM CDT
To: db94346@alltel.net
I get it. I’m Voltaire, and you are an uncomplaining star composing your lucid song. That’s very flattering, to both of us, but I’m no Voltaire. I wish I were “cleverest of them all”, but, alas, every one of the blogs in the right hand column, and many others besides, are more original, more interesting, funnier, and better written than mine.
Sometimes I send excerpts from my blog to some of my favorite bloggers in hopes that they will link to me, but they never do, and I can’t blame them. Everything on my blog has been said better somewhere else. I am amazed at the amount of talent, and not only talent, but real research and expertise, that exists in the blogosphere. Of course most of it is garbage, but the best stuff is really great, and there’s a lot of it.
Nevertheless, it’s good exercise and I like doing it, even though the few readers I have all seem to despise me or think I’m mentally ill.