Present Books Toward The Cantos
| Original Title: | The Cantos |
| ISBN: | 0811213269 (ISBN13: 9780811213264) |
| Edition Language: | English |
Ezra Pound
Paperback | Pages: 824 pages Rating: 3.93 | 5075 Users | 121 Reviews
Identify Out Of Books The Cantos
| Title | : | The Cantos |
| Author | : | Ezra Pound |
| Book Format | : | Paperback |
| Book Edition | : | Deluxe Edition |
| Pages | : | Pages: 824 pages |
| Published | : | June 17th 1996 by New Directions (first published 1970) |
| Categories | : | Poetry. Classics. Fiction. Literature |
Explanation To Books The Cantos
Delmore Schwartz said about The Cantos, "They are one of the touchstones of modern poetry." William Carlos Williams said, "[Pound] discloses history by its odor, by the feel of it—in the words; fuses it with the words, present and past, to MAKE his Cantos. Make them."Since the 1969 revised edition, the Italian Cantos LXXII and LXXIII (as well as a 1966 fragment concluding the work) have been added. Now appearing for the first time is Pound's recently found English translation of Italian Canto LXXII.
Rating Out Of Books The Cantos
Ratings: 3.93 From 5075 Users | 121 ReviewsCritique Out Of Books The Cantos
"Yet what need to say? Tis as human a little story as paper could well carry, in affect, as singsing so Salaman susuing to swittvitles while as unbluffingly blurtubruskblunt as an Esra? the cat, the cats meeter, the meeters cats wife, the meeters cats wifes half better, the meeters cats wifes half betters meeter, and so back to our horses, for we also know, what we have perused from the pages of I Was A Gemral, that Showting up of Bulsklivism by Schottenboum, that Father Michael about this redProbably the most ambitious work of poetry ever, and interesting for so many reasons. Sections of this book are incredibly beautiful, timeless, and untouchable, paired with a bunch of fascinating intellectual moves and an attempt to bring together the history and mythology of everything, ever, in a single poetic work. Unfortunately, huge chunks (probably most of the book) are terrible, with a special mention going to a chunk near the center where Pound basically just lineates John Adam's letters
I think The Cantos is a disaster. Maybe you could justify this mess by citing it as an early example of found poetry (i.e., large chunks of it is stuff that Pound cribbed directly from primary sources, but he chopped the lines to make it look like poetry). I confess: I didnt make it past Canto 28. There is some beautiful writing, but at a ratio of about three lines per five cantos. So it was difficult mathematically to justify carrying on in the face of this deluge of obscurantism. There is
I know. I KNOW. Pound's indefensible as a person. He was a fascist and an anti-Semite and completely fucking nuts. He's also been dead for a while so I don't feel bad about reading this (much like I'll finally watch Roman Polanski films once that fucker kicks the bucket). The parts about how shitty World War I is are fantastic. The parts about myth are fantastic. Then Pound goes off on a tear about... I don't know... the gold standard, or something, and then the banks that run the world, and
Miles Jochem (Editorial Intern, Tin House Books): You know youre in for a doozy when the most famous literary appraisal of a book ends with the warning, There are the Alps, / fools! Sit down and wait for them to crumble. These lines, written by Basil Bunting, are about Ezra Pounds Cantos, one of the pillars of Modernism. Pound ranks among the most controversial of writers, not least due to his open sympathy for anti-Semitic fascists. In fact, the US government charged him with treason in 1945
I only give this five stars because Pound is dead. If he was alive, I'd ask him to stop publishing, but by all means to keep writing this mind-boggling work----it was clearly important to him in ways I can't fathom. On the other hand, it makes complete sense. There are moments of clarity that remind me of old Pound, but Old Pound spreads them out so far across the work that I forget why I'm still reading. But that's what reading is, though: lots of words and a few great, memorable moments that
You want to reject Pound, as you want to reject Celine, for his politics, and for his role in the tragedy of the 20th century. But his is voice that gets inside you head and won't got way, and his incantations make your liver quiver. And you realize that there really is no Eliot or Hemingway or Williams or Ginsberg without him. No Beats. No Funk. And besides, the greatest tragedy he presided over was his own. Winter is icumin in, lude sing goddam . . .
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