First you wonder if they’re separate stories, but no, they’re not, they’re contingent stories and they form a pattern. And you begin with some of the island as the place to which the heroine of the book returns.
It’s the classic story form. All staying equal, or proving equal, or being equal, this will all continue, and the next time around, we’ll move on to see what happened to Harry after he dove in the river, or who his friend John really was, and so on.
There are a lot of editorials that have nothing to do with anything like that. But I was just thinking of that sense of prose as being very responsible and perceptive, thoughtful, intimate, and contriving a quote statement.
You were saying that once when visiting Yale, you were struck that unlike Pound, Williams’s thinking was volatile, I mean, did not stay locked into a pattern of concepts that then defined his subsequent necessary behavior, whereas Pound did.
It’s as though all the terms of a family were present at one time rather than his dad and his mum. Not just a present authority, but the resident memory of what qualifies what else is the case.
All of which was OK, as that proved then, I certainly wouldn’t contradict it as a necessary sense of things.
Suddenly the whole imagination of writing and editorial and newspaper and all these presumptions about who am I reading this, and who else other people may be, and all that, it’s so grimly brutal!
That poetry survived in its formal agencies finally, and that prose survived to get something said.
Don’t name it, as they say, because instantly you offer it to this peculiar authority.
The pattern of the narrative never of necessity wants to end, it never has to.