Warren's Penchant for Paradox

Warren’s writing always leaves me feeling slightly inadequate, in a way—his ability to twist words into totally new connotations always surprises me. For a short list of examples, in “Pondy Woods” the vultures’ eyes are “hieratic,” which is a form of writing used primarily for religious texts by the noted mystic St. Clement of Alexandria. In many other instances, Warren imbues nothingness with substance, making nothing something in itself. That particular paradox will undoubtedly prove particularly significant for my discussion of Warren’s work in that he sees nothing as a void, nothing as “nonexistent.” I can’t say that he doesn’t toy with the idea of purposelessness, but I can’t anywhere find a gaping maw waiting to consume humanity—unless it’s History.

I guess for the most part it’s the paradox that leaves me feeling inadequate, no matter how significant I realize it must be. Nothingness as a concept leads me to consider emptiness, a space where nothing exists. And yet Warren discusses how nothingness “roars” about him, how he can hear the sound of reality coming through. If my writing seems confused here, it’s because I myself am absolutely confounded that somewhere in this emptiness Warren finds a justification for life.

Hand in hand with the problem of nothingness is the various speakers’ reaction to it. Alone, Warren’s speakers find themselves longing for human contact. Alone, they need above all else to forge a connection with someone. Alone, they embrace nothingness and discover meaning.

While I would think that a moment like that, alone at night, would leave the individual hungering for human contact for the rest of his life, this is not the case with Warren. In fact, in company in broad daylight, Warren’s speakers often shrink from their fellows. On a personal level, this seems to me perfectly reasonable. I can think of a number of nights alone that I’ve pondered what it means to know someone. On the other hand, logical scrutiny makes this assertion seem absolutely ludicrous. What twist of human nature has it that we as sentient, feeling beings should reject company when we have it and long for it when it is gone?

Even if it’s reflective of true human nature, Warren imbues his melancholy speakers with more regret than most probably feel in similar situations, more, certainly, than I have ever felt. And this, too, is a reason I feel somewhat inadequate—Warren seems more aware than I that this is a true reason for remorse; I think that Warren takes it upon himself to emphasize this failing on my part in the poetry to draw my attention to it.

Confused yet? I am. But at the same time this paradox is so indicative of the true nature of humanity that I feel it necessary to unravel it. In terms of Warren’s concept of individuality, it’s easy to see the need to balance “being your own person” and “being like everyone else.” Why vacillate between two extremes, though? Why not take some sort of middle road? I don’t know yet—but I’m going to try to figure it out.