Perhaps the word that occurs oftenest in the Stanzas is the word "they," for this is a poem about the world, about "them." (What a pleasant change from the eternal "we" with which so many modern poets automatically begin each sentence, and which gives the impression that the author is sharing his every sensation with some invisible Kim Novak.) Less frequently, "I" enters to assess the activities of "them," to pick up after them, to assert his own altered importance. As we get deeper into the poem, it seems not so much as if we were reading as living a rather long period of our lives with a houseful of people. Like people, Miss Stein's lines are comforting or annoying or brilliant or tedious. Like people, they sometimes make no sense and sometimes make perfect sense; or they stop short in the middle of a sentence and wander away, leaving us alone for awhile in the physical world, that collection of thoughts, flowers, weather, and proper names. And, just as with people, there is no real escape from them: one feels that if one were to close the book one would shortly re-encounter the Stanzas in life, under another guise. As the author says, "It is easily eaten hot and lukewarm and cold / But not without it."
Stanzas in Meditation gives one the feeling of time passing, of things happening, of a "plot," though it would be difficult to say precisely what is going on. Sometimes the story has the logic of a dream:
She asked could I be taught to be allowed
And I said yes oh yes I had forgotten him
And she said does any or do any change
And if not I said whom could they count.
while at other times it becomes startlingly clear for a moment, as though a change in the wind had suddenly enabled us to hear a conversation that was taking place some distance away:
He came early in the morning.
He thought they needed comfort
Which they did
And he gave them an assurance
That it would be all as well
As indeed were it
Not to have it needed at any time
But it is usually not events which interest Miss Stein, rather it is their "way of happening," and the story of Stanzas in Meditation is a general, all-purpose model which each reader can adapt to fit his own set of particulars. The poem is a hymn to possibility; a celebration of the fact that the world exists, that things can happen.
In its profound originality, its original profundity, this poem that is always threatening to become a novel reminds us of the late novels of James, especially The Golden Bowl and The Sacred Fount, which seem to strain with a superhuman force toward "the condition of music," of poetry. In such a passage as the following, for instance:
Be not only without in any of their sense
Careful
Or should they grow careless with remonstrance
Or be careful just as easily not at all
As when they felt.
They could or would would they grow always
By which not only as more as they like.
They cannot please conceal
Nor need they find they need a wish
we are not far from Charlotte's and the Prince's rationalizations. Both Stanzas in Meditation and The Golden Bowl are ambitious attempts to transmit a completely new picture of reality, of that real reality of the poet which Antonin Artaud called "une realite dangereuse et typique." If these works are highly complex and, for some, unreadable, it is not only because of the complicatedness of life, the subject, but also because they actually imitate its rhythm, its way of happening, in an attempt to draw our attention to another aspect of its true nature. Just as life is being constantly altered by each breath one draws, just as each second of life seems to alter the whole of what has gone before, so the endless process of elaboration which gives the work of these two writers a texture of bewildering luxuriance -- that of a tropical rain-forest of ideas -- seems to obey some rhythmic impulse at the heart of all happening.
In addition, the almost physical pain with which we strive to accompany the evolving thought of one of James's or Gertrude Stein's characters is perhaps a counterpart of the painful continual projection of the individual into life. As in life, perseverance has its rewards -- moments when we emerge suddenly on a high plateau with a view of the whole distance we have come. In Miss Stein's work the sudden inrush of clarity is likely to be an aesthetic experience, but (and this seems to be another of her "points") the description of that experience applies also to "real-life" situations, the aesthetic problem being a microcosm of all human problems.
I should think it makes no difference
That so few people are me.
That is to say in each generation there are so few geniusesAnd why should I be one which I am
This is one way of saying how do you do
There is this difference
I forgive you everything and there is nothing to forgive.
It is for moments like this that one perseveres in this difficult poem, moments which would be less beautiful and meaningful if the rest did not exist, for we have fought side by side with the author in her struggle to achieve them.
![[Ezra Pound at William Carlos Williams' house in 1958 by Richard Avedon]](https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/blogger_img_proxy/AEn0k_sgZWBuYCzPzWOPmsPmmFxqOj66QtAJxh5ddElfJNQUCBYmjJYHiZNTx8HcCozUOP4KyvkrRCMBQmbn98xX0dt10g4pYhjLCEtzZa0CvMQBJmz7U_HIaKuiglydmOJjIAXqQbluqP4erI99ha90Xb-h4bkntVW1=s0-d)
