The poet’s new collection of mainly prose pieces on subjects as diverse as Flaubert, snow and Roget’s Thesaurus is a nonstop triumph
What sort of a mind produces a whole book as though it might be an error, each sentence a fault line? The Canadian poet
Anne Carson
– here chiefly writing prose – explains
Wrong Norma
is thus named because she knows the pieces within the book do not add up. We are not to expect them to be on speaking terms with one another.
I have interviewed Anne Carson
, a classicist frequently tipped as a contender for the Nobel prize, for this newspaper – but interview is not the word for what took place between us by email. I sent her questions, she swatted the majority of them away like troublesome flies. Sphinx would be an understatement. Formidable, ditto. I was relieved to learn, later, that she is well known for resistance to talking about her work.
But reading her new book, I see something more revealing going on: the sense of how difficult it is for anyone to say precisely what they mean. Words, here, are not trusted collaborators. In Snow, she writes: “words can squirt sideways, mute and mad; you think they are tools, or toys, or tame, and all at once they burn all your clothes off and you’re standing there singed and ridiculous in the glare of the lightning.” Questions, in her essays, prove as volatile as answers. Some barely deserve to be questions: “Some questions don’t warrant a question mark,” she writes in an opening essay. But language has a recklessness that is an oppositional force causing constant friction against Carson’s default cautiousness.
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