اطلاعیه

**Angel** · 12-29-2009, 12:39 PM

An Interview with T. S. Eliot

An Interview with

The interview took place in New York, at the apartment of Mrs. Louis Henry Cohn, of House of Books, Ltd., who is a friend of Mr. and Mrs. Eliot. The bookcases of the attractive living room contain a remarkable collection of modern authors. On a wall near the entrance hangs a drawing of Mr. Eliot, done by his sister-in-law, Mrs. Henry Ware Eliot. An inscribed wedding photograph of the Eliots stands in a silver frame on a table. Mrs. Cohn and Mrs. Eliot sat on a sofa at one end of the room, while Mr. Eliot and the inter-viewer faced each other in the center. The microphone of a tape recorder lay on the floor between them.
Mr. Eliot looked particularly well. He was visiting the United States briefly on his way back to London from a holiday in Nassau. He was tanned, and he seemed to have put on weight in the three years since the interviewer had seen him. Altogether, he looked younger and seemed jollier. He frequently glanced at Mrs. Eliot during the interview, as if he were sharing with her an answer which he was not making.
The interviewer had talked with Mr. Eliot previously in London. The small office at Faber and Faber, a few flights above Russell Square, displays a gallery of photographs on its walls: here is a large picture of Virginia Woolf, with an inset portrait of Pius XII; here are I. A. Richards, Paul Valéry, W. B. Yeats, Goethe, Marianne Moore, Charles Whibley, Djuna Barnes, and others. Many young poets have stared at the faces there, during a talk with Mr. Eliot. One of them has told a story that illustrates some of the unsuspected in Mr. Eliot’s conversation. After an hour of serious literary discussion, Mr. Eliot paused to think if he had a final word of advice; the young poet, an American, was about to go up to Oxford as Mr. Eliot had done forty years before. Then, as gravely as if he were recommending salvation, Mr. Eliot advised the purchase of long woolen underwear because of Oxford’s damp stone. Mr. Eliot is able to be avuncular while he is quite aware of comic disproportion between manner and message. Similar combinations modified many of the comments that are reported here, and the ironies of gesture are invisible on the page.
At times, actually, the interview moved from the ironic and the mildly comic to the hilarious. The tape is punctuated by the head-back boom-boom of Mr. Eliot’s laughter, particularly in response to mention of his early derogation of Ezra Pound, and to a ques-tion about the unpublished, and one gathers improper, King Bolo poems of his Harvard days.
—Donald Hall, 1959

INTERVIEWER
Perhaps I can begin at the beginning. Do you remember the circumstances under which you began to write poetry in St. Louis when you were a boy?

T.S. ELIOT
I began I think about the age of fourteen, under the inspiration of Fitzgerald’s Omar Khayyam, to write a number of very gloomy and atheistical and despairing quatrains in the same style, which fortunately I suppressed completely—so completely that they don’t exist. I never showed them to anybody. The first poem that shows is one which appeared first in the Smith Academy Record, and later in The Harvard Advocate, which was written as an exercise for my English teacher and was an imitation of Ben Jonson. He thought it very good for a boy of fifteen or sixteen. Then I wrote a few at Harvard, just enough to qualify for election to an editorship on The Harvard Advocate, which I enjoyed. Then I had an outburst during my junior and senior years. I became much more prolific, under the influence first of Baudelaire and then of Jules Laforgue, whom I discovered I think in my junior year at Harvard.

INTERVIEWER
Did anyone in particular introduce you to the French poets? Not Irving Babbitt, I suppose.

ELIOT
No, Babbitt would be the last person! The one poem that Babbitt always held up for admiration was Gray’s Elegy. And that’s a fine poem but I think this shows certain limitations on Babbitt’s part, God bless him. I have advertised my source, I think; it’s Arthur Symons’s book on French poetry, which I came across in the Harvard Union. In those days the Harvard Union was a meeting place for any undergraduate who chose to belong to it. They had a very nice little library, like the libraries in many Harvard houses now. I liked his quotations and I went to a foreign bookshop somewhere in Boston (I’ve forgotten the name and I don’t know whether it still exists) which specialized in French and German and other foreign books and found Laforgue, and other poets. I can’t imagine why that bookshop should have had a few poets like Laforgue in stock. Goodness knows how long they’d had them or whether there were any other demands for them.

INTERVIEWER
When you were an undergraduate, were you aware of the dominating presence of any older poets? Today the poet in his youth is writing in the age of Eliot and Pound and Stevens. Can you remember your own sense of the literary times? I wonder if your situation may not have been extremely different.

ELIOT
I think it was rather an advantage not having any living poets in England or America in whom one took any particular interest. I don’t know what it would be like but I think it would be a rather troublesome distraction to have such a lot of dominating presences, as you call them, about. Fortunately we weren’t bothered by each other.

INTERVIEWER
Were you aware of people like Hardy or Robinson at all?

ELIOT
I was slightly aware of Robinson because I read an article about him in The Atlantic Monthly that quoted some of his poems, and that wasn’t my cup of tea at all. Hardy was hardly known to be a poet at that time. One read his novels, but his poetry only really became conspicuous to a later generation. Then there was Yeats, but it was the early Yeats. It was too much Celtic twilight for me. There was really nothing except the people of the nineties who had all died of drink or suicide or one thing or another.

INTERVIEWER
Did you and Conrad Aiken help each other with your poems when you were coeditors on the Advocate?

ELIOT
We were friends but I don’t think we influenced each other at all. When it came to foreign writers, he was more interested in Italian and Spanish, and I was all for the French.

INTERVIEWER
Were there any other friends who read your poems and helped you?

ELIOT
Well, yes. There was a man who was a friend of my brother’s, a man named Thomas H. Thomas who lived in Cambridge and who saw some of my poems in The Harvard Advocate. He wrote me a most enthusiastic letter and cheered me up. And I wish I had his letters still. I was very grateful to him for giving me that encouragement.

INTERVIEWER
I understand that it was Conrad Aiken who introduced you and your work to Pound.

ELIOT
Yes it was. Aiken was a very generous friend. He tried to place some of my poems in London, one summer when he was over, with Harold Monro and others. Nobody would think of publishing them. He brought them back to me. Then in 1914, I think, we were both in London in the summer. He said, “You go to Pound. Show him your poems.” He thought Pound might like them. Aiken liked them, though they were very different from his.

INTERVIEWER
Do you remember the circumstances of your first meeting with Pound?

ELIOT
I think I went to call on him first. I think I made a good impression, in his little triangular sitting room in Kensington. He said, “Send me your poems.” And he wrote back, “This is as good as anything I’ve seen. Come around and have a talk about them.” Then he pushed them on Harriet Monroe, which took a little time.

INTERVIEWER
In an article about your Advocate days, for the book in honor of your sixtieth birthday, Aiken quotes an early letter from England in which you refer to Pound’s verse as “touchingly incompetent.” I wonder when you changed your mind.

ELIOT
Hah! That was a bit brash, wasn’t it? Pound’s verse was first shown me by an editor of The Harvard Advocate, W. G. Tinckom- Fernandez, who was a crony of mine and Conrad Aiken’s and the other Signet poets of the period. He showed me those little things of Elkin Mathews, Exultations and Personae. He said, “This is up your street; you ought to like this.” Well, I didn’t, really. It seemed to me rather fancy, old-fashioned, romantic stuff, cloak-and-dagger kind of stuff. I wasn’t very much impressed by it. When I went to see Pound, I was not particularly an admirer of his work, and though I now regard the work I saw then as very accomplished, I am certain that in his later work is to be found the grand stuff.

INTERVIEWER
You have mentioned in print that Pound cut The Waste Land from a much larger poem into its present form. Were you benefited by his criticism of your poems in general? Did he cut other poems?

ELIOT
Yes. At that period, yes. He was a marvelous critic because he didn’t try to turn you into an imitation of himself. He tried to see what you were trying to do.

INTERVIEWER
Have you helped to rewrite any of your friends’ poems? Ezra Pound’s, for instance?

ELIOT
I can’t think of any instances. Of course I have made innumerable suggestions on manuscripts of young poets in the last twenty-five years or so.

INTERVIEWER
Does the manuscript of the original, uncut Waste Land exist?

ELIOT
Don’t ask me. That’s one of the things I don’t know. It’s an unsolved mystery. I sold it to John Quinn. I also gave him a notebook of unpublished poems, because he had been kind to me in various affairs. That’s the last I heard of them. Then he died and they didn’t turn up at the sale.

INTERVIEWER
What sort of thing did Pound cut from The Waste Land? Did he cut whole sections?

ELIOT
Whole sections, yes. There was a long section about a shipwreck. I don’t know what that had to do with anything else, but it was rather inspired by the Ulysses canto in The Inferno, I think. Then there was another section that was an imitation Rape of the Lock. Pound said, “It’s no use trying to do something that somebody else has done as well as it can be done. Do something different.”

INTERVIEWER
Did the excisions change the intellectual structure of the poem?

ELIOT
No. I think it was just as structureless, only in a more futile way, in the longer version.

INTERVIEWER
I have a question about the poem, which is related to its composition. In Thoughts after Lambeth you denied the allegation of critics who said that you expressed “the disillusionment of a generation” in The Waste Land, or you denied that it was your intention. Now F. R. Leavis, I believe, has said that the poem exhibits no progression; yet on the other hand, more recent critics, writing after your later poetry, found The Waste Land Christian. I wonder if this was part of your intention.

ELIOT
No, it wasn’t part of my conscious intention. I think that in Thoughts after Lambeth, I was speaking of intentions more in a negative than in a positive sense, to say what was not my intention. I wonder what an “intention” means! One wants to get something off one’s chest. One doesn’t know quite what it is that one wants to get off the chest until one’s got it off. But I couldn’t apply the word “intention” positively to any of my poems. Or to any poem.

INTERVIEWER
I have another question about you and Pound and your earlier career. I have read somewhere that you and Pound decided to write quatrains, in the late teens, because vers libre had gone far enough.

ELIOT
I think that’s something Pound said. And the suggestion of writing quatrains was his. He put me onto Emaux et Camées.*

INTERVIEWER
I wonder about your ideas about the relation of form to subject. Would you then have chosen the form before you knew quite what you were going to write in it?

ELIOT
Yes, in a way. One studied originals. We studied Gautier’s poems and then we thought, “Have I anything to say in which this form will be useful?” And we experimented. The form gave the impetus to the content.

INTERVIEWER
Why was vers libre the form you chose to use in your early poems?

ELIOT
My early vers libre, of course, was started under the endeavor to practice the same form as Laforgue. This meant merely rhyming lines of irregular length, with the rhymes coming in irregular places. It wasn’t quite so libre as much vers, especially the sort which Ezra called “Amygism.” Then, of course, there were things in the next phase which were freer, like “Rhapsody on a Windy Night.” I don’t know whether I had any sort of model or practice in mind when I did that. It just came that way.

INTERVIEWER
Did you feel, possibly, that you were writing against something, more than from any model? Against the poet laureate perhaps?

ELIOT
No, no, no. I don’t think one was constantly trying to reject things, but just trying to find out what was right for oneself. One really ignored poet laureates as such, the Robert Bridges. I don’t think good poetry can be produced in a kind of political attempt to overthrow some existing form. I think it just supersedes. People find a way in which they can say something. “I can’t say it that way, what way can I find that will do?” One didn’t really bother about the existing modes.

INTERVIEWER
I think it was after “Prufrock” and before “Gerontion” that you wrote the poems in French which appear in your Collected Poems. I wonder how you happened to write them. Have you written any since?

ELIOT
No, and I never shall. That was a very curious thing which I can’t altogether explain. At that period I thought I’d dried up completely. I hadn’t written anything for some time and was rather desperate. I started writing a few things in French and found I could, at that period. I think it was that when I was writing in French I didn’t take the poems so seriously, and that, not taking them seriously, I wasn’t so worried about not being able to write. I did these things as a sort of tour de force to see what I could do. That went on for some months. The best of them have been printed. I must say that Ezra Pound went through them, and Edmond Dulac, a Frenchman we knew in London, helped with them a bit. We left out some, and I suppose they disappeared completely. Then I suddenly began writing in English again and lost all desire to go on with French. I think it was just something that helped me get started again.

INTERVIEWER
Did you think at all about becoming a French symbolist poet like the two Americans of the last century?

ELIOT
Stuart Merrill and Viélé-Griffin. I only did that during the romantic year I spent in Paris after Harvard. I had at that time the idea of giving up English and trying to settle down and scrape along in Paris and gradually write French. But it would have been a foolish idea even if I’d been much more bilingual than I ever was, because, for one thing, I don’t think that one can be a bilingual poet. I don’t know of any case in which a man wrote great or even fine poems equally well in two languages. I think one language must be the one you express yourself in, in poetry, and you’ve got to give up the other for that purpose. And I think that the English language really has more resources in some respects than the French. I think, in other words, I’ve probably done better in English than I ever would have in French even if I’d become as proficient in French as the poets you mentioned.

INTERVIEWER
Can I ask you if you have any plans for poems now?

ELIOT
No, I haven’t any plans for anything at the moment, except that I think I would like, having just got rid of The Elder Statesman (I only passed the final proofs just before we left London), to do a little prose writing of a critical sort. I never think more than one step ahead. Do I want to do another play or do I want to do more poems? I don’t know until I find I want to do it.

INTERVIEWER
Do you have any unfinished poems that you look at occasionally?

ELIOT
I haven’t much in that way, no. As a rule, with me an unfinished thing is a thing that might as well be rubbed out. It’s better, if there’s something good in it that I might make use of elsewhere, to leave it at the back of my mind than on paper in a drawer. If I leave it in a drawer it remains the same thing but if it’s in the memory it becomes transformed into something else. As I have said before, Burnt Norton began with bits that had to be cut out of Murder in the Cathedral. I learned in Murder in the Cathedral that it’s no use putting in nice lines that you think are good poetry if they don’t get the action on at all. That was when Martin Browne was useful. He would say, “There are very nice lines here, but they’ve nothing to do with what’s going on on stage.”

INTERVIEWER
Are any of your minor poems actually sections cut out of longer works? There are two that sound like “The Hollow Men.”

ELIOT
Oh, those were the preliminary sketches. Those things were earlier. Others I published in periodicals but not in my collected poems. You don’t want to say the same thing twice in one book.

INTERVIEWER
You seem often to have written poems in sections. Did they begin as separate poems? I am thinking of “Ash Wednesday,” in particular.

ELIOT
Yes, like “The Hollow Men,” it originated out of separate poems. As I recall, one or two early drafts of parts of “Ash Wednesday” appeared in Commerce and elsewhere. Then gradually I came to see it as a sequence. That’s one way in which my mind does seem to have worked throughout the years poetically—doing things separately and then seeing the possibility of fusing them together, altering them, and making a kind of whole of them.

INTERVIEWER
Do you write anything now in the vein of Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats or King Bolo?

ELIOT
Those things do come from time to time! I keep a few notes of such verse, and there are one or two incomplete cats that probably will never be written. There’s one about a glamour cat. It turned out too sad. This would never do. I can’t make my children weep over a cat who’s gone wrong. She had a very questionable career, did this cat. It wouldn’t do for the audience of my previous volume of cats. I’ve never done any dogs. Of course dogs don’t seem to lend themselves to verse quite so well, collectively, as cats. I may eventually do an enlarged edition of my cats. That’s more likely than another volume. I did add one poem, which was originally done as an advertisement for Faber and Faber. It seemed to be fairly successful. Oh, yes, one wants to keep one’s hand in, you know, in every type of poem, serious and frivolous and proper and improper. One doesn’t want to lose one’s skill.

INTERVIEWER
There’s a good deal of interest now in the process of writing. I wonder if you could talk more about your actual habits in writing verse. I’ve heard you composed on the typewriter.

ELIOT
Partly on the typewriter. A great deal of my new play, The Elder Statesman, was produced in pencil and paper, very roughly. Then I typed it myself first before my wife got to work on it. In typing myself I make alterations, very considerable ones. But whether I write or type, composition of any length, a play for example, means for me regular hours, say ten to one. I found that three hours a day is about all I can do of actual composing. I could do polishing perhaps later. I sometimes found at first that I wanted to go on longer, but when I looked at the stuff the next day, what I’d done after the three hours were up was never satisfactory. It’s much better to stop and think about something else quite different.

INTERVIEWER
Did you ever write any of your nondramatic poems on schedule? Perhaps the Four Quartets?

ELIOT
Only “occasional” verse. The Quartets were not on schedule. Of course the first one was written in ’35, but the three which were written during the war were more in fits and starts. In 1939 if there hadn’t been a war I would probably have tried to write another play. And I think it’s a very good thing I didn’t have the opportunity. From my personal point of view, the one good thing the war did was to prevent me from writing another play too soon. I saw some of the things that were wrong with Family Reunion, but I think it was much better that any possible play was blocked for five years or so to get up a head of steam. The form of the Quartets fitted in very nicely to the conditions under which I was writing, or could write at all. I could write them in sections and I didn’t have to have quite the same continuity; it didn’t matter if a day or two elapsed when I did not write, as they frequently did, while I did war jobs.

INTERVIEWER
We have been mentioning your plays without talking about them. In Poetry and Drama you talked about your first plays. I wonder if you could tell us something about your intentions in The Elder Statesman.

ELIOT
I said something, I think, in Poetry and Drama about my ideal aims, which I never expect fully to realize. I started, really, from The Family Reunion, because Murder in the Cathedral is a period piece and something out of the ordinary. It is written in rather a special language, as you do when you’re dealing with another period. It didn’t solve any of the problems I was interested in. Later I thought that in The Family Reunion I was giving so much attention to the versification that I neglected the structure of the play. I think The Family Reunion is still the best of my plays in the way of poetry, although it’s not very well constructed. In The Cocktail Party and again in The Confidential Clerk, I went further in the way of structure. The Cocktail Party wasn’t altogether satisfactory in that respect. It sometimes happens, disconcertingly, at any rate with a practitioner like myself, that it isn’t always the things constructed most according to plan that are the most successful. People criticized the third act of The Cocktail Party as being rather an epilogue, so in The Confidential Clerk I wanted things to turn up in the third act which were fresh events. Of course, The Confidential Clerk was so well constructed in some ways that people thought it was just meant to be farce. I wanted to get to learn the technique of the theater so well that I could then forget about it. I always feel it’s not wise to violate rules until you know how to observe them. I hope that The Elder Statesman goes further in getting more poetry in, at any rate, than The Confidential Clerk did. I don’t feel that I’ve got to the point I aim at and I don’t think I ever will, but I would like to feel I was getting a little nearer to it each time.

Murder in the Cathedral
London- December 2003

INTERVIEWER
Do you have a Greek model behind The Elder Statesman?

ELIOT
The play in the background is the Oedipus at Colonus. But I wouldn’t like to refer to my Greek originals as models. I have always regarded them more as points of departure. That was one of the weaknesses of The Family Reunion; it was rather too close to the Eumenides. I tried to follow my original too literally and in that way led to confusion by mixing pre-Christian and post-Christian attitudes about matters of conscience and sin and guilt. So in the subsequent three I have tried to take the Greek myth as a sort of springboard, you see. After all, what one gets essential and permanent, I think, in the old plays, is a situation. You can take the situation, rethink it in modern terms, develop your own characters from it, and let another plot develop out of that. Actually you get further and further away from the original. The Cocktail Party had to do with Alcestis simply because the question arose in my mind, what would the life of Admetus and Alcestis be, after she’d come back from the dead; I mean if there’d been a break like that, it couldn’t go on just as before. Those two people were the center of the thing when I started and the other characters only developed out of it. The character of Celia, who came to be really the most important character in the play, was originally an appendage to a domestic situation.

INTERVIEWER
Do you still hold to the theory of levels in poetic drama (plot, character, diction, rhythm, meaning) which you put forward in 1932?

ELIOT
I am no longer very much interested in my own theories about poetic drama, especially those put forward before 1934. I have thought less about theories since I have given more time to writing for the theater.

INTERVIEWER
How does the writing of a play differ from the writing of poems?

ELIOT
I feel that they take quite different approaches. There is all the difference in the world between writing a play for an audience and writing a poem, in which you’re writing primarily for yourself— although obviously you wouldn’t be satisfied if the poem didn’t mean something to other people afterward. With a poem you can say, “I got my feeling into words for myself. I now have the equivalent in words for that much of what I have felt.” Also in a poem you’re writing for your own voice, which is very important. You’re thinking in terms of your own voice, whereas in a play from the beginning you have to realize that you’re preparing something which is going into the hands of other people, unknown at the time you’re writing it. Of course I won’t say there aren’t moments in a play when the two approaches may not converge, when I think ideally they should. Very often in Shakespeare they do, when he is writing a poem and thinking in terms of the theater and the actors and the audience all at once. And the two things are one. That’s wonderful when you can get that. With me it only happens at odd moments.

INTERVIEWER
Have you tried at all to control the speaking of your verse by the actors? To make it seem more like verse?

ELIOT
I leave that primarily to the producer. The important thing is to have a producer who has the feeling of verse and who can guide them in just how emphatic to make the verse, just how far to depart from prose or how far to approach it. I only guide the actors if they ask me questions directly. Otherwise I think that they should get their advice through the producer. The important thing is to arrive at an agreement with him first, and then leave it to him.

INTERVIEWER
Do you feel that there’s been a general tendency in your work, even in your poems, to move from a narrower to a larger audience?

ELIOT
I think that there are two elements in this. One is that I think that writing plays—that is, Murder in the Cathedral and The Family Reunion—made a difference to the writing of the Four Quartets. I think that it led to a greater simplification of language and to speaking in a way which is more like conversing with your reader. I see the later Quartets as being much simpler and easier to understand than The Waste Land and “Ash Wednesday.” Sometimes the thing I’m trying to say, the subject matter, may be difficult, but it seems to me that I’m saying it in a simpler way. The other element that enters into it, I think, is just experience and maturity. I think that in the early poems it was a question of not being able to—of having more to say than one knew how to say, and having something one wanted to put into words and rhythm which one didn’t have the command of words and rhythm to put in a way immediately apprehensible. That type of obscurity comes when the poet is still at the stage of learning how to use language. You have to say the thing the difficult way. The only alternative is not saying it at all, at that stage. By the time of the Four Quartets, I couldn’t have written in the style of The Waste Land. In The Waste Land, I wasn’t even bothering whether I understood what I was saying. These things, however, become easier to people with time. You get used to having The Waste Land, or Ulysses, about.

INTERVIEWER
Do you feel that the Four Quartets are your best work?

ELIOT
Yes, and I’d like to feel that they get better as they go on. The second is better than the first, the third is better than the second, and the fourth is the best of all. At any rate, that’s the way I flatter myself.

INTERVIEWER
This is a very general question, but I wonder if you could give advice to a young poet about what disciplines or attitudes he might cultivate to improve his art.

ELIOT
I think it’s awfully dangerous to give general advice. I think the best one can do for a young poet is to criticize in detail a particular poem of his. Argue it with him if necessary; give him your opinion, and if there are any generalizations to be made, let him do them himself. I’ve found that different people have different ways of working and things come to them in different ways. You’re never sure when you’re uttering a statement that’s generally valid for all poets or when it’s something that only applies to yourself. I think nothing is worse than to try to form people in your own image.

INTERVIEWER
Do you think there’s any possible generalization to be made about the fact that all the better poets now, younger than you, seem to be teachers?

ELIOT
I don’t know. I think the only generalization that can be made of any value will be one which will be made a generation later. All you can say at this point is that at different times there are different possibilities of making a living, or different limitations on making a living. Obviously a poet has got to find a way of making a living apart from his poetry. After all, artists do a great deal of teaching, and musicians too.

INTERVIEWER
Do you think that the optimal career for a poet would involve no work at all but writing and reading?

ELIOT
No, I think that would be . . . —but there again one can only talk about oneself. It is very dangerous to give an optimal career for everybody, but I feel quite sure that if I’d started by having independent means, if I hadn’t had to bother about earning a living and could have given all my time to poetry, it would have had a deadening influence on me.

INTERVIEWER
Why?

ELIOT
I think that for me it’s been very useful to exercise other activities, such as working in a bank, or publishing even. And I think also that the difficulty of not having as much time as I would like has given me a greater pressure of concentration. I mean it has prevented me from writing too much. The danger, as a rule, of having nothing else to do is that one might write too much rather than concentrating and perfecting smaller amounts. That would be my danger.

INTERVIEWER
Do you consciously attempt, now, to keep up with the poetry that is being written by young men in England and America?

ELIOT
I don’t now, not with any conscientiousness. I did at one time when I was reading little reviews and looking out for new talent as a publisher. But as one gets older, one is not quite confident in one’s own ability to distinguish new genius among younger men. You’re always afraid that you are going as you have seen your elders go. At Faber and Faber now I have a younger colleague who reads poetry manuscripts. But even before that, when I came across new stuff that I thought had real merit, I would show it to younger friends whose critical judgment I trusted and get their opinion. But of course there is always the danger that there is merit where you don’t see it. So I’d rather have younger people to look at things first. If they like it, they will show it to me, and see whether I like it too. When you get something that knocks over younger people of taste and judgment and older people as well, then that’s likely to be something important. Sometimes there’s a lot of resistance. I shouldn’t like to feel that I was resisting, as my work was resisted when it was new, by people who thought that it was imposture of some kind or other.

INTERVIEWER
Do you feel that younger poets in general have repudiated the experimentalism of the early poetry of this century? Few poets now seem to be resisted the way you were resisted, but some older critics like Herbert Read believe that poetry after you has been a regression to outdated modes. When you talked about Milton the second time, you spoke of the function of poetry as a retarder of change, as well as a maker of change, in language.

ELIOT
Yes, I don’t think you want a revolution every ten years.

INTERVIEWER
But is it possible to think that there has been a counterrevolution rather than an exploration of new possibilities?

ELIOT
No, I don’t see anything that looks to me like a counterrevolution. After a period of getting away from the traditional forms, comes a period of curiosity in making new experiments with traditional forms. This can produce very good work if what has happened in between has made a difference: when it’s not merely going back, but taking up an old form, which has been out of use for a time, and making something new with it. That is not counterrevolution. Nor does mere regression deserve the name. There is a tendency in some quarters to revert to Georgian scenery and sentiments; and among the public there are always people who prefer mediocrity, and when they get it, say, “What a relief! Here’s some real poetry again.” And there are also people who like poetry to be modern but for whom the really creative stuff is too strong— they need something diluted. What seems to me the best of what I’ve seen in young poets is not reaction at all. I’m not going to mention any names, for I don’t like to make public judgments about younger poets. The best stuff is a further development of a less revolutionary character than what appeared in earlier years of the century.

INTERVIEWER
I have some unrelated questions that I’d like to end with. In 1945 you wrote, “A poet must take as his material his own language as it is actually spoken around him.” And later you wrote, “The music of poetry, then, will be a music latent in the common speech of his time.” After the second remark, you disparaged “standardized BBC English.” Now isn’t one of the changes of the last fifty years, and perhaps even more of the last five years, the growing dominance of commercial speech through the means of communication? What you referred to as “BBC English” has become immensely more powerful through the ITA and BBC tele vision, not to speak of CBS, NBC, and ABC. Does this development make the problem of the poet and his relationship to common speech more difficult?

ELIOT
You’ve raised a very good point there. I think you’re right, it does make it more difficult.

INTERVIEWER
I wanted you to make the point.

ELIOT
Yes, but you wanted the point to be made. So I’ll take the responsibility of making it: I do think that where you have these modern means of communication and means of imposing the speech and idioms of a small number on the mass of people at large, it does complicate the problem very much. I don’t know to what extent that goes for film speech, but obviously radio speech has done much more.

INTERVIEWER
I wonder if there’s a possibility that what you mean by common speech will disappear.

ELIOT
That is a very gloomy prospect. But very likely indeed.

INTERVIEWER
Are there other problems for a writer in our time which are unique? Does the prospect of human annihilation have any particular effect on the poet?

ELIOT
I don’t see why the prospect of human annihilation should affect the poet differently from men of other vocations. It will affect him as a human being, no doubt in proportion to his sensitiveness.

INTERVIEWER
Another unrelated question: I can see why a man’s criticism is better for his being a practicing poet, better, although subject to his own prejudices. But do you feel that writing criticism has helped you as a poet?

ELIOT
In an indirect way it has helped me somehow as a poet—to put down in writing my critical valuation of the poets who have influenced me and whom I admire. It is merely making an influence more conscious and more articulate. It’s been a rather natural impulse. I think probably my best critical essays are essays on the poets who had influenced me, so to speak, long before I thought of writing essays about them. They’re of more value, probably, than any of my more generalized remarks.

INTERVIEWER
G. S. Fraser wonders, in an essay about the two of you, whether you ever met Yeats. From remarks in your talk about him, it would seem that you did. Could you tell us the circumstances?

ELIOT
Of course I had met Yeats many times. Yeats was always very gracious when one met him and had the art of treating younger writers as if they were his equals and contemporaries. I can’t remember any one particular occasion.

INTERVIEWER
I have heard that you consider that your poetry belongs in the tradition of American literature. Could you tell us why?

ELIOT
I’d say that my poetry has obviously more in common with my distinguished contemporaries in America than with anything written in my generation in England. That I’m sure of.

INTERVIEWER
Do you think there’s a connection with the American past?

ELIOT
Yes, but I couldn’t put it any more definitely than that, you see. It wouldn’t be what it is, and I imagine it wouldn’t be so good; putting it as modestly as I can, it wouldn’t be what it is if I’d been born in England, and it wouldn’t be what it is if I’d stayed in America. It’s a combination of things. But in its sources, in its emotional springs, it comes from America.

INTERVIEWER
One last thing. Seventeen years ago you said, “No honest poet can ever feel quite sure of the permanent value of what he has written. He may have wasted his time and messed up his life for nothing.” Do you feel the same now, at seventy?

ELIOT
There may be honest poets who do feel sure. I don’t.

§
The Pris Review;The Art of Poetry No. 1. T. S. Eliot. Issue 21, Spring-Summer 1959
© 2004 The Paris Review Foundation, Inc.

**Angel** · 01-05-2010, 09:00 PM

The Persian translation of Donald Hall's interview with T.S. Eliot

گفتگو با شاعر و منتقد ادبي، تي اس اليوت
هنر شاعري

مترجم: محمد جعفري

اين مصاحبه در آپارتمان خانم لوييس هنري كان، يكي از دوستان خانوادگي آقا و خانم اليوت در خانه كتاب انجام شد. در اتاق نشيمن قفسه هاي كتابي به چشم مي خورد كه پر است از كلكسيون آثار نويسندگان مدرن. روي ديوار كنار در ورودي يك تابلوي نقاشي از چهره آقاي اليوت ديده مي شود كه توسط خواهر زنش، خانم «هنري وار اليوت» ترسيم شده است. آن طرف روي ميز عكس مراسم ازدواج خانم و آقاي اليوت در يك قاب نقره اي را مي بينيد كه به عنوان يادگاري زير آن امضا شده خانم كان و اليوت در ضلع جنوبي اتاق نشسته اند و آقاي اليوت روبروي مصاحبه گر در سمت ديگر مشغول صحبت هستند.
تي.اس اليوت خيلي سرحال به نظر مي رسيد. او در راه بازگشت از تعطيلات چند هفته اي خويش به آمريكا آمده بود تا از آنجا نيز ديدن كند. آقاي اليوت كه حالا زير آفتاب خوب برنزه شده، نسبت به آخرين ديدارمان در سه سال پيش كمي وزن هم اضافه كرده بود اما با اين وجود روي هم رفته جوان تر و بشاش تر به نظر مي رسيد. در خلال مصاحبه مرتبا به همسر خود در آن سوي اتاق نگاه مي كرد، گويي جواب سؤال ها را با او در ميان مي گذاشت.
مصاحبه گر قبلا در لندن با او صحبت كرده بود. از آنجايي كه شما اين مصاحبه را به صورت مكتوب دريافت مي كنيد حركات كنايه آميز آقاي اليوت را نمي بينيد كه در واقع گاهي مصاحبه را به كمدي و خنده مي كشاند. بعضي وقت ها آنقدر مي خنديدند كه مجبور مي شديم نوار درحال ضبط را متوقف كنيم. اين اتفاق اغلب هنگامي روي مي داد كه سخن از نقاد و شاعر بزرگ «ازراپاوند» به ميان مي آمد كه كار او را مورد انتقاد شديد قرار داده بود و يا هنگامي كه سؤالي در رابطه با مجموعه اشعار چاپ نشده وي با نام «كينگ بولو» پرسيده مي شد.

* اجازه بدهيد شروع كارمان را با شروع كار شما شروع كنيم. آيا شرايطي را كه تحت آن در «سينت لوييس» هنگامي كه يك پسر بچه بوديد و كليد شاعري را زديد به خاطر مي آوريد؟
***تي اس اليوت: سن چهارده سالگي خودم را به خاطر مي آورم كه چند شعر با الهام از سبك رباعي عمر خيام كه توسط ادوارد فيتس جرالد ترجمه شده بود نوشتم كه تمام آنها نااميدكننده، تيره و تار و مبني بر انكار وجود خدا بودند. خوشبختانه اين كار را كنار گذاشتم، كاملا، به طوري كه حالا هيچ اثري از آنها نيست. هيچ وقت آنها را به كسي نشان ندادم. اولين شعري كه در معرض نمايش قرار دادم تقليدي از كار «بن جانسون» شاعر بريتانيايي بود كه به عنوان تكليف براي معلم انگليسي خود نوشته بودم كه فكر مي كنم بسيار موفق بود زيرا در مجله هاروارد به چاپ رسيد. به نظر معلم اين كار براي يك پسر پانزده شانزده ساله خيلي خوب بود. سپس براي كسب منصب سردبيري مرتباً براي اين مجله شعر مي نوشتم. در سال سوم و آخر دانشگاه ترقي خوبي داشتم و تحت تأثير «چارلز بادلير» و «جولز لافورگ» پربارتر و فعال تر به كار خود ادامه دادم.

* آيا شخص خاصي شما را با شاعران فرانسوي آشنا كرد؟ فكر نمي كنم كار «ايروينگ ببيت» باشد.
***نه، ببيت آخرين نفر بود! تنها شعري كه ببيت هميشه از آن به نيكي ياد مي كرد و آن را تحسين مي كرد«Gray’s Elegy« بود. البته شعر خوبي هست اما فكر مي كنم محدوديت هاي خاصي را نشان مي دهد كه در دنياي ببيت وجود داشت، خدا او را بيامرزد. همانطور كه قبلاً نيز به آن اشاره كرده ام، در دانشگاه هاروارد بنده با كتابي برخورد كردم از «آرتور سايمونز» كه در رابطه با اشعار فرانسوي مي باشد و اين كتاب سرچشمه كارهاي من بوده است. در آن دوران در دانشگاه هاروارد اتحاديه اي وجود داشت كه دانشجويان ليسانس به دلخواه در آن شركت مي كردند. كتابخانه كوچك اما جالبي هم در آنجا بود.كتاب مذكور را در اين كتابخانه پيدا كردم و عبارت هاي موجود در آن چنان تأثيري روي من گذاشت كه از آنجا به كتابخانه ديگري در بوستون رفتم، پر از كتب خارجي و مختص شاعران فرانسوي و آلماني. در آنجا بود كه با «لافورگ»Laforgue و ديگر شاعران آشنا شدم. نمي توانم بفهمم كه چرا چنين كتابخانه اي بايد تنها تعداد كمي كتاب از شاعراني همچون «لافورگ» داشته باشد و خدا مي داند كه چند مدت آنها آنجا خاك خورده اند و كسي به سراغشان نيامده.

* هنگامي كه دانشجوي دوره ليسانس بوديد، آيا حضور شاعر ديگري را از خود پررنگ تر مي ديديد؟ امروزه مي بينيم كه چندين شاعر در يك كشور باشهرت يكسان در حال شاعري مشغول به كار هستند...
***به عقيده من نبود شاعر زنده اي كه بتواند توجه مردم را در آمريكا و انگلستان به خود جلب كند نوعي مزيت بود. نمي توانم تصور كنم كه در آن صورت اوضاع چه شكلي مي شد اما فكر كنم حضور يك شاعر پررنگ تر از ديدگاه اجتماعي براي هر شاعري مشكل ساز است. به عنوان مثال در زمينه تمركز خوشبختانه ما از حضور يكديگر رنج نمي برديم.

* آيا اصلاً از وجود افرادي همچون هاردي و رابينسون مطلع بوديد؟
***در رابطه با رابينسون بايد بگويم بله، اما خيلي اندك آن هم چون يك بار در مجله «آتلانتيك مانتلي» تكه هايي از شعر او را ديده بودم كه البته اصلاً باب طبعم نبود. در آن زمان به زحمت مي توانستيم روي هاردي اسم شاعر بگذاريم. شايد رمان هايش را كسي مي خواند اما اشعارش براي نسل بعد بود.خيلي صريح بگويم كه در آن دوران، شاعري به جز شاعران قرن نوزدهم وجود نداشت كه در واقع همه آنها يا به دليل مشروبات الكلي ياخودكشي زير خاك بودند.

* هنگامي كمك ويراستار مجله «آدووكيت» بوديد آيا براي كمك در امور اشعارتان با «كنراد آيكن» همكاري مي كرديد؟
***ما با هم دوست بوديم اما فكر نمي كنم كه روي هم هيچ تأثيري گذاشته باشيم. به عنوان مثال هنگامي كه حرف از نويسندگان خارجي به ميان مي آمد او از نويسندگان ايتاليايي و اسپانيايي جانبداري مي كرد اما من طرفدار كامل نويسندگان فرانسوي بودم.

* در ميان دوستانتان آيا شخصي وجود داشت كه اشعارتان را بخواند و كمكتان كند؟
*** خوب، بله. آقايي به نام توماس كه دوست برادرم بود. او در كمبريج زندگي مي كرد و چندين بار اشعار مرا در «ادووكيت» ديده بود. نامه اي پرشور برايم نوشت كه مرا بسيار منقلب كرد و اي كاش هنوز نامه اش را داشتم.

* شنيده ام كه «كنراد آيكن» شما رابه «ازرا پاوند» معرفي كرده است.
*** بله همينطور است. آيكن دوست بسيار كارآمدي بود. هنگامي كه در لندن بود، به همراه «هارولد مانرو» و ديگران تلاش بسياري براي معرفي اشعار من به مردم آنجا كرد. اما هيچ كس حاضر به نشر آنها نشد. سپس در سال تابستان 1914 هنگامي كه باهم در لندن بوديم به من گفت: برو و اشعار خود را به «پاوند» نشان بده شايد خوشش بيايد. با اينكه اشعار خود آيكن با من متفاوت بود، اما آنها را دوست داشت.

* آيا حال و هواي اولين ملاقات خود را با «پاوند» به خاطر داريد؟
*** در واقع ابتدا با او تماس گرفتم و هنگامي كه براي اولين بار در اتاق نشيمن مثلثي وي در كنزينگتون با هم ملاقات كرديم، فكر مي كنم تأثير خوبي روي او گذاشتم. او گفت: اشعارت را برايم بفرست تا ببينم. در پاسخ ارسال آنها برايم چنين نوشت: اشعارت بهتر از تمام آنهايي است كه تاكنون ديده ام. بيا اينجا تا درباره آنها باهم صحبت كنيم. سپس با وجود مشكلات آنها را براي «هريت مانرو» فرستاد كه البته كمي زمان برد.

* زماني كه در مجله «ادووكيت» مشغول بوديد، براي كتابي كه به مناسبت شصتمين سالگرد تولدتان بود شما نامه اي به آيكن فرستاديد كه در آن اشعار «ازرا پاوند» را «از نظر احساسي ضعيف» ياد كرده ايد. خيلي كنجكاوم بدانم چطور و چه موقع نظرتان عوض شد.
*** هاها! كمي گستاخانه بود، اينطور نيست؟ براي اولين بار «فرناندز» ويراستار مجله اشعار «پاوند» را به من نشان داد. فرناندز يكي از دوستان من و آيكن بود و همچنين يكي از مهره هاي شاعري آن زمان. سه تا از اشعار او را برايم آورد و گفت: اينها به درد تو مي خورد، بايد خوشت بيايد. اما راستش بخواهيد آنها را دوست نداشتم. اشعار او به نظرم خيالي، كهنه و قديمي، رمانتيك، و به گونه اي شبيه نمايشنامه هاي پليسي و اسرارآميز بود. تأثير آنچناني روي من نگذاشت. هنگامي كه براي ديدن پاوند رفتم، يكي از طرفداران وي نبودم هرچند حالا كه به كارهايش نگاه مي كنم آنها را كامل تر و آثار بعديش را استادانه تر مي بينم.

* در جايي اشاره كرده بوديد كه «پاوند» شعر «سرزمين بي حاصل» (The Waste Land) را بريده است و چيزي كه ما مي بينيم صورت كامل آن نيست. آيا به نظرتان انتقادها و اين گونه برش هاي وي در اشعارتان مفيد بودند؟ آيا پاوند اشعار ديگري را نيز بريده است؟
*** بله. در آن زمان بله. او نقاد بسياركارداني بود چراكه هيچ وقت تلاش نمي كرد كار شما را شبيه كار خودش بكند بلكه تلاش مي كرد ببيند شما سعي در انجام چه كاري داريد و هدف شما را دنبال مي كرد.

* تاكنون تلاش كرده ايد كه هيچ يك از اشعار دوستانتان را بازنويسي كنيد؟ مثلاً اشعار «ازرا پاوند» را؟
*** هيچ نمونه اي را به ياد نمي آورم. البته اظهار عقيده هاي بسياري را در رابطه با دست نوشته هاي شاعران جوان در طي 25سال اخير كرده ام.

* آيا نمونه خطي سرزمين بي حاصل، نمونه كامل و بريده نشده آن، موجود است؟
*** نپرسيد، چرا كه اين سؤال از جمله سؤالاتي است كه جواب آن را نمي دانم، مانند يك راز سرپوشيده است. آن را به «جان كويين» فروختم. من همچنين يك دفترچه از اشعار زير چاپ نرفته ام را به او دادم زيرا در امور بسياري با من مهربان بود. سپس او مرد و من ديگر اثري از آنها نديدم و به فروش نيز نرسيدند.

* «ازرا پاوند» چه چيزي را از شعر «سرزمين بي حاصل» حذف كرد. آيا مي توان گفت كه بخش اعظم و يا تمام آن را حذف كرد؟
***بله، تمام آن را حذف كرد. يك بخش طولاني در آن شعر بود كه در مورد بازمانده هاي يك كشتي غرق شده بود. نمي دانم آن بخش چه كاري به بخش هاي ديگر داشت اما الهام گرفته از اوليس، قهرمان حماسه اوديسه، در بند شعر دوزخ (The Inferno)بود. قسمت ديگري از شعر نيز حذف شد كه تقليدي از Rape of the Lock بود. پاوند گفت: تلاش براي خلق چيزي كه ديگران خلق كرده اند به درد نمي خورد حتي اگر به نحو احسنت انجام شود. كار متفاوتي خلق كن.

* آيا حذف بخش مذكور در نظام فكري شعرتان تغييري ايجاد كرد؟
*** نه. فكر مي كنم شعر باندازه كافي بي ساختار بود و در صورت طولاني تر بودن، بيهوده تر به نظر مي رسيد.

* سؤالي در رابطه با محتواي يكي از اشعار شما دارم. در «انديشه هاي پس از لمبث» Thoughts after Lambeth، شما به تكذيب اظهارات منتقدان در رابطه با شعر سرزمين بي حاصل پرداخته ايد. آنها گفته بودند كه شما در اين شعر سرخوردگي يك نسل را بيان كرده ايد. شما همچنين تكذيب كرده بوديد كه هدف شما همين بوده است. «اف آر ليويس» در انتقاد كار شما گفته است كه هيچ پيشرفتي در آن ديده نمي شود و از آن طرف منتقدان معاصرتر كه به مطالعه اشعار اخير شما پرداخته اند مي گويند كه «سرزمين بي حاصل» مسيحي است. خيلي كنجكاوم كه بدانم آيا هدف شما همين بوده است.
*** نه چنين نيست، و يا حداقل هدفي از روي آگاهي نبوده است. نظر خود من اين است كه در «انديشه هاي پس از لمبث» نگاه من به جنبه منفي هدف بوده تا به جنبه مثبت آن، تا از اين طريق بگويم كه هدف من چه چيزي نيست. من خودم در شگفتم كه مفهوم هدف چيست و به چه معني است! شخصي مي خواهد يك چيز را از سينه اش بيرون كند، شخص ديگر به طور كامل نمي داند كه آن چيز چيست تا اينكه شخص ديگري آن را از سينه اش بيرون مي كند. اما به طور كلي من نمي توانم كلمه هدف را براي هيچ كدام از اشعارم بكار ببرم و يا براي هيچ شعر ديگري.

* نظر شما درباره رابطه بين قالب و موضوع چيست؟ آيا قالب را قبل از موضوع انتخاب مي كنيد؟
*** يك جورايي بله. مثلا اشعار گاتير را مي خواندم و سپس با خودم مي گفتم: آيا چيزي براي گفتن داري كه در اين قالب بشود آن را استفاده كرد. و سپس آن را امتحان مي كردم. قالب به محتوا نيرو و قدرت مي بخشد.

* چرا در اشعار اوليه خود از قالب شعر آزاد استفاده كرديد؟
*** در واقع شروع كار با قالب شعر آزاد جهد و كوششي بود براي اجراي سبك «لافورد». اين سبك يعني سرودن شعري كه در آن به زحمت بتوان ابياتي با قافيه و طول يكسان پيدا كرد. آنقدرها هم آزاد نبود، خصوصاً سبكي كه «ازرا» آن را Amygism مي ناميد. البته بودند ابياتي كه در فاز بعدي شعر از نظر قالب آزادتر به نظر مي رسيدند مانند اشعار حماسي در شب طوفاني Rhapsody on a windy night. بايد بگويم كه هنگام سرودن آن دقيقاً نمي دانم كه آيا هيچ مدلي و قالبي در ذهن داشتم يا خير، فقط مي دانم كه شعر به خودي خود بر قلمم جاري مي شد.

* آيا فكر مي كرديد كه در حال نوشتن عليه چيزي بيش از قالب بوديد؟ مثلا عليه شاعر برجسته؟
*** نه، نه، نه. من اعتقاد ندارم كه مردم تمام تلاش و اهتمام خود را براي تكذيب و يا رد چيزي بگذارند، بلكه آنها سعي مي كنند تا چيزي را كشف كنند برايشان درست است. يكي مي بينيد شاعر برجسته اي مانند رابرت بريج را رد مي كند. فكر نمي كنم كه خوب شعر گفتن چيزي باشد كه از طريق سياست و براندازي سبك موجود به دست بيايد. به نظر من سبك ها فقط جابجا مي شوند. مردم راهي را پيدا مي كنند كه از طريق آن حرفهايشان را بزنند. من مي خواهم حرفي را بزنم كه در اين قالب نمي توانم آن را به خوبي بيان كنم، پس قالبي را انتخاب مي كنم كه در چارچوب آن حرفم را به راحتي بزنم، برايم مهم نيست كه چه بلايي بر سر قالب شعري سابق مي آيد.

* فكر كنم بعد از »پروفراك» Prufrockو قبل از «پيرمردك» Gerontion بود كه شما شروع به نوشتن اشعاري به فرانسوي كرديد كه در مجموعه اشعارتان به چاپ رسيد. اگر امكان دارد مي خواهم بدانم كه چطور دست به اين كار زديد و آيا ادامه داديد؟
***نه، و هيچ وقت هم اين كار را نخواهم كرد. مطلب كمي پيچيده است كه نمي توانم تمام آن را توضيح بدهم. در آن زمان فكر مي كنم به طور كل جوهر ذوقم خشك شده بود. مدتي بود كه چيزي نمي توانستم بنويسم و به كلي نااميد شده بودم. شروع به نوشتن اشعاري به زبان فرانسه كردم، و ديدم كه مي توانم. راستش را بخواهيد دليل آن توانايي اين بود كه زياد جدي نمي گرفتم و نگران اين نبودم كه شايد نتوانم، فقط هر چيزي كه به ذهنم خطور مي كرد را روي كاغذ مي آوردم. چندين ماه بدين منوال گذشت. بهترين آنها به چاپ رسيد. بايد بگويم كه «پاوند» آنها را مورد بررسي قرار مي داد و يك مرد فرانسوي بنام «ادموند دولاس» كه در لندن با او آشنا شده بودم نيز كمي به من كمك كرد. كم كم اين كار را به طور كل كنار گذاشتم و رو به اشعار انگليسي آوردم و ديگر ميلي به بازگشت نداشتم. فكر مي كنم آن دوره تنها كمكي بود براي شروعي دوباره.

* شما معمولا اشعار خود را بخش به بخش مي نويسيد. آيا آنها را به صورت شعرهاي جدا مي نويسيد؟ به خصوص شعر «چهارشنبه خاكستر» مدنظر من است.
*** بله مانند «مردان خالي» Hollow men آن شعر نيز نشات گرفته از چندين شعر جدا است. تا آنجايي كه به خاطر دارم يك يا دو بخش از ابتداي شعر «چهارشنبه خاكستر» در شعر تجارت Commerce و يا جاهاي ديگر آمده است.

* آيا مايليد كمي در مورد عادت هاي خود در نوشتن برايمان بگوييد. شنيده ام كه از ماشين تايپ استفاده مي كنيد.
*** بخشي از كارم را بله با ماشين تايپ انجام مي دهم. بخش اعظمي از نمايشنامه «مشاور سياسي» Elder Statesman را با مداد و كاغذ نوشتم. سپس شروع به تايپ آن كردم تا اينكه همسرم ادامه تايپ آن را بعهده گرفت. هنگامي كه خودم تايپ مي كردم جاهايي كه لزوم به جابجايي بود، تغييرات لازم را مي دادم. مداد يا ماشين تايپ برايم اهميت خاصي نداشت، اما هميشه كارم روي نظم بود، از ساعت ده تا يك ظهر. به اين نكته در رابطه با خودم پي برده بودم كه بيش از سه ساعت نمي توانم آن طور كه بايد و شايد شاعري بكنم. گاهي به سرم مي زد و بيش از زمان تعيين شده شعر مي گفتم، اما هنگامي كه روز بعد آن را مي خواندم، بخشي كه در خارج از زمان تعيين شده سروده بودم برايم دلپذير نبود و لذا آن را حذف مي كردم.

* ما نمايشنامه هاي شما را تماشا مي كرديم بدون اينكه در رابطه با آنها چيزي بگوييم. در «شاعري و درام» Poetry and Drama شما از اولين نمايشنامه هاي خود حرف زديد. مي شود خواهش كنم كمي در رابطه با اهداف خود در نمايشنامه «مشاور سياسي» صحبت كنيد.
***من در «شاعري و درام» چيزهايي در رابطه با اهداف ايده آلم گفتم كه انتظار ندارم كاملا قابل فهم باشد. در واقع كار خود را با «گردهمايي خانوادگي» The Family Reunion شروع كردم چرا كه «قتل در كليساي جامع» Murder in the Cathedral كاري كوتاه و محدود به زمان بود و چيزي خارج از روال طبيعي. به زبان خاصي نيز نوشته شده بود. هيچ كدام از مشكلات مدنظر مرا حل نكرد. بعدها متوجه شدم كه در «گردهمايي خانوادگي» بيش از حد معمول به قافيه پردازي پرداخته ام تا حدي كه ساختار و چارچوب اصلي نمايش را فراموش كرده ام. با وجود ساختار ضعيف آن، هنوز هم اعتقاد دارم كه «گردهمايي خانوادگي» بهترين نمايشنامه من از ديدگاه شاعري است.
در آثاري همچون «كوكتل پارتي» Cocktail Party و «كارمند سري» The Confidential Clerk بخش اعظم توجه خود را وقف ساختار كردم. «كوكتل پارتي» زياد به دل من ننشست. گاهي اتفاق مي افتد كه با وجود طبيعت از ساختار درست، كار شما موفق نمي شود. مردم اغلب از اكران سوم «كوكتل پارتي» انتقاد كردند. البته «كارمند سري» آنقدر از لحاظ ساختار و چارچوب عالي بود كه مردم از آن بعنوان كمدي خنده دار ياد كردند.
من مي خواستم تكنيك هاي تئاتر را خوب ياد بگيرم و هميشه بر اين عقيده بودم كه شكستن اصول و قوانين چيزي هنگامي ارزش دارد كه شما بدانيد چگونه از اين قانون شكني بهره ببريد. من اميدوار بودم كه «مشاور سياسي» جنبه شاعرانه بيشتري نسبت به «كارمند سري» بگيرد. هر چند فكر نمي كنم توانسته باشم به هدفم برسم و شايد هم هيچ وقت نرسم اما دوست داشتم كه حس كنم كه هر بار يك قدم به آن نزديك تر مي شوم.

* آيا هنوز به تئوري هاي سال 1932 خود در نمايشنامه شعري (طرح و موضوع اصلي، شخصيت، طرز بيان، ريتم و آهنگ، معنا و مقصود) پايبنديد؟
*** من ديگر علاقه اي به تئوري هاي خودم در زمينه نمايشنامه شعري ندارم، خصوصا آنهايي كه مربوط به قبل از 1934 بودند. توجه من به تئوري ها از وقتي كاسته شد كه وقت بيشتري براي نوشتن در تئاتر گذاشتم.

* نوشتن نمايشنامه چه تفاوتي با شعرنويسي دارد و چگونه؟
*** به عقيده من آنها دو مسير كاملا متفاوت را طي مي كنند. يك دنيا تفاوت وجود دارد بين نوشتن يك نمايشنامه براي تماشاگران و نوشتن شعر كه ابتدا براي دل خودت مي نويسي و سپس مردم. در شعر شما اينطور مي گوييد: من احساساتم را در قالب كلمات مي ريزم. من حالا براي احساساتم معادلي پيدا كرده ام از كلمات. همچنين در شعر شما عقيده و ديدگاه خودتان را مي نويسيد كه بسيار مهم است. در حالي كه در نمايشنامه از ابتداي كار شما در حال تهيه چيزي هستيد كه بايد به دست مردم برسد. البته نمي خواهم بگويم كه در نمايش هيچگاه لحظه اي پيش نمي آيد كه اين دو مسير با هم تلاقي كنند، كه بنظر من بايد هم چنين باشد. در كارهاي شكسپير شما مي بينيد كه اغلب اين دو با هم تركيب مي شوند، هنگامي كه او شعر مي نوشت تئاتر، بازيگران و تماشاگران را با هم مد نظر قرار مي داد. و هر دوي آنها يكي هستند و اگر شما به اين موفقيت برسيد خيلي برايتان جالب خواهد شد.

* نظرتان درباره «چهار كوارتت»هايتان چيست؟ آيا آنها را بهترين آثار خود مي دانيد؟
*** بله و من دوست دارم تصور كنم كه هر چه زمان مي گذرد آنها بهتر مي شوند. دومي بهتر از اولي، سومي بهتر از دومي، چهارمي بهتر از سومي و الي آخر، تا بي نهايت. من اينگونه خودم براي خودم تملق مي كنم.

* لطفا قدري هم با شاعران جوان سخن بگوييد. چه راهكارها و اصولي را آنها بايد پيش بگيرند تا هنر خود را پرورش داده و بارور گردانند؟
*** يك نصيحت را براي همه بكار بردن و يا همان نصيحت كلي كردن به عقيده من بسيار خطرناك است اما در هر صورت بهترين كاري كه يك نفر مي تواند در قبال يك شاعر جوان انجام دهد اين است كه يكي از اشعارش را بصورت جزئي مورد انتقاد قرار دهد. با او بحث بكند. و اگر تغييري لازم است، اجازه بدهد كه خودش اين تغيير را اعمال كند. من فهميده ام كه مردم با سلايق متفاوت آثار متفاوتي را خلق مي كنند و به اذهانشان چيزهاي متفاوتي خطور مي كند. شما هيچگاه نمي توانيد چيزي را بگوييد كه به كار دو شاعر مختلف الفكر بيايد. هيچ چيز بدتر از اين نيست كه تلاش ما براي آن باشد كه مردم را تبديل كنيم به آن چيزي كه تصور مي كنيم.

* از ديدگاه شما شغل يك شاعر چه چيزي بايد باشد، آيا فقط نوشتن و خواندن و يا...؟
***نه، من فكر مي كنم بهترين شغل براي يك شاعر... باز هم رسيديم به همان بحث قبلي، نمي توانم براي تمام شاعران بهترين شغل را تعريف كنم. اجازه بدهيد اينطوري برايتان بگوييم كه اگر من دغدغه پول نداشتم و كلي وقت آزاد داشتم و مي توانستم تمام آن را وقف شاعري كنم، ميمردم، چرا كه اين گونه زندگي برايم كشنده است.

*چرا؟
***براي من فعاليت هاي ديگر خيلي مفيد است، كاركردن در بانك، و حتي كار چاپ. بعلاوه نداشتن وقت كافي فشاري روي من وارد مي كند كه براي تمركز به آن فشار نياز دارم. منظور اين است كه مرا از افراطي نوشتن باز مي دارد. نداشتن كار ديگري بجز شاعري خطر بزرگي است چرا كه در اينصورت شما بيش از حد تمركز خود مي نويسيد كه در نتيجه هيچگاه عالي نمي شود.

*اين سؤال شايد كمي نامربوط باشد. من مي دانم كه نوشتن نقد براي ارتقاي سطح شعر يك شاعر مفيد است. شما خودتان نقد هم نوشته ايد، آيا اين كار تأثيري بر اشعار شما داشته است؟
***بصورت غيرمستقيم بله، براي اينكه ارزيابي هاي مهم خودم را در رابطه با شاعراني كه روي من تأثير داشته اند و مرا تشويق كرده اند را بنويسم. تأثير داشته است اما نه آنگونه كه خودم آن را احساس كرده باشم و يا بتوانم بيان كنم. فكر مي كنم بهترين مقاله هاي نقدي كه نوشته ام درباره شاعراني بوده كه روي من تأثير گذاشته اند. آنها ارزش بيشتري را از نظر من دارند، بيشتر از تمام آثارم.

*جي اس فراستر در مقاله از ملاقات شما با ويليام بالتر ییتس (شاعر نمايشنامه نويس ايرلندي) William Butler Yeats مي نويسد. از صحبت هاي شما هم پيداست كه ايشان را ملاقات كرده ايد. مي شود كمي در اين باره برايمان صحبت كنيد؟
***البته، چندين بار او را ملاقات كرده ايم. ییتس در ملاقات ها بسيار خوش برخورد و مهربان بود و به شاعران جوان نيز تدريس مي كرد. چيز خاص ديگري در خاطرم نيست.

*جايي شنيدم كه شما شاعري خود را متعلق به سنت ادبيات آمريكا مي دانيد. مي توانم بدانم چرا؟
***حرف من اين است كه نقاط مشترك اشعار من با اشعار شاعران معاصر برجسته آمريكايي در مقايسه با اشعار ديگر شاعران هم نسلم در انگلستان بيشتر است. مطمئناً بيشتر است.

*سؤال آخر، هفده سال پيش شما گفتيد: هيچ شاعر صادقي نمي تواند از ارزش دائمي چيزي كه نوشته است مطمئن باشد. شايد تمام زندگيش را در راه هيچ و پوچ به هدر داده و تباه كرده باشد. آيا حالا كه 70سال داريد باز هم چنين عقيده اي داريد؟
***شايد بتوان شاعران صادقي پيدا كرد كه از اين امر مطمئن باشند. من نيستم.

منبع: روزنامه کیهان- چهارشنبه 31 تير 1388- شماره19416

با تشکر از A.m.ir به خاطر معرفی این مطلب مفید.