E. E. Cummings (1894–1962)

The author, well known to me as a poet, was a volunteer ambulance driver in France during the First World War. He was imprisoned for suspected anti-war sentiment, but eventually released and returned to the US. This is his account of his imprisonment. I’d never heard of either his imprisonment or this work, but it was apparently quite controversial when published in the early 1920s. Several critics bombed it, essentially for being politically radical. Some critics praised it but said that it was a work of fiction and some compared it to The Pilgrim's Progress (The author has a characteristic descriptive style, which I found irritating, but he specifically denies that the book is fiction [but, what does that mean?]).

Anyway, Cummings' account held my interest, but I had some problems with it. I know Cummings was a young man, but his account has a definite adolescent quality replete with various highly offensive slang terms for his fellow inmates. The book is peppered with French; single words, phrases, and longer amounts. I suppose this is to give the flavor of the situation. I know a few words of French, but I was constantly using the Kindle to translate. Some of the words may be the slang of the times since I could not translate them. It didn’t seem to me that the book would have lost anything by being written all in one language or the other. Lastly, the book is described as sort of an ur-Catch 22. But it is hardly that. Furthermore, I'm familiar with several other anti-war writings of the time that are superior. I think this book’s obscurity is understandable.… (mer)

". . . it's no use trying to pretend that mostpeople and ourselves are alike," Cummings writes in his Introduction. "Mostpeople have less in common with ourselves than the squarerootofminusone. You and I are human beings;mostpeople are snobs."

Cummings is not for everyone, and thus as not-mostpeople, we are invited into a world where shedding logic and rules of grammar and punctuation are a necessary element in the dance into his world of deeply felt emotion.

"Miracles are to come," he promises. "With you I leave a remembrance of miracles:they are by somebody who can love and who shall be continually reborn,a human being;somebody who said to those near him, when his fingers would not hold a brush 'tie it into my hand' . . ."

Cummings paints vast word landscapes, bringing me to a quiet, thoughtful place, where my heart can rest -- or happily stirs my carnal yearnings.… (mer)