Homer by Rembrandt Harmensz. van Rijn

This piece was originally published in Rain City Review, republished in the Exquisite Corpse and again in the anthology Thus Spake the Corpse: Part Two.

PART ONE

"Every writer creates his own precursors."
                              - Jorge Luis Borges

I published some poems, did a few public readings, won a contest, and then suddenly was introducing myself as a writer. Of course, there is a point where formal instruction must end, in order for a truly informal education to begin. In my case, it was sometime in the mid1970s; I had taken too many English classes to apply towards graduation, and needed to learn another language. The Dean of Arts Letters was not sympathetic: "You must read the Masters In the original ... 11; but a department counselor knew how to get around the foreign language requirements. "Why not try movie classes in the Romance Language Department? It's all subtitles." Classes of Bunuel, Fellini and Truffaut followed and soon I discovered a series entitled "The Novel in Translation", a largely French speaking bunch studying mostly Sartre and Camus in English. The instructor, Professor Josephs, looked like a miniature Peter Lawford and wore a beret on overcast days. He approached his subject with a reverential awe, early on I called him out on the existential ying yang. "Isn't it all covered by Murphy's Law?" Josephs responded in kind. The standoff lasted half a semester and came to a boiling point when I was assigned to conduct two class periods in a discussion of Jean Genet's Querelle of Brest.

At the first session, in order to emphasize Genet's romanticization of murder, I displayed a number of deadly weapons including an ice pick, a poker, switchblade, a few unusual gardening tools, framed by a hangman's noose and a shotgun. Despite that preparation, Josephs pulled out his notes and began class without me, "Well, what do you think Freud would have said about Querelle? Does this inversion of conventional morality deserve such an eloquent spokesman?" As usual, all the French students were too meek to respond so I answered that question with another question. "Why not just use a Darwinian perspective with all those tarantula style relationships? I mean, what part does the deviant play in Evolution?" "And just who do you think you are?" Josephs picked up a weeding claw and used it to point at the shotgun. "I could lose my position for allowing firearms on campus." He then proceeded to read me the Riot Act but after class insisted on providing a ride home. "Just so you aren't detained by Security," he explained.

That next evening, at the library preparing for the second class period, I stumbled across a friend, Jan W. who immediately divulged, "Anselm will be in town on Thursday." Anselm Hollo, the Finnish born but thoroughly American poet, translator of a dozen languages, was responsible for the English version of Querelle. "He's being flown In from Baltimore for some kind of public television project." The previous spring Anselm had been poet in residence at Michigan State. Jan and I had met in one of his creative writing classes. At that time Anselm was a bachelor, yet Deutschland & Other Places by his former wife, Josephine Clare, was required reading for his students. Over the course of that season, Anselm had taken up with Jan, who was from Michigan's Upper Peninsula near Marquette on Lake Superior, an environment not unlike Finland. Her voice had a trace of accent that leaned towards the Winnipeg "eh". When Anselm's short stay at MSU was over, the two of them moved to Ann Arbor for the summer, where he paid the rent by translating a pharmaceutical text for Parke Davis. When Anselm took a faculty position at the University of Maryland, Ms. W. returned to East Lansing.

My library search had produced significant returns. Although I arrived early to the next class, I found Anselm and Josephs already introduced and thoroughly engaged. "Borges," Jan winked, explaining the cryptic content of the conversation. In his seventies and totally blind for thirty years, Jorge Luis Borges was visiting Michigan to collaborate with an MSU professor. Although still a card carrying member of avant garde while being conspicuously overlooked for a Nobel, the Argentine master of letters had caused a minor sensation with a series of public lectures. "I've been told," Josephs remarked, "That among his intimate friends he prefers to speak old English."

Josephs provided a brief introduction as Anselm lit up a cigarillo and stated, "The first word took me an hour to translate." He puffed on the stick, eyeing his audience. "The opening sentence required an entire day's labor," he paused. "The initial paragraph demanded a whole week of time," the translator stated emphatically. "Remember, this wasn't just translation from French to English but a rendering of Genet's lingo into Hollo's mongrel American. Let me provide some examples." An inspirational class period followed, with Anselm's eloquence and insights charming the Professor. Afterwards Jan had to rush Anselm to the airport while Josephs quietly took me aside.

"Now don't think I'm still not pissed off about Tuesday." He tried to sound tough. "But I would like to make an appointment for you to meet Borges during his office hours." I was flabbergasted. Although Borges sat in on those classes that interested him, my most intimate exposure had been at a public reception where students were allowed to ask embarrassing questions. Josephs read my incredulous expression correctly. "Actually, it's only a half hour.

This next week is my turn to provide an appropriate ... ". "But what could we possibly talk about? I've only read a few stories from Labyrinths and The Book of Imaginary Beings," I objected, cutting him off. "Don't be absurd," the Professor scolded me. "Borges doesn't want to talk about his own work. He wants to meet young writers. You must bring your own manuscripts and be prepared to read them." I left Josephs' office in a daze.

That evening I checked a Borges collection out of the library and soon became entranced. "The cross was not invented, it was discovered. The Romans were using it as a symbol long before Christians."  It all seemed so mathematical. "For us the word "thousand" is almost synonymous with "infinite". To say "a thousand nights" is to say infinite nights, countless nights, endless nights.  To say "a thousand and one nights" is to add to Infinity. Let us recall a curious English expression: instead of "forever", they sometimes say "forever and a day". A day has been added to forever.

That contemplation was broken by a phone call from Jan. "Want to hitch hike to Baltimore this weekend?" Anselm was barely out of town, but she was already in hot pursuit. "There will be plenty of poetry. Robert Creeley is doing a reading at the University of Maryland." Easily persuaded, I arranged a ride out to the highway at 4am and twelve hours later, after a series of adventures, we were deposited onto the streets of Baltimore. At a derelict intersection, three corners vacant and a gas station, Jan approached two men in a convertible stuck at the pump. "How about a ride downtown?" The motorists were enthusiastic until I bounded across the road. "And suckass too?" they moaned. As we drove through the urban grit of Baltimore I noticed a warm breeze that seemed momentarily to reverse the seasonal progression, fallen leaves had returned to their branches and everything was green.