#on the convergence of the twain by thomas hardy

[im-a-writer-sometimes]

Today's history lesson totally unrelated to current events is in regards to one of my favorite writers: Mr. Thomas Hardy.

He was invited to read a poem at a benefit for the families of the victims of the Titanic's sinking in 1912, and being the absolute King of Not Giving One Shit, he wrote and read "The Convergence of the Twain," condemning the hubris of the men who designed the ill-fated ship, believing their greed and might was any match for the indifferent forces of nature.

It was, as he expected, not well received.

I would like to think Mr. Hardy would have a lot to say about current news, so I thought I'd give him the chance to do just that with the words he wrote 111 years ago.

[yuriwarrior]

The Convergence of the Twain by Thomas Hardy is such a good poem

[sihaya74]

NEW The Lessons of Bryan Fuller's Hannibal S1:E3 -- THE GOOD SHIP WOLF TRAP

Lessons of Bryan Fuller’s Hannibal

S1:E3 – THE GOOD SHIP WOLF TRAP

As metaphors go, boats are fabulous vessels of meaning. If you think about it, boats are one of humankind’s greatest inventions. From the humblest rowboat to those massive cruise ships the size of small cities, the fact that humans, who are inherently sinkable, found a way to float on the surface of the water is truly amazing.

            And boats don’t just float – they sail, they fly, they carve out their passage through the waves like a giant, power-driven blade. A beautiful description of a boat as a presence of power is in Thomas Hardy’s “The Convergence of the Twain,” his poem about the cruel fate of the Titanic and its passengers and crew. While discussing the construction of the Titanic, which Hardy rivets with mythological imagery, he calls the ship a “creature of cleaving wing” (17).

            A boat is a thing that can cut as well as it floats. It can be a home, an escape, a bridge, a cage; ships are many things to many people. Even the ships that science fiction authors launched into the skies, like Star Trek’s Enterprise and Battlestar Galactica, come to mind – sailing through a sea of stars filled with symbolism and significance.

            Human beings once looked out over the grey-blue waves of an ancient ocean and saw nothing on the horizon but water and clouds. To all appearances, there was nothing past the horizon. Word was, if you sailed far enough, you would sail right over the edge. But still, in different locales all over the world, humans said, “Fuck it. I wanna see what’s out there.” And they built boats and went to go have a look see.

            Authors love to use boats as metaphors and symbols – just check the works of Homer and Coleridge, Shakespeare and Dickens, Melville and Hemingway. The list goes on and on.

            In Season 1, Episode 3 of Bryan Fuller’s Hannibal, we are introduced to the concept of an important boat; it is inside the hull of that very boat that our lesson is stored, wrapped up lovingly in a water-proof tarp and tucked away under our feet. But first, let’s discuss how we come to this lesson, through the tempestuous sea of Hannibal’s characters – namely the turbulent emotional lives of Abigail Hobbs and as always, my darling Will Graham.

            S1E3 is called “Potage.” A potage like the English word, “pottage,” is a thick soup – similar to a stew. Potage can be fancy, but its origins were with the peasantry, who threw whatever odds and ends they had left over from cooking into a pot with broth and let it simmer on low for a few days, or a whole week even. The result was a thick, hearty, highly concentrated meal, redolent with the scents and the flavors of its many and varied ingredients.

            With “Apéritif” and “Amuse-Bouche,” Fuller and his fellow chefs teased our palates and stimulated our appetites. With S1E3, we are indeed served a potage, a hearty issue that has been simmering since Episode 1 – the issue of Abigail Hobbs and what she knows about her father’s life as the Minnesota Shrike.

            “Potage’s” story is credited to David Fury. The script was written by Fury, Chris Brancato, and our creator and visionary, Bryan Fuller. It was directed by David Slade.

            At the beginning of the episode, as we dig our spoons into the bowl, we are gifted a large chunk of significance. Now in an upscale mental hospital, Abigail Hobbs awakens from her coma. She has emerged from a nightmare about her father – one filled with hunting and gutting and bleeding. She is frightened and confused when she wakes up, and we as the audience cannot blame her. The last time we saw her, her father had killed her mother, then slashed her throat. As she lay exsanguinating on her family kitchen floor, a strange, trembling man shot her father to death. The strange man tried to save her life but was too shaken. Thankfully, another man with a very strong hand clamped down on her wound until help could arrive. She eventually loses consciousness, but not until after she sees Will Graham kill her father and Hannibal Lecter save her from the flood of crimson darkness that awaited her.

            Only a scene later, the audience is given another tasty morsel to chew upon. This being Will Graham standing out in front of his quaint, clean farm house in a t-shirt and underwear – garments that cling in all the right places and make me personally thankful for Hannibal’s costume and wardrobe department. Alana Bloom has come to inform Will about Abigail’s reemergence into the waking world. Will wants to go see her immediately. Alana convinces him that she should test the waters with Abigail first. Alana very rightly concludes that the first person from the BAU’s team who approaches Abigail should not be the man who killed her father or the man the who saved her life. That’s a lot of baggage to start off with. I have to say that I feel that poor Abigail is never really given a chance – that she and her fate have its own message attached to it – something about victimhood and patriarchy that I will discuss much later in this series of blog posts. Still, Alana is right – (she often is) – and she heads off to visit Abigail in the mental hospital with a bunch of clothes and music and gift cards.

            In their exchange, as Alana examines Abigail’s state of mind, in an effort to build rapport, Alana admits to Abigail, “I’ve got a stack of gift cards. I don’t do well redeeming gift cards;” Abigail replies, “Probably says something about you” (Fury et al. 10). I am also a person that doesn’t do well at redeeming gift cards, and I would love to know “what it says about me.” As far as I can tell, I think it means I work too much, but any other deep meaning is lost on me.

            Soon, Alana, Hannibal, and Jack Crawford have a conference about Alana’s impressions of Abigail and whether she should be exposed to Will yet. It is very apparent from this scene that there are two people who definitely suspect Abigail of having helped her father kill his victims: Jack and Hannibal. Jack’s belief is based on a cop’s instinct; Hannibal’s is based on a killer’s. You get the feeling somewhere deep inside that Alana believes it too, but she will not allow that belief to manifest. It is also apparent in this scene that because Hannibal is convinced that Abigail helped her father commit his crimes, that he automatically begins deflecting suspicion away from her saying things like, “I would suggest she can be practical without being a murderer” and that the impression of secrecy she radiates may “simply be her trauma” (Fury et al. 11). The fact that Hannibal begins tossing out red herrings this early on is important considering the end of the episode and how Abigail and Hannibal come to understand each other.

            Hannibal talks quite a lot about God – in Harris’ works and in all on-screen depictions. Hannibal is not an atheist – he lives in defiance of God. He continually dares the deity to stop his reign of tasty terror and continually God chooses not to. So, Hannibal goes on killing and eating victims knowing he is doing so either because of God’s indifference or with God’s tacit approval. Even though later in Season 3, Will Graham says that “Hannibal’s not God. Wouldn’t have any fun being God,” Hannibal perseveres in the same actions as God, namely making others in his image (Vlaming and Fuller 11). He persists in the nurturing of fledgling killers. Murder is Hannibal’s answer for all things that ail you, especially for the people he finds interesting enough to invest time into.

He believes Abigail has assisted her father in his slew of murders and so Hannibal encourages Abigail to carry on a life of killing; to Hannibal, it only makes sense. Randall Tier is sad and depressed and thinks he’s a beast who wants to ambush, kill, and gnaw on people – Hannibal gives him the go ahead. Bedelia has a troublesome patient – trouble courtesy of Dr. Hannibal Lecter, but still… Neal Frank dies with Bedelia’s arm down his throat and Hannibal is pleased as punch. Margot Bloom has a sadistic, abusive brother? You know Hannibal’s answer. Will Graham thinks exactly like a killer. But Will Graham is a murderer who doesn’t murder – a sad, specter of himself like a vampire living on animal blood. Will can’t sleep; he has nightmares. Will is barely comfortable in his own skin. Hannibal’s answer – walk down to the dark end of the street with me and never feel pain again, Will. So many people Hannibal attempts to make in his own image – at a certain point, we must assume it’s because he’s lonely. Since Mischa, Hannibal has had no family. That’s why in Seasons 1-2, he tries to make himself one.

It's agreed upon that Will should now be allowed to interact with Abigail, as long as Hannibal goes along for the ride. When Hannigram arrive at Abigail’s hospital room, they find it already occupied by the persistent, nosy Freddie Lounds, who is attempting to scoop Abigail’s story by endearing herself to the confused girl. Whether or not Freddie truly cares about Abigail is immaterial, but I think she ultimately comes to care about Abigail. Freddie is a creature of ambition and as such, is one of the most honest characters in the story, even in Harris’ original male Freddy Lounds – both Loundses are clever, dogged, and can often be extremely annoying – that’s the paparazzi for you. Freddie has already begun trying to turn Abigail against Will Graham, hence Will’s snippy dismissal of her.

After the visit at the hospital, Hannibal, Will, and Alana escort Abigail back to her family home in Bloomington, Minnesota. As the group arrives, they discover that vandals have spraypainted the word “CANNIBALS” on the doors of the house. There are two important moments in this homecoming exercise: 1. Abigail reveals that she knows Hannibal is the man who called her house on the morning her father was killed and 2. Abigail crosses paths with Nick Boyle. While they go through items in the family’s living room, Abigail asks about recreation of the crime. She indicates that in this portrayal, Alana should play her mother, Will should play her father, and she turns to Hannibal and with a piercing stare says, “And you be the man on the phone” (Fury et al. 26). I remember gasping the first time I saw this. Even after all my rewatches, it still gets me. It’s a great moment.

Later, Nick Boyle has come looking for Abigail, who he blames for his sister Cassie’s murder. As Abigail stands in her backyard talking to her one remaining friend, Marissa Schuur, Nick appears from the woods, accusing Abigail of helping her father pull Cassie’s lungs out as she died. For repeat viewers of the series, this scene is always rife with irony because we know good and Goddamned well who pulled out Marissa’s lungs, and it sure ain’t Abigail. It’s the plaid-suited meow meow who stands in the winter sun looking as innocent as a kitten. Marissa throws a rock at Nick and tags him in the head – a piece of convenient carnage Hannibal will use to maximum benefit later.

Then, the whole BAU crew take Abigail to her father’s hunting cabin. Abigail explains that her father believed that the only way to “honor” a kill, speaking about deer and other game, was to use every part of the animal. She details the process, saying, “He sold the pelts on Ebay or in town. He made pillows. Carved knives out of leg bones. No parts went to waste. Otherwise it was murder” (Fury et al. 31). She then comes to the realization that her father was feeding his victims to she and her mother. Immediately after this, the whole team discovers the mostly nude body of Marissa Schuur impaled on a stag’s head in the antler garden of an attic Hobbs crafted for himself. Abigail is whisked away by Alana. Jack, Hannibal, and Will examine the crime scene.

Jack questions Will’s powers of deduction, and expresses, in a huffy, petulant fashion, that Abigail could be manipulating Will – he is an empath, after all. Will is confident that the same person who killed Cassie Boyle in the “field kabuki” murder has killed Marissa Schuur. They have named this killer the Copy Cat. Both girls have been impaled on racks of antlers. Cassie is displayed horizontally, like a coffee table. Marissa is hung on the wall, a tapestry of murder. Will now theorizes that Nick Boyle is this Copy Cat based on the presence of some of his blood and tissue on Marissa’s front tooth, which he surmises was lodged there when Nick punched her in the face.

The audience thrills with dramatic irony at this point again knowing that Nick’s tissue came from the rock Marissa threw at him that Hannibal cleverly hid and then obviously, absconded with. This is why Hannibal deserves many viewings – the dramatic irony is not fully enjoyed until the viewer has done so. And, the absolute mastery of Mads Mikkelsen’s performance does not truly hit home until you realize how often he is directing the character of Hannibal about like a agile cat, always on its toes, always twisting mid-fall, to cushion its landing.

Jack buys the Nick Boyle theory, albeit reluctantly. He sends Hannibal to retrieve Abigail and take her back to Baltimore/DC. Will stays at the crime scene with Jack.

When Hannibal and Alana return Abigail to her family home before the journey back to Baltimore, Freddie Lounds is waiting for them. And so is Marissa Schuur’s mother, who is driven wild with grief. Hannibal cooly and skillfully deals with both and Abigail is sent inside.

It is in this moment of isolation – the first Abigail has had in a day fraught with trauma and heartbreak that Nick Boyle breaks into her home and confronts her. He says he just wants to talk. Abigail is terrified, shaking with fear. Just as she was taught, she kills Nick – gutting him from belly to chin with a kitchen knife. His corpse is laid out on the floor like an opened deer, his eyes as black as onyx. Alana and Hannibal then enter the house. In a mirror, Hannibal sees the bloody Abigail ascending the stairs and in a moment of almost Bond-like badassness, he knocks Alana’s head sideways against the wall, rendering her unconscious.

Slipping immediately into a paternal role, Hannibal commands Abigail to show him what she has done. His exterior is calm, but the viewer knows that internally, Hannibal is overjoyed. Abigail has natural killer instinct – a thing that cannot be taught. He explains to Abigail that based on the condition of Nick’s body, no one will believe that Abigail was simply “defending herself” when she killed him – and the method of slaughter will definitively signal to Jack that she participated in her father’s crimes.

Then, in a weighty moment, in a line of dialogue that is echoed later in Season 3, Hannibal says to Abigail, “I can help you, if you ask me to” (Fury et al. 40).

The character of Hannibal Lecter, specifically as written by Bryan Fuller, is vampiric in so many ways. One being that he always wants to be asked for help. He offers a lifeline, a way out, but he insists on being asked before he intervenes. He is a Narcissist King of the highest order. By helping Abigail hide Nick’s body, Hannibal locks her into an unbreakable contract with him. She has quite literally made a deal with the Devil. At the end of the episode, when Abigail sneaks out of the hospital and comes to Hannibal’s office, she confronts Hannibal about being the man on the phone the morning her father died. Hannibal explains the circumstance away as a random coincidence, although Abigail knows better. They agree to keep each other’s secrets. But the viewer feels the dreadful weight of the agreement Abigail has just entered into when Hannibal says, “Reassuring to recognize when the bolt of our fates slides home” (Fury et al. 45). The imagery is that of being imprisoned, jailed. Hannibal and Abigail are now locked in a cage together – and as we all know…two men enter, one man leave. In this case, two liars. But the MadMaxian theorem holds true.

Just before the end of the episode, after Nick Boyle’s supposed “escape,” Will sits in a therapy session in Hannibal’s office, discussing the confusing and emotional events of the past few days. And this, my lovely reader, is where the vessel of our lesson rocks back and forth slowly on glass-smooth sea.

Will describes his home – his lovely farmhouse in Wolf Trap, Virginia.

WILL: Sometimes at night, I leave the lights on in my little house and walk across the flat fields. When I look back from a distance, the house is like a boat at sea. It’s really the only time I feel safe (Fury et al. 42).

The original source of this line, along with Hannibal’s comments about “the bolt of our fates sliding home” in from the Foreword to Red Dragon that Thomas Harris wrote when the book was reissued in 2000. This Foreword is a beautiful and astonishing look into how an author works with his characters. In Harris’ case, it is almost like spiritual possession or haunting. He “goes along” with his characters into their fates. He never makes the decisions for them. They decide for themselves and Harris merely bears witness…and takes copious notes.

Harris tells the reader that in the fall of 1979 when he was working on Red Dragon, a family illness caused him to return to his home state of Mississippi, where he was to remain for eighteen months. He was housed a shotgun cabin in the middle of a cotton field, kindly loaned to him by family friend. There, in the dark, cold nights – he and Will Graham journeyed forward into both of their fates. Harris then explains that it was he who walked out into the “flat fields” surrounding his cabin in the bitter oblivion of night and looked back at the little house, which resembled “a boat at sea” (Harris IX). Harris also tells the reader the story of the pack of feral dogs who lived in the fields outside his abode and how he befriended them with pounds of dog food. A Hannibal fan cannot help but tear up a little reading Harris’ description of his pack: “They walked with me in the fields at night and when I couldn’t see them, I could hear them all around me, breathing and snuffling along in the dark. When I was working in the cabin, they waited on the front porch, and when the moon was full they would sing” (Harris X).

Will’s love of dogs comes from Harris’ love of dogs. And in Hannibal, Will’s love of dogs is extended by Bryan Fuller’s love of dogs. And who can blame them? You gotta love dogs. They’re better than all of us.

In the “Potage” script is the addition of the line where Will says, “It’s really the only time I feel safe” (Fury et al. 42).

Will feels safe because his house is like a boat. Will grew up on boats. His father was a fisherman who Will followed to ports all over the Gulf Coast and up to New England. The boat of Will’s home, let’s call it the S.S. Wolf Trap, is adrift in an ocean of snow as a boat is scudding among the waves of sea. The point is, the boat is isolated, alone, away from land. And being away from land – Will is away from people. People and all their words and faces and insinuations and manipulations – all of it rubbing against his empathic nerves. People put him on edge, wring him out, stretch his patience, test his politeness, but mostly, they suck him dry. They fuse themselves into his being and Will becomes a twisted hybrid of every person he interfaces with. It is well documented in both Harris and Fuller that Will’s empathy causes him to take on other people’s speech patterns and mannerisms without even knowing it. He becomes other people. And then they use him. And when he realizes, he feels empty and alone. This idea returns many times throughout the series. Deep down, Will just wants someone to love his INNER MONGOOSE (see my blog post for S1:E1), but people just want to train the mongoose and use it to hunt snakes.

Will feels safest when he’s alone surrounded by a pack of dogs. That says a lot about Will, but it also says a lot about other people and just how truly shitty they can be.

And so, my friends, THE LESSON.

WE ALL DESERVE A SAFE PLACE.

Whether it is a real, physical place or a mental refuge, not unlike a mind palace, some might say… all of us, every one of us deserves a place we can go to get away from the shitty people of the world.

My friends, do whatever you have to do to find that place. To you, it might be someplace you go alone or it might be in a room with thousands of other people.

It could be in your cozy bed under the covers or it could be at a fan convention surrounded by music and noise and laughter. It could in a movie theater by the light of a silver screen or it could be at the gym with only the sound of your pulse drumming away in your head.

In your car, in the shower, behind your eyelids when you lay down your head at night – wherever it may be, be like Will Graham, and find your safe place. And do not feel ashamed of the need to retreat into your personal fort whenever you need to. Life is hard.

We all deserve a little boat of our own.

Here endeth the lesson…

References:

Hardy, Thomas. “The Convergence of the Twain.” Poetry Foundation. poetryfoundation.org/poems/47266/the-convergence-of-the-twain. Accessed 15 Dec. 2022.

Harris, Thomas. “Foreword to a Fatal Interview.” Red Dragon, by Harris, Berkley, 2000, pp. IX-XIII).

Fury, David, Chris Brancato, and Bryan Fuller. Writers. “Potage.” Hannibal, season 1, episode 3, Chiswick Productions, 2012.

Vlaming, Jeff and Bryan Fuller. Writers. “Primavera.” Hannibal, season 3, episode 2, Chiswick Productions, 2015.

[revhopepunk]

The Convergence of the Twain (Lines on the loss of the "Titanic") by Thomas Hardy

I

In a solitude of the sea

Deep from human vanity,

And the Pride of Life that planned her, stilly couches she.

II

Steel chambers, late the pyres

Of her salamandrine fires,

Cold currents thrid, and turn to rhythmic tidal lyres.

III

Over the mirrors meant

To glass the opulent

The sea-worm crawls — grotesque, slimed, dumb, indifferent.

IV

Jewels in joy designed

To ravish the sensuous mind

Lie lightless, all their sparkles bleared and black and blind.

V

Dim moon-eyed fishes near

Gaze at the gilded gear

And query: "What does this vaingloriousness down here?" ...

VI

Well: while was fashioning

This creature of cleaving wing,

The Immanent Will that stirs and urges everything

VII

Prepared a sinister mate

For her — so gaily great —

A Shape of Ice, for the time far and dissociate.

VIII

And as the smart ship grew

In stature, grace, and hue,

In shadowy silent distance grew the Iceberg too.

IX

Alien they seemed to be;

No mortal eye could see

The intimate welding of their later history,

X

Or sign that they were bent

By paths coincident

On being anon twin halves of one august event,

XI

Till the Spinner of the Years

Said "Now!" And each one hears,

And consummation comes, and jars two hemispheres.

[theladyorlando]

23 dicembre, Santa Vittoria

Sono seduta in mezzo a una piazza piena di luci e di famiglie che passeggiano cercando regali. Io sono sola: è il pomeriggio di quel giorno in cui abbiamo portato mio padre a fare la biopsia, a fare conoscenza con questa signora che abita in lui. E lei è così altera che non ci concederà il vero piacere di conoscere il suo cognome per altri venti giorni. Mentre cercavo il reparto di endoscopia toracica, seguivo il percorso arancione in mezzo a un fiume di gente, e mi sentivo nella metro di Roma, ero diretta a piazza Bologna: io stavo andando all'università, stavo andando a Villa Morafiori: io stavo andando a cercare i miei poeti, e gli altri nella metro chissà dove andavano. Qui dentro invece dov'è che andiamo tutti? In pochi lo sanno, qui dentro, perché questa è una piccola cittadella, una fortezza arroccata sul Raccordo, un labirinto impossibile di corridoi: nessuno sa dove sta andando qui dentro. Quest'ospedale lo hanno da qualche anno riconvertito in un centro specializzato in tumori, ma io lo conosco fin da che ero piccola, perché ci abito vicinissima e ho assistito a tutte le fasi della sua lenta costruzione. Ci passavamo davanti in macchina per tornare a casa da qualunque posto andassimo a visitare e mio padre lo chiamava -ironia della sorte- lo scheletro. Oggi finalmente ci sono entrata per la prima volta, ed era già vecchio. Mi ha fatto venire in mente Thomas Hardy, "The Convergence of the Twain": la convergenza delle metà. Silenziosamente e a miglia di distanza, due cantieri, quello del Titanic e quello dell'iceberg, lavorano senza tregua, per anni. E nessuno dei due sa di star lavorando per l'altro, per un incontro che il destino, che non è cieco per niente (così pensa Thomas Hardy) ha già fissato da tempo. Oggi noi eravamo all'incontro, e chissà da quanto si lavorava in quei cantieri.

Endoscopia toracica, sono arrivata. Mi guardo dentro anch'io cercando di capire cosa stia succedendo al mio torace, a quello che ci porto dentro.

Per farlo sono tornata da Cesare Pavese, ho chiesto aiuto a lui che è mio padre da molto tempo, assomiglia fisicamente a mio nonno Pio, si chiama come mio padre, e proprio da mio padre ho ricevuto il suo Mestiere di Vivere quando ero ancora a scuola. Poi io ne ho comprato una nuova edizione, perché la sua era tutta scompaginata, non potevo lavorarci bene sopra, ché quello è un libro da portare a letto la notte e studiarci finché fa giorno. L'altro giorno l'ho ritrovato, il mio, ed era già vecchio, proprio come l'ospedale. L'ho sempre sentito intimamente vicino a me, Pavese, perché la sua parabola che si ripete sempre uguale è come familiare: innamoramento - sforzo di legare a sé la donna col fascino intellettuale - tentativi di conquista- scacco - abbandono: così leggo nell'introduzione. Qui riconosco qualcosa che è mio, lo sento profondamente umano, le sue parole e le sue manie mi commuovono.

Secondo Pavese esistono delle immagini cristallizzate nel nostro cuore, che quando incontriamo nel mondo ci fanno entrare in uno stato di grazia. A noi sembra di godere per la prima volta della loro bellezza, ma non è mai la prima volta che le vediamo. Noi non vediamo mai le cose una prima volta, ma sempre una seconda. La loro origine è, senza alcuna sorpresa, nell'infanzia, il vivaio perenne, lo chiama, dove si creano questi simboli. E riemergono nel presente e ci riportano così alla nostra vera essenza.

un discendere nella tenebra feconda delle origini dove ci accoglie l’universale umano, e lo sforzo per rischiararne un’incarnazione non mancherà di una sua faticosa dolcezza.

Ecco dov'è che mi piace Pavese: una faticosa dolcezza. Una bellezza difficile è quello che sento nel torace, mentre vedo uscire mio padre dalla sala della biopsia e mi sorride. La poesia, lo sento mentre mi aggrappo a quel diario per restituirgli un sorriso, difende dalle offese della vita, ci aiuta a riprenderci quell'immagine originaria di noi stessi, a ritrovare il cuore, anche in mezzo al percorso arancione, fino in fondo al reparto di endoscopia toracica.

Cosa cresce nel vivaio perenne? Pavese parla di prati di margherite, fiumi, finestre sulle scale. A me, nel cuore dell'inverno, vengono in mente le fresie. Fin dentro a dicembre, seduta da sola in questa pizza alla vigilia della Vigilia, lo sento, loro sono il fiore che annuncia l'arrivo della primavera. Anche le mimose lo fanno, e io sto già controllando per strada che i loro rami si stiano preparando per bene. Ma la mimosa pecca un po' di superbia, ed è sempre troppo lontana dalla mano. Se la tira, e va a finire che chiunque abbia voglia di incaponircisi, di arrampicarcisi, la spoglia e la svergogna, altro che superba. Le fresie invece sono la pianta infestante del giardino di casa mia. Sono già pronte, sotto i vasi delle loro colleghe, e anche se abbiamo pavimentato e coperto con erba finta, loro trovano il modo di ritornare e di farsi recidere generose. E fioriscono a marzo, il mese più crudele, checché ne dica Eliot. Hanno una pennellata di giallo su un solo petalo, per il resto sono di un bianco un po' sporco, mi ricordano da sempre l'incarnato della Madonna di legno nella chiesa piccola del mio quartiere, sbeccata, vecchia: la Madonna e la chiesa. Non esistono parole per descriverne il profumo: vale il sacrificio di portarsele a mazzetti dentro casa. E loro profumano più intensamente di notte, in giardino, sembra come se respirassero più forte. Da quando sono piccola, ogni anno è una gara a chi riesce a trovare la prima che sboccia. Ogni volta è come se fosse la prima fresia, anche se le vedo da sempre: noi non vediamo mai le cose una prima volta, ma sempre una seconda. Hanno saputo anche nascondersi ai miei occhi, come durante la primavera del Covid: io quell'anno non ne viste né sentite, di fresie, giuro. E ho paura che quest'anno potrebbe di nuovo essere così, chissà. Vorrei ritrovarle invece, perché in loro si conservano pensieri che restano troppo a fondo persino per le lacrime. Loro sono i fiori del mio vivaio perenne, una faticosa e tenera dolcezza.

[ukdamo]

The Convergence of the Twain

Thomas Hardy

(Lines on the loss of the "Titanic")

I In a solitude of the sea Deep from human vanity, And the Pride of Life that planned her, stilly couches she.

II Steel chambers, late the pyres Of her salamandrine fires, Cold currents thrid, and turn to rhythmic tidal lyres.

III Over the mirrors meant To glass the opulent The sea-worm crawls — grotesque, slimed, dumb, indifferent.

IV Jewels in joy designed To ravish the sensuous mind Lie lightless, all their sparkles bleared and black and blind.

V Dim moon-eyed fishes near Gaze at the gilded gear And query: "What does this vaingloriousness down here?" …

VI Well: while was fashioning This creature of cleaving wing, The Immanent Will that stirs and urges everything

VII Prepared a sinister mate For her — so gaily great — A Shape of Ice, for the time far and dissociate.

VIII And as the smart ship grew In stature, grace, and hue, In shadowy silent distance grew the Iceberg too.

IX Alien they seemed to be; No mortal eye could see The intimate welding of their later history,

X Or sign that they were bent By paths coincident On being anon twin halves of one august event,

XI Till the Spinner of the Years Said "Now!" And each one hears, And consummation comes, and jars two hemispheres.

[billherbert23]

Titanic Xenochronicity

I was blinking at social media when I noticed it was the anniversary of the sinking of the Titanic. I am often anniversary-averse, and especially leery of verse which commemorates in the personal mode of the lyric those events which are occasions of communal suffering. The poem which most immediately and obviously comes to mind re the Titanic, ‘Convergence of the Twain’, avoids this by taking a seemingly non-human perspective - although the Immanence of that Will doesn’t entirely avoid - or try to - ascribing moral intent to the tragic coincidence at its heart.

But on this occasion I was struck by a very small convergence - one of those evidently random events where you are less engaged by the coincidence and more by your own entirely human inability not to ascribe meaning to it. This is the slight uncanny sense I think of as xenochronicity: two rhythms or processes which have nothing to do with each other which nonetheless seem to be in synch, or rather to create a new rhythm or process, when they happen to overlap.

I had been going through past notes trying to find the latest draft of an old would-be blog post, and kept coming across the abandoned drafts of poems - about half of everything gets discarded at various stages of development, and these were the nearly first- or second-draft pieces. There is always a temptation to tinker again, to see if you can find the sticking point and redeem matters, and one such had indeed been a poem about the Titanic. I was writing lots of ‘wreck’ poems at the time, and this was a sketch for another.

Here there was a modulation missing, and, for whatever reason, the idea of the stokers came to me immediately, as though it had been sitting perfectly preserved in the sunken waters of the unconscious. (I’d been obsessing for some time over, variously: the ancient ships preserved in the anoxic depths of the Black Sea; and the underwater films of Franklin’s Erebus in the Arctic; and, most recently, of Shackleton’s Endurance in the Antarctic waters.) The oxymoron of the ‘icy coals’ clinched it, and I returned to my search.

Then, this morning, I read the story of the stoker Arthur John Priest, survivor of multiple sinkings - noting, of course, that the coincidence had to be redoubled: not just that it was the Titanic (naturally I hadn’t realised when revising that the anniversary was impending), but also that his profession was ‘stoker’…

With that came the memory that there had been another poem, drafted years before and itself inspired by the opening section of Hardy’s ‘Convergence’: ‘Over the mirrors meant/To glass the opulent/The sea-worm crawls…’ I’d used this poem to set up the idea of the book The Wreck of the Fathership, but hadn’t found a role for it in the book itself - again, a good percentage of the poems which gather or are gathered round a concept don’t fit the actuality.

This too was an image of a ship lying in deep water, but still being inhabited by the spirits of the drowned - the point being that I lost this poem for ages among my notes, and recovering it was one of the actions which meant, five or six years ago now, that I was embarking on the composition of The Wreck. Of course I now realise that I have lost it again.

*

The passengers transferred to the iceberg without incident

and began carving cabins in its sheer blue walls.

Most were content with a cavity to crawl in, scraped out with

embossed dessert spoons and grapefruit knives,

but a certain class of survivor insisted that the crew

should excavate en suites with ocean vistas

in half inch-thick ice portholes - though their plans

for a full drainage system were dialled back

when it was pointed out these too would be translucent

and their contents in transit might entertain those

huddled together in the ice caves of steerage.

Meanwhile in the ninety percent belowdecks

the stokers with their ice shovels shovelled icy coals

into the white furnace’s frozen open jaws.

[glitche-a-d]

-T i t a n i c-

[cassandrajdme]

I In a solitude of the sea Deep from human vanity, And the Pride of Life that planned her, stilly couches she. II Steel chambers, late the pyres Of her salamandrine fires, Cold currents thrid, and turn to rhythmic tidal lyres. III Over the mirrors meant To glass the opulent The sea-worm crawls — grotesque, slimed, dumb, indifferent. IV Jewels in joy designed To ravish the sensuous mind Lie lightless, all their sparkles bleared and black and blind. V Dim moon-eyed fishes near Gaze at the gilded gear And query: “What does this vaingloriousness down here?” … VI Well: while was fashioning This creature of cleaving wing, The Immanent Will that stirs and urges everything VII Prepared a sinister mate For her — so gaily great — A Shape of Ice, for the time far and dissociate. VIII And as the smart ship grew In stature, grace, and hue, In shadowy silent distance grew the Iceberg too. IX Alien they seemed to be; No mortal eye could see The intimate welding of their later history, X Or sign that they were bent By paths coincident On being anon twin halves of one august event, XI Till the Spinner of the Years Said “Now!” And each one hears, And consummation comes, and jars two hemispheres.

The Convergence of the Twain Thomas Hardy

[cybermediaglobal]

The Convergence of the Twain

The Convergence of the Twain

A Poem by Thomas Hardy (Lines on the loss of the “Titanic”) I             In a solitude of the sea            Deep from human vanity,And the Pride of Life that planned her, stilly couches she. II            Steel chambers, late the pyres            Of her salamandrine fires,Cold currents thrid, and turn to rhythmic tidal lyres. III            Over the mirrors meant            To glass the…

[leanpick]

How Truman Capote Betrayed His High-Society ‘Swans’

How Truman Capote Betrayed His High-Society ‘Swans’

CAPOTE’S WOMENA True Story of Love, Betrayal, and a Swan Song for an EraBy Laurence Leamer There’s a poem by Thomas Hardy, ��The Convergence of the Twain,” which chronicles the construction of the Titanic, in all its opulence, and the simultaneous formation of its “sinister mate” — the iceberg that is set to destroy it: “And as the smart ship grew / In stature, grace and hue, / In shadowy silent…

[rumdaydreams]

         ❝                In a solitude of the sea                            Deep from human vanity,               And the Pride of Life that planted her, stilly couches she.                            Steel Chambers, late the pyres                            Of her salamandrine fires,               Cold currents third, and turn to rhythmic tidal lyres.    ❞

@stcrbcund​ || “The Convergence of the Twain” (1914) — Thomas Hardy

≼  Thomas Hardy is often considered the bridge between the Victorians and the Moderns because he writes with a style that contains both. “The Convergence of the Twain” was composed upon the sinking of the Titanic. And so, the poem tells the tragic love story of a ship meeting a clandestine lover that will, in time, be her downfall. The poem plays on trite romantic themes to convey the tragedy of the disaster--not of the people aboard, though, but of losing such a magnificent ship. ��

[boykeats]

two things - keaton, u are an absolute babe and what do u think about thomas hardy and his novels ? personally i loooved tess d'urbervilles, far from the madding crowd and jude the obscure (people def weren't exaggerating when they said that one was depressing huh)

i’ve read tess and i enjoyed it immensely! i read it on a long bus ride while traveling through the british countryside right after i’d turned eighteen, so it came into my life at a nice time. i haven’t read far from the madding crowd, but i adore both its 1967 and 2015 film adaptations, so i’m sure that when i do get around to reading it, it’ll be a good one. and i’ve heard jude is highly depressing!

have you read any of his poetry? we talk about his novels all the time, but his poetry, while perhaps too fatalistic for my tastes, excels at exploring the wild harshness of nature. i think the one people know him for is ‘convergence of the twain’ (about the titanic), but i also appreciate ‘at the piano’ and ‘at lulworth cove a century back’

[ukdamo]

The Convergence of the Twain

Thomas Hardy

(Lines on the loss of the "Titanic")

I

In a solitude of the sea

Deep from human vanity,

And the Pride of Life that planned her, stilly couches she.

II

Steel chambers, late the pyres

Of her salamandrine fires,

Cold currents thrid, and turn to rhythmic tidal lyres.

III

Over the mirrors meant

To glass the opulent

The sea-worm crawls — grotesque, slimed, dumb, indifferent.

IV

Jewels in joy designed

To ravish the sensuous mind

Lie lightless, all their sparkles bleared and black and blind.

V

Dim moon-eyed fishes near

Gaze at the gilded gear

And query: "What does this vaingloriousness down here?" ...

VI

Well: while was fashioning

This creature of cleaving wing,

The Immanent Will that stirs and urges everything

VII

Prepared a sinister mate

For her — so gaily great —

A Shape of Ice, for the time far and dissociate.

VIII

And as the smart ship grew

In stature, grace, and hue,

In shadowy silent distance grew the Iceberg too.

IX

Alien they seemed to be;

No mortal eye could see

The intimate welding of their later history,

X

Or sign that they were bent

By paths coincident

On being anon twin halves of one august event,

XI

Till the Spinner of the Years

Said "Now!" And each one hears,

And consummation comes, and jars two hemispheres.

[beyondthegoblincity]

And as the smart ship grew In stature, grace, and hue, In shadowy silent distance grew the Iceberg too.

--excerpt from The Convergence of the Twain by Thomas Hardy

[dracolizardlars]

Texts I had to read and write essays about for school in year 9 onwards, from best to worst:

Mrs Dalloway

Twelfth Night 

The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde

An Ideal Husband

Tales of Mystery and Imagination

Sense and Sensibility

Macbeth

The Tempest

A collection of Christina Rossetti poems 

A collection of Thomas Hardy poems

I love them all down to and including Tales of Mystery and Imagination. I do like S&S and Macbeth, I feel like I might like The Tempest if I had another look at it but at the time it severely bored me... but I really hate writing essays on poetry. Plus my taste in poetry is rather narrow, and I vastly prefer either modern or Romantic poetry over that largely boring Victorian bullshit. (I’m a little fond of Goblin Market, Winter: My Secret and Maude Clare from the Rossetti collection, however. The only Hardy poem I remember liking was The Convergence of the Twain.)