Herbert J. Muller’s The Spirit of Tragedy

The first page of David Markson’s copy of The Spirit of Tragedy by Herbert J. Muller:

     On which Markson placed as an inscription:
     “Markson
     NYC – 1981”

—-

     This is my third post of Markson inscriptions from 1981.
     Not sure why I’m on a kick of posting his inscriptions.
     I have plenty of actual marginalia left.
     And why am I focusing on 1981?
     Sometimes there is no rhyme or reason.
     And sometimes rhyme and reason only become clear long after the fact.

Nonetheless, here is the first page of Herbert Muller’s The Spirit of Tragedy.

Tragedy is an important concept in Markson’s oeuvre.

Hence the title of the only book length study of Markson—at least the only one thus far:
This Is Not A Tragedy by Françoise Palleau-Papin.

As she explains:
“Markson does not wish to repeat Greek tragedy, which no longer suits our times. There is no chorus anymore, no coryphaeus leading it, no community implied in the misfortunes of a family torn by power and strife. The rule of everyone for his own has made secession irrevocable, and society has disintegrated. Today, we could only reread the Greek tragedies repeatedly, the way Karl Marx used to, according to Vanishing Point: ‘Karl Marx reread the Oresteia once every year.’ (VP, p. 73) Did the theorist of class struggle reread the Oresteia to immerse himself in a world that stayed coherent in spite of its being torn apart? His own world had lost the stability of the Ancient Greek cosmos. Ours could only claim such coherence under the yoke of totalitarian fanaticism. Precisely, what is most frightening in tragedy, from its ancient origin in a goat sacrifice, is that it reveals a community’s desire to sacrifice the other, the scapegoat.” (Pg. xxxi of the Intro).

“Goat song.”
Wrote Markson in Reader’s Block, pg. 30.

“And goatsong, Fern? Don’t you remember the derivation?”
Wrote Markson in Going Down, pg. 190.

“But the very word tragedy means ‘goat song,’ and as we have seen, he has several times given us the goat as well—so it is perhaps also of interest here that the chief objects of sacrifice at the rites of Dionysus were oxen and goats.”
Wrote Markson in Malcolm Lowry’s Volcano: Myth Symbol Meaning, pg. 160.

Scapegoatsong?

Pg. 287 of David Markson’s copy of The Spirit of Tragedy by Herbert J. Muller:

On which Markson placed a check next to a quote from a Chekhov play:
“I am old, I am tired, I am trivial; my sensibilities are dead.”

—-

“I am old, I am tired, I am trivial; my sensibilities are dead.”
Words said by Astroff in Anton Chekhov’s Uncle Vanya.

Old. Tired. Trivial.

     Reminds me of:
     “Old. Tired. Sick. Alone. Broke.”
     – The Last Novel, pg. 2.

     “Old. Tired. Sick. Alone. Broke.
     All of which obviously means that this is the last book Novelist is going to write.”
     – The Last Novel, pg. 3.

“Old. Tired. Sick. Alone. Broke.”
– The Last Novel, pg. 190.

     “Old. Tired. Sick. Alone. Broke.”
     The title of Catherine Texier’s review of The Last Novel for the New York Times.
     Where she writes:
     “But what it resembles most is a long poem.
     In rhythm and tonality, if not in content, ‘The Last Novel’ hints at the incantations of the Kaddish—it sometimes evokes the beat of Allen Ginsberg’s ‘Kaddish’ and ‘Howl’—and brings to mind the Renaissance complaints of the French poets Pierre de Ronsard and Joachim du Bellay, François Villon’s famous ‘Ballad of the Ladies of Yore,’ mourning the loss of youth, and Shakespeare sonnets lamenting the specter of death.”

Mourning the loss of youth…lamenting the specter of death…

Catherine Texier was, of course, right to focus on the problems of old age in her review.
That is definitely one of the most prevalent of Markson’s obsessions in the tetralogy, and especially in The Last Novel (which “can be readily read by itself,” Markson wants me to emphasize, as seen on pg. 161 of that novel, and as discussed in yesterday’s post).

Between the “Old. Tired. Sick. Alone. Broke.” on pg. 2 and the one on pg. 190, there exists a number of times where Markson specifically broods over the aging process…

“Rereading a Raymond Chandler novel in which Philip Marlowe stops in for a ten-cent cup of coffee.
Old enough to remember when the coffee would have cost half that” (Pg. 18).

“Old enough to remember when they were still called penny postcards.
And a letter cost three cents.” (Pg. 23).

“Mithridates, he died old.” (Pg. 48).

“Old enough to have started coming upon likenesses on postage stamps of other writers he had known personally or had at least met in passing.” (Pg. 79).

“Michelangelo’s Pieta—
Is the Virgin many years too young?” (Pg. 83).

“How old would you be if you didn’t know how old you was?
Asked Satchel Paige.” (Pg. 92).

“Anton Bruckner, in old age, tells Gustav Mahler that he can readily foresee his coming interrogation by his Maker—
Why else have I given you talent, you son of a bitch, than that you should sing My praise and glory? But you have accomplished much too little.” (Pg. 95).

“I hope I never get so old I get religious.
Quoth Ingmar Bergman.” (Pg. 104).

“It’s a terrible thing to die young. Still, it saves a lot of time.
Quoth Grace Paley.” (Pg. 120).

“When I am eighty, my art may finally begin to cohere. By ninety, it may truly turn masterful.
Said Hokusai. At seventy-three.” (Pg. 151).

“A passage in Montaigne where he speaks of himself being well on the road to old age—having long since passed forty.” (Pg. 157).

“Old Hoss. Old Pete. Old Reliable. Old Folks. Old Aches and Pains.” (Pg. 175).

“Old age is not for sissies.
Said Bette Davis.” (Pg. 178).

“Freud, born in 1856, being asked in 1936 how he felt:
How a man of eighty feels is not a topic for conversation.” (Pg. 178).

“Shaw, at ninety-four, being asked the same:
At my age, one is either well or dead.” (Pg. 179).

“My old paintings no longer interest me. I’m much more curious about those I haven’t done yet.
Said Picasso, at seventy-nine.” (Pg. 184).

“You can tell from my handwriting that I am in the twenty-fourth hour. Not a single thought is born in me that does not have death graven within.
Wrote Michelangelo at eighty-one—himself with eight years remaining.” (Pg. 184).

“I’ve no more sight, no hand, nor pen, not inkwell. I lack everything. All I still possess is will.
Said Goya—nearing eighty.” (Pg. 186).

     “Time rushes by, love rushes by, life rushes by, but the red shoes dance on.
     What happens in the end?
     Oh, in the end she dies.” (Pg. 186).

“Cézanne, who lived in greater and greater isolation, late in life.” (Pg. 186).

“Degas, who lived in greater and greater isolation, late in life.” (Pg. 187).

“Sophocles, re a tremor in his hand, as recorded by Aristotle:
He said he could not help it; he would happily rather not be ninety years old.” (Pg. 187).

“The old man who will not laugh is a fool.
Said Santayana.” (Pg. 189).

“Dispraised, infirm, unfriended age.
Sophocles calls it.” (Pg. 189).

“Unregarded age in corners thrown.
Shakespeare echoes.” (Pg. 189).

     The novel ends with:
     “Old. Tired. Sick. Alone. Broke.
     The old man who will not laugh is a fool.
     Als ick kan.” (Pg. 190).

I am old, I am tired, I am trivial; my sensibilities are dead.

Old. Tired. Sick. Alone. Broke.

Pg. 189 of David Markson’s copy of The Spirit of Tragedy by Herbert J. Muller:

On which Markson wrote “F.D.” in the margins next to the sentence:
“The passion of the tragic hero is always likely to verge on madness.”

—-

I would assume that the “F.D.” stands for “Fyodor Dostoevsky,” a writer greatly admired by Markson, and whose writing is perfectly described by that line:
“The passion of the tragic hero is always likely to verge on madness.”

Dostoevsky, whose name can be spelled a number of ways—Markson always spelled it either “Dostoievsky” or “Dostoievski” (with an “i” in the middle, and an “i” or “y” on the end)—was one of Markson’s favorite writers, and one who had quite an influence on him.

Donald Hogin wrote in “Markson’s Progress”:
“Lowry was undeniably one of the significant influences upon Markson’s own creative life, the most obvious others being Joyce, Dostoyevski and Faulkner.”

As Françoise Palleau-Papin wrote in her This Is Not A Tragedy:
“Dostoyevsky’s influence on Markson is clear in Going Down, but the homage to the master is not an imitation.” (Pg. xxx).

     Or in his own words:
     “The Dostoievsky novel I cared about most is The Possessed, sometimes translated in English as The Devils. The first 200 pages can be a bore (a satire on Turgenev)—but after that I was always overwhelmed. And just incidentally, Crime and Punishment may have been the first book ever to suggest to me how stunning an experience literature could be.”
     As told to Françoise Palleau-Papin, and relayed in her This Is Not A Tragedy (pg. xxix).

     “The Shakespeare of the lunatic asylum.
     An early French critic called Dostoievsky.”
     – The Last Novel, pg. 29.

The passion of the tragic hero is always likely to verge on madness.

Last week I made a post about madness in Markson’s tetralogy.

In that post, I mentioned Markson’s Bookslut interview where he was asked whether or not “there is something about people at the edge of sanity” that appealed to him, and he responded:
“No, not at all, it’s just inviting. What the hell, craziness is a lot more dramatic to handle than sanity. Which Dostoevsky proved all those years ago—trying to write a book about a perfectly good person and it’s the one volume among all his major works that’s a total botch. Unlike all his others, filled with lunacy and suicide and murder, et cetera. Or think about ninety percent of all the literary protagonists we find most memorable—Ahab, Heathcliff, Stavrogin, even all the way back to Don Quixote—every one of them is certifiable.”

The passion of the tragic hero is always likely to verge on madness.

Pg. 167 of David Markson’s copy of The Spirit of Tragedy by Herbert J. Muller:

On which Markson placed a line and a check in the margin next to this observation (anent Shakespeare):
“While his plays give no impression of ‘atheism’ or rebellion, they do suggest that he was much less concerned about God and Satan than Marlowe was. The wide-ranging thought of Hamlet barely touches on the religious problem.”

—-

In his novel Vanishing Point, Markson wrote the following:
“One’s delayed awareness that in Hamlet, Claudius prays. Or attempts to. And that Hamlet never does.” (Pg. 49).

     It is admittedly quite curious—and to me exciting—that Shakespeare’s tragic heroes, according to Herbert J. Muller in the above scan, “seldom express specifically Christian hopes and fears, and they go to their deaths with no chorus of Christian sentiments.”
    Of course, while I find comfort in Shakespeare’s seeming areligiousness, others find it troublesome:
     “T. S. Eliot has been as disturbed by the thought that the greatest of English poets lacked a Christian philosophy.”
     According to the above scan.

“The Reverend Eliot, Pound at times called him.”
Says pg. 110 of Markson’s Vanishing Point.