A Note on the Work of the Imagination by Denise Levertov
A Note on the Work of the Imagination by Denise Levertov
The work of the imagination, its far-reaching and faithful permeation of those details that, in a work of art, illuminate the whole, was recently illustrated for me in a dream with particular clarity.
I had been dreaming of a large house, set in a flat landscape, and of its history, which is not relevant here. At a certain point I half awoke; and when I returned to the dream I was conscious that I was dreaming. Still close to the threshold of waking, I knew very well that I was lying down for an afternoon nap, in my son's room, because there the street noises would hardly reach me; that though I had a blanket over me I was cold; and that he would soon be home from school and I must get up. But all this was unimportant: what gripped me was the knowledge that I was dreaming, and vividly. A black, white, and gray tiled pavement I crossed -- how "real" it felt under my feet! To see, as I saw the poplar avenue and the bluish misty fields around the large buildings, was good, but at no time is it hard to call up scenes to the mind's eye; it was the sensations of touch -- the pavement felt through the ball of the foot, the handle of a door in my hand -- and the space -- the outdoors sensation first, then the spaces of rooms and of the confinement of corridors and of turns in the corridors when I re-entered the house -- that interested me, in being so complete even though I knew I was dreaming.
At lenght I came into a small bedroom fitted with a washbasin and mirror, and the idea came to me of looking in the mirror as a test of how far in fidelity the dream would go; but I was afraid. I was afraid the mirror would show me a blank, or a strange face. I was afraid of the fright that this would give me. However, I dared: and approached the mirror. It was rather high on the wall, and not tilted; so what first appeared, as I slowly drew near, was the top of my head. But yes, surely something was wrong -- a misty whiteness glimmered there.
I crept nearer still, and standing straight, almost on tiptoe, now saw my whole face, my usual face-in-the-glass -- pale, the dary eyes somewhat anxious, but in no way changed of lacing, or causing me fear. What then was the radiant glimmer that had startled me just before?
Why! -- in the dark, somewhat fluffy hair was a network of little dew or mist diamonds, like spider's webs on a fall morning! The creative unconscious -- the imagination -- had provided, instead of a fright, this exquisitely realistic detail. For hadn't I been walking in the misty fields in the dewfall hour? Just so, then, would my damp hair look. I awoke in delight, reminded forcibly of just what it is we love in the greatest writers -- what quality, above all others, surely, makes us open ourselves freely to Homer, Shakespeare, Tolstoy, Hardy -- that following through, that permeation of detail -- relevant, illuminating detail -- which marks the total imagination, distinct from intellect, at work. "The mind's tongue, working and tasting into the very rock heart" as Ruskin wrote of Turner. The feared Hoffmanesque blank -- the possible monster or stranger -- would have illustrated the work of Fancy, that "by irressistible wires puts marionettes in motion, and pins butterflies to blotting-paper, and plays Little-Go among the Fairies" (Landor, in Imaginary Conversations). And mere Reason can place two eyes and a nose where we suppose them to be. But it was Imagination put seed pearls of summer fog in Tess Durbeyfield's hair (and "an intenser little fog amid the prevailing one," as a friendly cow breathed in recognition of her approach) -- and it was the same holy, independent faculty that sprinkled my hair with winter-evening diamonds.
We sigh -- or I do -- for the days when whole cultures were infused with noble simplicity; when though there were cruelty and grief, there was no ugliness; when King Alcinoüs himself stowed the bronze pots for Odysseus under the rowers' benches; when from shepherd's pope and warrior's sandal to palace door and bard's song, all was well made. Any culture worth the name, in fact, though "noble simplicity" may be partially an illusion, has the quality of harmony; the bloodstream flows right to the fingertips and the toes; no matter how complex the structure, the parts accord with the whole. Our age appears to me a chaos and our environment lacks the qualities for which one could call it a culture. But by way of consolation we have this knowledge of pwer that perhaps no one in such a supposed harmonious time had; what in the greatest poets is recognizable as Imagination, that breathing of life into the dust, is present in us all embryonically -- manifests itself in the life of dream -- and in that manifestation shows us the possibility: to permeate, to quicken, all of our life and the works we make. What joy to be reminded by truth in dream that the Imagination does not arise from the environment but has the power to create it!
[from The Poet in the World (New Directions, 1973); orginally published in New Directions in Prose and Poetry 17 (New Directions, 1961)]
The work of the imagination, its far-reaching and faithful permeation of those details that, in a work of art, illuminate the whole, was recently illustrated for me in a dream with particular clarity.
I had been dreaming of a large house, set in a flat landscape, and of its history, which is not relevant here. At a certain point I half awoke; and when I returned to the dream I was conscious that I was dreaming. Still close to the threshold of waking, I knew very well that I was lying down for an afternoon nap, in my son's room, because there the street noises would hardly reach me; that though I had a blanket over me I was cold; and that he would soon be home from school and I must get up. But all this was unimportant: what gripped me was the knowledge that I was dreaming, and vividly. A black, white, and gray tiled pavement I crossed -- how "real" it felt under my feet! To see, as I saw the poplar avenue and the bluish misty fields around the large buildings, was good, but at no time is it hard to call up scenes to the mind's eye; it was the sensations of touch -- the pavement felt through the ball of the foot, the handle of a door in my hand -- and the space -- the outdoors sensation first, then the spaces of rooms and of the confinement of corridors and of turns in the corridors when I re-entered the house -- that interested me, in being so complete even though I knew I was dreaming.
At lenght I came into a small bedroom fitted with a washbasin and mirror, and the idea came to me of looking in the mirror as a test of how far in fidelity the dream would go; but I was afraid. I was afraid the mirror would show me a blank, or a strange face. I was afraid of the fright that this would give me. However, I dared: and approached the mirror. It was rather high on the wall, and not tilted; so what first appeared, as I slowly drew near, was the top of my head. But yes, surely something was wrong -- a misty whiteness glimmered there.
I crept nearer still, and standing straight, almost on tiptoe, now saw my whole face, my usual face-in-the-glass -- pale, the dary eyes somewhat anxious, but in no way changed of lacing, or causing me fear. What then was the radiant glimmer that had startled me just before?
Why! -- in the dark, somewhat fluffy hair was a network of little dew or mist diamonds, like spider's webs on a fall morning! The creative unconscious -- the imagination -- had provided, instead of a fright, this exquisitely realistic detail. For hadn't I been walking in the misty fields in the dewfall hour? Just so, then, would my damp hair look. I awoke in delight, reminded forcibly of just what it is we love in the greatest writers -- what quality, above all others, surely, makes us open ourselves freely to Homer, Shakespeare, Tolstoy, Hardy -- that following through, that permeation of detail -- relevant, illuminating detail -- which marks the total imagination, distinct from intellect, at work. "The mind's tongue, working and tasting into the very rock heart" as Ruskin wrote of Turner. The feared Hoffmanesque blank -- the possible monster or stranger -- would have illustrated the work of Fancy, that "by irressistible wires puts marionettes in motion, and pins butterflies to blotting-paper, and plays Little-Go among the Fairies" (Landor, in Imaginary Conversations). And mere Reason can place two eyes and a nose where we suppose them to be. But it was Imagination put seed pearls of summer fog in Tess Durbeyfield's hair (and "an intenser little fog amid the prevailing one," as a friendly cow breathed in recognition of her approach) -- and it was the same holy, independent faculty that sprinkled my hair with winter-evening diamonds.
We sigh -- or I do -- for the days when whole cultures were infused with noble simplicity; when though there were cruelty and grief, there was no ugliness; when King Alcinoüs himself stowed the bronze pots for Odysseus under the rowers' benches; when from shepherd's pope and warrior's sandal to palace door and bard's song, all was well made. Any culture worth the name, in fact, though "noble simplicity" may be partially an illusion, has the quality of harmony; the bloodstream flows right to the fingertips and the toes; no matter how complex the structure, the parts accord with the whole. Our age appears to me a chaos and our environment lacks the qualities for which one could call it a culture. But by way of consolation we have this knowledge of pwer that perhaps no one in such a supposed harmonious time had; what in the greatest poets is recognizable as Imagination, that breathing of life into the dust, is present in us all embryonically -- manifests itself in the life of dream -- and in that manifestation shows us the possibility: to permeate, to quicken, all of our life and the works we make. What joy to be reminded by truth in dream that the Imagination does not arise from the environment but has the power to create it!
[from The Poet in the World (New Directions, 1973); orginally published in New Directions in Prose and Poetry 17 (New Directions, 1961)]
posted by Ismael Ricardo Archbold at 2/04/2006 09:26:00 PM
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