Musings

My Struggle With Literary Narcissism

“Jealousy is the essence of narcissism.”

I have a confession to make: I am jealous of other poets, which makes me guilty of one of the seven deadly sins.

Jealousy is the essence of narcissism because it presupposes that I deserve more than you—although there can be no judge beyond my own ego to confirm this notion, except in staged competitions like spelling bees.  Christ pointed out that anger was a form of murder, and jealousy certainly contains anger.  “But I tell you that anyone who is angry with his brother will be subject to judgment.”  The judgment referred to, is, of course, death.  Understood more psychologically, jealousy is soul-killing and damages the jealous more than the envied.

The three most famous tales of brothers in the Bible all involve jealousy.   Cain killed Abel because Cain was jealous of God’s preference for Abel’s offering.  Jacob was jealous of Esau’s birthright, stole it through subterfuge, and afterwards fled out of fear.  Out of jealousy Joseph’s brothers left him for dead in a pit in the desert. 

In all these cases one thing stands out: God plays favorites.  He did not not love Cain, and Cain, despite being first-born, had to live with this:  “The Lord looked with favor on Abel and his offering, but on Cain and his offering he did not look with favor.”  There is no direct explanation of why one offering was preferred.  But it was enough for Cain to kill Abel.  Tough luck, Cain.  Worse luck, Abel.

Deep down, with all defenses stripped, in the psyche of the brute within us, wouldn’t we all do this if we could get away with it?  Murder the person we think unfairly preferred above us, rid the world of an inferior writer who won a Pulitzer, for instance, and give ourselves the prize?  Because it just isn’t fair, is it?

It gets worse.  “Jacob I loved but Esau I hated,” God says.  Jacob, a liar and a cheat who stole his older brother’s birthright through subterfuge, was preferred over Esau from birth.  All we know about Esau is that he was a somewhat impulsive man who liked to hunt.  His father, Isaac, enjoyed wild game and thus favored him, whereas Jacob’s mother favored Jacob.  But what did Esau do to deserve such treatment?  He was a victim of a cosmic preference.  The Bible offers no excuse for this preference except God’s sovereignty.

All this is ancient history, but here’s my point: some people are luckier, or more cosmically favored, than others, and as has been well said, “It’s better to be lucky than good.”  So here’s my dilemma: my success as a writer has been commercially dismal, even if I have garnered a small reputation, primarily on the net.  Although I likely have upwards 500  publications in the last ten years—mainly in obscure magazines, with a few good ones thrown in—I have earned less than a thousand dollars and have never been invited to appear at a major venue or festival or seminar or retreat or whatever actually earns poets more than pin money.  Some of my online students, in fact, seem to be enjoying more success than I (I teach an online poetry tutorial, as teaching pays better than writing, though not much). 

No one can be trusted to assess the literary value of his or her own work objectively, which invalidates jealousy a priori; still, there’s nothing like real comparisons to make a point.  So I’m going to stick my neck out.  I honestly think I’m a better poet than the late Robert Creeley, who was twice nominated for the  Pulitzer and received the $100,000 Lenore Marshall prize.  My feelings for him go beyond jealousy to almost a prideful condescension. If I truly humble myself, so I sometimes think, perhaps I’ll see more value in his work.  So far I’ve not succeeded.  As it is, though he walks among the dead, I feel a sense of injustice when I think of his acclaim, and I could say the same about a number of other poets, living and dead.  Here are two examples from his work:

Ballad of the Despairing Husband (first two stanzas)

My wife and I lived all alone,
contention was our only bone.
I fought with her, she fought with me
And things went on right merrily.

But now I live here by myself
With hardly a damn thing on the shelf
And pass my days with little cheer
Since I have parted from my dear.

The Token

My lady
fair with
soft
arms, what

can I say to
you—words, words
as if all
worlds were there.

I try to read his poems ironically to give him the benefit of the doubt, but his voice doesn’t bear this out.  Is his adolescent, or even infantile “anti-poetry” an advance in art, a statement, or is it just bad?  Even Bukowski has more imagery in his work. You ask yourself, did Creeley choose rhymes for their idiocy intentionally? Because he is quite fond of rhyming badly. Here’s more of Creeley if the reader wants it: 

Poems of Robert Creeley

Should the reader want to compare my work with Creeley’s, here are a few links:

Big Bridge: Nocturne
Avatar; Wading the Smith, Mesquite
Kudzu: Eastern Sierra

If I truly believe I’m a better poet (and I am), why should I be jealous of poor Mr. Creeley? Even my harshest critic, my wife and fellow poet Kathleen, agrees that I’m much better than he. In terms of achievement, then, shouldn’t I be satisfied with what excellence I’ve achieved? Aye, there’s the rub; if only Creeley hadn’t been 1) Famous; 2) Formerly the Chancellor of the American Academy of Poets; 3) The winner of some of the most prestigious prizes in American literature, twice nominated for the Pulitzer; 4) Someone who published more than 60 books; 5) Favored by top journals; 6) In personal communication with prominent poets I admire; 7) Accorded an actual living through his poetry and teaching.

“Robert I loved but CE I hated.” It should be that simple for me, yes? Why should I torture myself with the unfounded belief that the universe is fair when even the Bible confirms cosmic favoritism? Why do I think I merit equal recognition or better? My mother preached success through merit, and the academic system makes the same mistake, but such illusions, bestowed in a controlled environment, have nothing to do with the real world in any field of endeavor.

To be jealous of another is to be cruel to myself, as Jesus implied. It makes me the self-appointed center of the universe. Since this is patently untrue, jealousy warps me by insisting on a false sense of self-esteem for which I lack external evidence (I mean, I haven’t been nominated for the Pulitzer). I tell myself I should not be jealous; still, my frustration with recognized artists whom I believe (and not a few others agree) are my inferiors, itches like crumbs under the skin of my egotistical rhinoceros. (Even if my rhinoceros were in accord with reality, there is no proof of his existence.)

Success also has to do with persistence, and I know I don’t submit to the quality journals enough. But the certainty of rejection from them far outweighs any vestige of hope in me, although I recently steeled myself to send out seven envelopes; only one has not returned yet with a rejection slip, but I have no doubt it will. Strangely, after I receive a rejection, suddenly, in a flash of insight, I notice everything that’s wrong with my poems and usually agree with the editors. Even so, it is often hard to distinguish between luck and mediocrity. I try not to send mediocre work out, but who am I to judge my own work? It is so much easier to judge the work of others.

Should I admit to myself I am a journeyman, destined only to entertain myself and a few others with my poetry, condemned to the underworld of “I could have been a contender?” Should I turn critic like William Logan and macerate the anointed in vengeful sweetness? Should I blow off poetry altogether and concentrate on paying non-fiction?

Here’s the problem re-stated: I feel I ought to be more recognized as a poet, given the competition extant. But I suppose I should face reality: it’s simply not true. It could be my work is slightly anachronistic, so style works against me, but that’s no excuse; I could change my style if I want to be successful, even at this late date.

Acceptance is what I need (and not just from The Paris Review!). Sometimes by reading other contemporary poets of reputation I see their virtues and can better accept my place, but when I read a poem in The New Yorker that simply sucks, it does irritate me. Then my judgment is somewhat suspect due to my jealousy. The New Yorker doesn’t want my poems in any case, even if it sometimes publishes good ones.

How many of you, fellow writers, experience this jealous anger? How do you cope on a good day? I tell my students that the only reason to write a poem is for its own sake. But that admonition sometimes sounds hollow to someone with hundreds of publications and little to show for it except Google hits. I suppose my mantra should be: “Work harder and don’t worry about the other guy. Follow your vision, and if it does not find favor in the world, at least comfort yourself with artistic integrity.”

That’s a noble and Parnassian view but I can’t wholly embrace it. I want a medal, a scroll, a festival in my name! On the other hand, jealousy won’t help my art. So when I wish to be delivered from the feeling that I deserve better, I should think more of Cain, Esau, and Joseph’s brothers, because “Life’s not fair, dumbass!”

Is there a way to work humbly while hoping to get lucky? Frost didn’t publish his first book until the age of 40, and then only in England and with Pound’s help. Despite a record four Pulitzers, he is rumored to have died a bitter man, partly because he never received the Nobel, though I agree that he should have. Still: “Pearl Buck I loved but Robert Frost I hated.” “Toni Morrison I loved but Robertson Davies I hated.”

Imagine if poetry were like baseball. True athletic talent eventually breaks into the big leagues; it is unavoidable—because performance can be measured in statistics. But how can a poet break into the “big leagues?” Am I not justified in emphasizing the cosmic forces of luck in this conundrum? It’s even easier to separate good from mediocre actors than marginal from decent poets. The heavens must intervene!

Yet old, unlucky poets should not give in to bitterness. Their curse must certainly be that they can’t give up writing. One reason to hope is to believe their art has yet to mature to the point of recognition (though this is mostly a pipe dream). The best antidote for jealousy (or just a lingering sense of unfairness) is to lose oneself in the poetry of others, recovering the joy that led one to write in the first place. Yet at 50, with a few glaring exceptions, most poets’ best work is behind them. Still, let the band play on. The soloist is not always the best player.