Charles Simic is a sharp story-teller, especially for the short attention span. Snapping photos of what would’ve been mundane to most, he connects an object or situation to a person’s heart and motive.
Example:
Another story about time. This one about the time it took them to quit their cells after beginning to suspect that the Germans were gone. In that huge prison in Milan all of a sudden you could hear a pin drop. Eventually they thought it best to remove their shoes before walking out. My father was still tiptoeing hours later crossing a large empty piazza. There was a full moon above the dark palaces. His heart was in his mouth. “It was just like an opera stage,” he says. “All lit up, but nobody in the audience, and nobody in the orchestra pit. Nevertheless, I felt like singing. Or perhaps screaming?” He did neither. The year was 1944.
What equally stands out about Simic is his humor, especially page 84 when he offers up the private moments of famous dead authors.
I have an affection for Holocaust stories. Simic also branches into religion, politics, God, the near-worship of poetry, self-chiding remarks, and the life of the immigrant, which also appeals to me very much. The latter part of the book is strong on defining poetry in thoughtful prose. Some of Simic’s entries look like notebook scribbles but better than the notebook scribbles in most other people’s notebooks.
Toward the end, his irreverence and crudeness chipped a bit at my spirit, and if I had to sit alone in a room with Simic, I imagine it wouldn’t be terribly long before I thought of something pressing waiting for me elsewhere. Having said that, his voice is one that easily rubs off on my own when I write. His book The World Doesn’t End is the next book of poetry on my to-read list.
~ Jawja
