THE TASTE OF MY MORNINGS: ESSAYS ON POETS, CRITICS & AMERICA
By Tony Roberts
Shoestring Press. 299 pages. £12. ISBN 978-1-912524-26-6
Reviewed by Jim Burns
Some people perhaps prefer the critics they read to be acerbic,
tearing into what they claim not to like and taking it apart. Young
critics on the make often find it’s a sure-fire way to success as
they destroy a few careers on their way into the limelight.
Nastiness becomes their stock-in-trade. Personally, I prefer the
mature critic who looks for the best in what he is reviewing and
generally writes about what interests him. It’s much more satisfying
to read measured commentary, and experience enthusiasm, than
encounter the quick and glib that is designed only to draw attention
to the reviewer rather than the work supposedly being reviewed.
Tony Roberts certainly never gives the impression that he is
determined to make the reader notice him instead of what he is
writing about. He is genuinely interested in the writers and the
books he focuses on. The first essay in his book, “With the Topnotch
Tates at ‘Benfolly’,
The interest in Tate, Ford, and Lowell runs throughout the book, and
several essays touch on
aspects of their lives and work. Tate spent some time in
As a good essayist should, Roberts draws attention to the
overlooked, and his informative piece about Archibald MacLeish notes
that “Few C20th American poets could boast of being as popular or
successful as Archibald MacLeish (1892-1982) and few have had their
readership collapse so quickly”. He’s likewise generous when dealing
with James Dickey, once popular because of the film
Deliverance, based on one
of his novels, though probably less well-known as a poet, at least
in this country. Dickey from all accounts wasn’t an admirable
person, being arrogant and aggressive. Roberts acknowledges these
characteristics, but provides a close analysis of the poetry that
recognises its shortcomings (“when not impressive it can at times be
offensive”) and also points to its better qualities.
Bad behaviour isn’t a hallmark of every poet, but enough of them
have shown signs of tantrums, breakdowns, mischief-making, and more,
to provide material for several books. It might be that some people
have expectations of poets in terms of misbehaviour and almost
encourage them to go to extremes. And the poets, knowing that, like
spoiled children, they will be indulged, take advantage of the
situation. Dylan Thomas is a case in point, and “Dylan Thomas roars
across America” recounts the Welsh poet’s adventures as he drank,
gave readings which could be spellbinding, drank more, insulted
academics and propositioned their wives, drank even more, and left
behind a legend of artistic outrageousness and a fund of anecdotes
about his capacity for alcohol and boorishness. “There was a certain
amount of poison in our goodwill”, said the noted New York critic
and novelist, Elizabeth Hardwick, and it neatly summed up how people
hovered around Thomas waiting for him to be outrageous. It’s the
legend of the errant poet that has survived, while his poetry is
mostly forgotten and his literary reputation, such as it is, largely
rests on Under Milk Wood.
Roberts is not unsympathetic towards Thomas, but notes his problems
and limitations.
Other British writers visited
It’s not all poets, and Roberts look at the life of the exiled
Russian political dissident, Alexander Herzen, at least insofar as
his time in
I was intrigued when I read the essay on Arthur Krystal, a man who
from this account is a stickler for high standards and an opponent
of what he sees as the dumbing-down of universities, literary
criticism, and just about everything else. Roberts gives a balanced
picture of someone who likes to employ a tone “described as
provocative but not offensive”. According to Krystal, “art has
always been the product of talent, skill, inspiration, and labour,
and so, to a degree, has been the appreciation of art”. But, if
Krystal is right, both creators and audience have failed in their
duties, with the result that “the know-nothings, the politically
suspect and the mercenary have taken over”. It’s difficult not to
agree with Krystal, while at the same time feeling a bit embarrassed
because one’s own tastes are not always of the highest. Krystal says
we live in “an age of diminished expectations” where, in Roberts’
words, “taste has been reduced to a matter of personal preferences”.
The subversive thought occurs to me that it possibly always has
been, though that might not make me feel any less guilty when I
choose to watch an old episode of
Murder, She Wrote instead
of listening to Two Gentlemen
of Verona on the radio. I do know which is best when it comes to
artistic qualities, but don’t always feel the need to be
demonstrating it.
There is so much more in The
Taste of My Mornings that is worth reading besides what few
examples I’ve referred to. An essay on Malcolm Cowley’s poetry
is useful, bearing in mind that his reputation rests on his work
as a critic. Edmund Wilson and Lionel Trilling are discussed
alongside each other, with
I can’t overlook Roberts’s love of Robert Lowell. Leaving aside his
appearance in the essay on the Tates at “Benfolly”, he has three
pieces devoted to him. They all deal adequately with his troubled
life as well as his poetry, with one essay, “The Lives of Robert
Lowell”, inspecting several biographies of the poet and showing how
different interpretations of the same facts are arrived at. It’s an
effective piece in terms of persuading readers to not always be
convinced by a single account of a life.
Before closing let me declare an interest. One of the essays
includes a review of a book of mine, so I could be accused of a less
than detached view of Roberts’ book. Perhaps so, but I feel that I
can honestly recommend it to anyone who enjoys reading good literary
criticism and commentary. His writing is always clear, concise, and
with a care for the facts of a writer’s life. And Roberts is
enthusiastic. He gives the impression that he cares for the people
he writes about, even when they are less than perfect.
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