[Aaron Poochigian]

I have always been excited about the first section of Stevens’ “Esthétique du Mal” but, on re-reading it this time, I felt it was as great as “Sunday Morning” and “Ideas of Order at Key West:”

Esthétique du Mal

I

He was at Naples writing letters home
And, between letters, reading paragraphs
On the sublime. Vesuvius had groaned
For a month. It was pleasant to be sitting there
While the sultriest fulgurations, flickering,
Cast corners in the glass. He could describe
The terror of the sound because the sound
Was ancient. He tried to remember the phrases: pain
Audible at noon, pain torturing itself,
Pain killing pain on the very point of pain.
The volcano trembled in another ether,
As the body trembles at the end of life.

It was almost time for lunch. Pain is human.
There were roses in the cool café. His book
Made sure of the most correct catastrophe.
Except for us, Vesuvius might consume
In solid fire the utmost earth and know
No pain (ignoring the cocks that crow us up
To die). This is a part of the sublime
From which we shrink. And yet, except for us,
The total past felt nothing when destroyed.


Whereas “Sunday Morning” and “Idea of Orders at Key West” belong to Stevens’ “vatic” voice,” this piece is, for the most part, novelistic. We get the great banal contrast of “It was almost time for lunch” between a lofty simile and a universal statement:

The volcano trembled in another ether,
As the body trembles at the end of life.

It was almost time for lunch.

Pain is human.

. . . . .

Yes, these twenty one lines are greatness.