The Conversation Continues
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To return to my December 2002 Barbaric Yawp interview with John Berbrich, click here.
To read our original 2001 interview, click here, or on the “Interviews” link, at right.
William Michaelian: Nope — not an elf in sight. Say, have you seen my new blog? I just started it a couple of days ago.
John Berbrich: Wow, pretty neat. And thanks for the link. I wonder where the word blog came from?
William Michaelian: I think it’s just a shortened version of two words: web log. And I like your new website, by the way. Looks like they finally dragged us both into the twenty-first century.
John Berbrich: Yeah. I don’t know about you but I’m a little out of breath w/ all these changes. I’ll tell you what though — here in the 21st century, the old Earth is still a pretty cool place.
William Michaelian: That it is. And really, the whole concept of centuries, time, history, and all that — it’s just a bit of fluff in the wind. Give me a shovel, a little place to dig, and I’m happy.
John Berbrich: Just like a dog. Some shade, some sun. Food & water, a ball to chase now & then. What could be better, really?
William Michaelian: Hey, how about this for a title — “Portrait of the Dog as a Young Artist.”
John Berbrich: Not bad. Which reminds me — have we ever discussed Dylan Thomas’s collection of short stories, Portrait of the Artist as a Young Dog? Oh, it’s a rollicking adventure through his post-adolescence. Hilarious, filled w/ energy & quick shots of pathos.
William Michaelian: You’ve mentioned it before, but I still haven’t read it. I didn’t know Thomas had a post-adolescence. I read something somewhere awhile back, about his inability to sleep at night after wild binges, and reading and eating mountains of candy in bed, which left him with a mouthful of rotten teeth.
John Berbrich: I didn’t know about the candy. I thought he survived strictly on alcohol. Say, did you get those Yawps I mailed you last week?
William Michaelian: Aye, that I did. I caught them at the train station, trying to leave town. I’ve never seen three more guilty looking guys in my life.
John Berbrich: You possess amazing powers of discernment. Yes, they’re guilty — we’re all guilty! cry the Existentialists.
William Michaelian: And you should have heard what one of them said to me. Luckily I had my recorder. Listen — and tell me if he doesn’t sound exactly like Dylan Thomas.
John Berbrich: Interesting. We played that poem on the Howie & the Wolfman radio show about a month ago. And you’re right, it does sound exactly like Dylan Thomas.
William Michaelian: It’s the greatest impersonation I’ve ever heard. And in his pocket were three newsletters about the monthly doings of a group called the St. Lawrence Area Poets, or SLAP for short. Apparently this group of oddballs gets together at some weird place called the Partridge Café, in “downtown Canton.” Wherever that is. There are poems in the newsletters, and on the front pages there are these great quotes from famous poets. The poet is the priest of the invisible, for instance, by Wallace Stevens. And, I am overwhelmed by the beautiful disorder of poetry, the eternal virginity of words, by Theodore Roethke. And another by good old Henry Wadsworth Longfellow himself: As to the pure mind all things are pure, so to the poetic mind all things are poetical. Thought-provoking, all three of them.
John Berbrich: I’ve heard of that poetry group. I understand that some of the members are working on a real classy website. Should be up soon, so they say.
William Michaelian: That’s good news. You might suggest, if no one has already, the inclusion of some audio files. A link to your reading and interview on North Country Public Radio in upstate New York would be quite appropriate, I think. It’s an excellent eight-minute session. Of course you can always link to Dylan Thomas. And then there’s this great link to James Joyce reading from Finnegans Wake. This is not the same one we talked about way back when, but another one I found when I discovered awhile back that the link had died, or temporarily gone offline, or whatever it is links do. I like the reading so much I included a link in Recently Banned Literature.
John Berbrich: Yeah, we were planning on audio files. Film clips too, from our readings. The next reading is at the St. Lawrence County Arts Council this Friday evening, April 18th, @ 6:00. The featured poet will be Dale Hobson, the fellow who interviewed me on the radio. Should be a swell time.
William Michaelian: Hey, that sounds like a dinner-show. I can see you now, gliding among the tables while people are sipping their wine, Do not go gentle into that good night — oops. Wrong poem.
John Berbrich: Aw, you were thinking of Ferlinghetti’s marvelous poem, “Underwear.” A very serious subject.
William Michaelian: Indeed. Do not go naked into that good night. Can you imagine Dylan Thomas reading that one?
John Berbrich: I can, actually. I expect he would crack up, I mean start laughing. If he were drunk he might start stripping.
William Michaelian: What do you mean if he were drunk? Rage, rage against the dying of the light — ever since I played that recording in the house the other day, we all go around saying that in low, booming voices. Well, some of us, anyway. . . . Actually, I’m the only one, and everyone’s sick of it.
John Berbrich: Including you, I suppose.
William Michaelian: No, I’m not sick of it. I’m just getting started. Rage, rage — but I am sick of myself. So, tell me about Dale Hobson.
John Berbrich: Dale Hobson is a fine, artistic, knowledgeable man. He works for North Country Radio, conducting interviews & pulling together all sorts of creative shows. He’s lived in northern New York for many years now. And he seems to know nearly everyone, & is aware of all north country issues. And what’s most important, he’s a fine poet.
William Michaelian: Excellent. Judging by his voice, he sounds like he’s roughly about our age. Has he had many books published? Rage, rage — sorry. Just clearing my throat.
John Berbrich: Bless you. His second chapbook, The Water I Carry, was published by Benevolent Bird Press in Delmar, New York, earlier this year. Water appears in every poem, in the form of rain, ice, sweat, a river. It’s personal north country poetry w/ a strong attention to detail. We see swamps & forests & old trailers. Snow so deep people are trapped in their homes. The scenes are embellished by strands of philosophical musing. It’s a satisfying book to read.
William Michaelian: Wow. It sounds almost as if it would drip into your lap while you’re reading it. Or freeze suddenly and stick to your hands. I guess he’ll be reading from The Water I Carry at your SLAP get-together. Tell you what — could you grab a copy for me while you’re there? Let me know what it costs, and I’ll send you the dough, plus fifty dollars, of course, for postage and handling.
John Berbrich: $50.00 — you cheapskate! Oh, okay. By the way, the reading was quite successful. I sold one copy of Balancing Act. Four SLAP members read, plus two poets from the audience availed themselves of the open-mike. It’s a nice venue, the St. Lawrence County Arts Council — I suspect we’ll be making a habit of reading there.
William Michaelian: Good — they’ll never know what hit ’em. Say, did Mr. Hobson make his entrance carrying a long flexible pole with a bucket of water hanging on each end?
John Berbrich: No, but it’s not a bad idea. Actually, it is a bad idea. Where do you come up w/ this crazy stuff?
William Michaelian: I don’t know, really. But it sounded more logical than arriving with a horse-drawn ice wagon. People might have thought it was a marketing ploy.
John Berbrich: We should have tossed water balloons around. Now there’s a good idea.
William Michaelian: Well, for a summer reading, maybe. Say, I got a big kick out of your Howie and the Wolfman radio show today. Thanks for almost playing “Positively 4th Street.” What was that poetry reading again?
John Berbrich: That was “Zimmer Imagines Heaven” by Paul Zimmer. Sounds like a wonderful place, the way he describes it. I can see our Junk Poem Shop right down the road.
William Michaelian: Ah, yes. That was a lovely little list he constructed. Yeats, Whitman, Brahms with his cigars, Roberto Clemente. And at the end, pleasing God with the observation that heaven is “being thankful for eternity,” and her subsequent smile being “the best part of the day.”
John Berbrich: Indeed, a lovely little piece. Yes, Willie, my good man — if you have some recordings of yourself on CD, send them along. I’d love to play them. We feature one poem each Saturday. Remember, it’s college radio — keep it clean.
William Michaelian: Oh, yes — we certainly wouldn’t want to upset those wide-eyed innocent college kids. But seriously, recording is something I can do now. I’ve been using a cheap little mic with fair success, but a good friend of mine who’s familiar with such things stepped in recently and ordered me a much better one. It should arrive some time next week. After I get used to it, I’ll see if I can put a little something together. How about you? Do you have any home recordings lying around?
John Berbrich: Actually, no. But if you go to the BoneWorld Publishing website & click on “Flailing Skeletons,” you’ll be able to see me in action last Friday night. Those were the first two poems I read.
William Michaelian: Hey, that turned out well. I remember the second poem. You did a great job, especially considering how short both are. Good delivery — serious, elegant, almost Shakespearean. You ham.
John Berbrich: I am a ham, I admit it. I feel so much energy at a reading. I feel as though I have the crowd, you know? It’s a wonderful experience, so much good mojo bouncing & flowing. It affects everyone present.
William Michaelian: I suspect, if they were visible, we’d be amazed at the those currents flowing through the room. About how long did you read? I assume you got into some longer pieces — something from Balancing Act, maybe?
John Berbrich: Let’s see. I read those two, plus one longer poem, followed by three from Balancing Act, so maybe 10 minutes in all.
William Michaelian: What? No encore? Say, what do you know about Paul Zimmer?
John Berbrich: No more than you can find by googling his name. I think he’s still alive & would now be in his 70’s. I like his voice.
William Michaelian: Pretty agreeable. And for answering that question correctly, you win this quote from Chapter 3 of Murphy, by Samuel Beckett:
“She felt, as she felt so often with Murphy, spattered with words that went dead as soon as they sounded; each word obliterated, before it had time to make sense, by the word that came next; so that in the end she did not know what had been said. It was like difficult music heard for the first time.”
Eh? Definitely not a description of the Zimmer reading.
John Berbrich: No. Zimmer has a gentle way about him. Beckett doesn’t.
William Michaelian: Let’s see. Spattered, went dead, obliterated, difficult. Yeah, I guess you’re right. But it does give me an idea. Why not write a whole series of poems based on Zimmer’s? I could start with “Beckett Imagines Heaven,” and then move on to Joyce and Twain and — and good god that sounds like a lot of work.
John Berbrich: It sure as heck does. How about starting w/ “Michaelian Imagines Heaven”?
William Michaelian: I just might do that. But first, how about a little warm-up:
Heaven
When long ago
you imagined heaven,
was it anything
like this?
You have a heaven poem yourself, if I remember correctly.
John Berbrich: Yeah. Here it is, if you wanna see it again.
William Michaelian: I hate to say it, but you just sent me a blank document. So I did a quick search and found the poem online. This is the one I was thinking of. A lovely poem.
Heaven is filled with
little crooked streets
and neighbors who always return
what they borrow
The rivers dive deep
between the cloudbanks
filled with fish, sparkling under
the noon-day sun
Nights are cool
more stars than you can count
blacker than Satan’s heart
sweeter than an apple
There’s a little five and dime
with bargains twenty-four seven
on a quiet street corner
beneath a glowing lamp
Maybe we’ll meet there, you
and I, when it’s all finished and done
on that little corner
of eternity
John Berbrich: Thank you. I meant to write a whole series of Heaven poems. Hasn’t happened yet. Although I have written several poems relating to God, the gods, & things theological. Have written about the other side too, the place where it gets really hot even in the winter. Those latter works seem to come more easily for some reason.
William Michaelian: Hmm. I wonder why that would be. So. Let’s see. God poems, eh? I’ve written a handful myself. Here’s one:
Let There Be Light
When God uttered
his absurd command,
he was standing here,
upon this stone.
And yet, so help me,
darkness was not dark
until light was born.
This is where
Adam first spied
the radiant Eve,
wearing nothing
but a smile,
with the sunset
in her hair.
Feel their warm
impressions
in the ground,
beyond which
great herds
of unnamed animals
roamed.
Then Cain, then Abel
were conceived,
and from their
sweat and blood
blue-eyed
thistles grew.
While Adam dug
and Eve sewed,
God wondered
what to do.
He stopped here,
looking for an answer,
and here, and here,
taking solace
in the night.
John Berbrich: Whoa. I like that one. God, the giant bully, wondering what to do next. It is a lovely poem, in its way, Willie. Everything seems sort of clear & uncomplicated at that point, at least for the humans. It makes me uncomfortable to hear people talk about God’s plan. Like this is all some big show. I much prefer the idea that He/She created things, designed them too, & just sits back w/ a foamy ale to watch the fun.
William Michaelian: Or, being a precocious child, has since abandoned His/Her creation and gone on to breathe others into existence.
John Berbrich: That sure is a possibility. I hope He’s having fun, wherever He is. I know I’m having a good time. No radio show today, by the way.
William Michaelian: Oh, that’s right. I remember you guys talking about that toward the end of last week’s show. By the way: I did receive Dale Hobson’s book. Thanks for sending it. I didn’t realize it was a limited edition. Sewn instead of stapled, too. Nice touch, especially with Alan Casline’s art on the cover. Good poems. A book you’d expect to find sitting on a rough-cut table in Thoreau’s cabin.
John Berbrich: That’s a good way to put it. It’s soaked in nature, that little poetry book. And that’s not an intentional pun. Water, you know. The places Hobson mentions — Stone Valley, the Racquette River — are all pure St. Lawrence County, especially that final one, “Walking Home with Wet Feet.” Not that there’s any specific location mentioned, but there must be 100 scenes like that around here. Ah, ’tis a beautiful place.
William Michaelian: Well, I’m fully satisfied. I like all eleven poems. I like the Whitman-like delivery in “Water Prayer,” which begins with the phrase “The water I carry . . .” and I like the observation and detail it contains — the praise of water, the celebration of it, the eternal present-tense all-pervasive timelessness of it.
John Berbrich: It’s a good attitude to cultivate. In person, Hobson is sort of quietly alert. He’s not a big talker but he follows everything. And like I said, he seems to know everything that’s going on politically, artistically, & environmentally in northern New York. And what’s more, he’s looking for a publisher for a full-length poetry book.
William Michaelian: Is he? Because one idea that came to mind while I was reading his chap is that he should collaborate with a local photographer — someone who can feel with a lens what Hobson understands in his poems — and put together some sort of words-and-pictures book.
John Berbrich: That’s a pretty good idea. In fact, there’s a fellow who attended our last SLAP meeting who is a photographer. He showed us a whole album of pictures he took during the Revolutionary War reenactment in Ogdensburg. Pretty good poet too.
William Michaelian: Well, it makes sense that a good poet would also take good pictures. And what is his name?
John Berbrich: Thomas Robarge, I believe. I don’t know if he’ll become a regular member of our group. He showed interest, but didn’t make it to the last reading. I’ve only met the fellow once.
William Michaelian: Apparently you had a profound influence on him. He’ll probably turn up next in one of Hobson’s poems, a mysterious figure running through the woods. Speaking of strange figures, I keep forgetting to mention that there’s a guy who lives a couple of streets away from us who looks almost exactly like Kurt Vonnegut. He’s in his fifties, but he looks like he’s about sixty-eight.
John Berbrich: Does he write — what does he do for a living? And is he about 6-3, which I believe was Vonnegut’s height? Tell me more.
William Michaelian: Well, I’ll tell you what I know. He’s about five-eight, five-nine at the most, wears tank-tops and has a fairly muscular build, and hangs around his mailbox a lot talking to some other guy who is several years older and much larger, smokes big cigars, and drives a big pickup. The big guy looks like a rough beer-drinking steel worker from Pittsburgh. Vonnegut, I don’t know what he does, but it’s apparent he spends quite a bit of time outside. Mostly at his mailbox. Waiting for rejections?
John Berbrich: Sounds like an exciting life. Too bad Vonnegut’s dead. He was one of the great spirits. Of course we still have his many novels, short stories, & other works. This mailbox guy — do you think he’s hanging around to impress the girls? Like maybe he’s some kind of famous author waiting for the good news from a big publisher?
William Michaelian: I think he’s waiting for good news, period. Seems he hasn’t had any for awhile. As if his ideas have fallen from favor, and he’s no longer mentioned in the schools. Still, he retains a certain attraction for the young girls, a kind of animal magnetism that makes their dreary-desperate mothers simultaneously scorn and swoon. A complex man — he holds his cell phone as if it were an object from outer space, listening, awkward, curious.
John Berbrich: Hmmmmm. I can picture him in the morning, leaning easily on the mailbox, waiting for the sun to rise over a rooftop & glint on his bald head — you did say he was bald, didn’t you? He doesn’t look a bit like Vonnegut w/ that shining dome & no mustache. His t-shirt’s soaked w/ sweat. I can’t understand why the girls like him — but they do. Here’s the day’s first carload driving by, slowly; all the heads turn, the blondes, the brunettes, the long hair hanging like curtains out the open windows. The driver lays on the horn, toots a little monochromatic tune. The mailbox guy smiles like he knows something they don’t. And he probably does.
William Michaelian: Oh-ho, does he. But bald he ain’t. In fact, his hair and eyebrows are pure Vonnegut. And his eyelids. The shape of his head as well. And he has the requisite mustache. By the way: I have never seen him out in the morning. That’s when he’s inside at his old Royal, working in a thick cloud of cigarette smoke, a glass of scotch within easy reach. Was Vonnegut a drinker and smoker, do you happen to know?
John Berbrich: According my own whimsy, Vonnegut did his smoking & drinking as a young man. He decided to lay off these good things as he grew older. But that’s complete fantasy on my part. I really don’t know. Perhaps he kept the scotch within easy reach, but seldom reached for it. So our man isn’t bald, eh? Maybe it’s a different guy. And I just had a wicked deja vu.
William Michaelian: You mean like we’ve had this exact conversation before?
John Berbrich: Yes. In fact it’s so strong that it feels as though I’ve told you before that I’ve had a wicked deja vu. And in the deja vu I told you about the deja vu. It’s like we’re trapped on this endless loop. Help. It’s like being in a Kurt Vonnegut novel or something.
William Michaelian: Well, I do remember you saying you were having a wicked déjà vu. I think it was about, oh, two or three years ago. It wasn’t the first time then, either. Eerie. Does this happen to you very often? — in real life, I mean.
John Berbrich: Maybe once every couple of months. Sometimes it’s so strong that I know what’s going to happen next. I remember once listening to a baseball game on the radio when it hit me. I knew what the next couple of batters were going to do & I was right. It would be creepy if this was a talent that intensified & couldn’t be turned off.
William Michaelian: That it would. What’s your theory about all this? That indeed, these things have happened before? Or that specific events actually begin to unfold before most of us recognize them?
John Berbrich: One of my theories says that when you dream at night your mind can somehow slip into the future a little ways; so when you have a deja vu, you are really remembering a dream you may have had the previous night. And by the way, today I just happened to be reading an interview w/ Kurt Vonnegut. In his brief introduction, the interviewer says that Vonnegut smokes Pall Malls & goes on to say, “He laughs easily, starting with a chuckle that works its way into an explosive, wheezing, coughing sputter brought on from years of chain-smoking.” So that answers one question.
William Michaelian: And an important one at that. But how did it “happen” that you were reading a Vonnegut interview? Did you seek it out because of our discussion, and because you now know he lives around the corner from me? Or did it simply come about of its own accord? And/or, do you think we really might be characters in a Vonnegut novel?
John Berbrich: Ach, Willie, so many questions. Well. The way the world is going these days, it sometimes seems that we’re all living in a Vonnegut novel. Any crazy thing can happen. Of course, it always could. But something seems to be intensifying. And about the interview — yes, it was pure serendipity that I came across it when I did. Right now I’m reading Legends of Literature, a collection of articles, essays, & interviews from the archives of Writer’s Digest magazine, & the Vonnegut-interview was the next piece. The interview is from 1985. Other notables in the book include Stephen King, H.G. Wells, Jack Kerouac, & Carl Sandburg.
William Michaelian: Ah, yes. Real peas in a pod, that bunch. I wonder what Sandburg thought of On the Road. Or Kerouac’s jazz poems, for that matter. Or what King thinks of Sandburg. If he ever does. Or what Basho thinks of King. Wait — Basho probably isn’t in there. Do you really think things are getting crazier? As you put it, are they intensifying in some way? Or are the results simply more visible, because of the media and the internet and so on?
John Berbrich: More questions! Well, Kerouac did mention Basho. He says, “No frog can jump in a pond like Basho’s frog.” Which is probably true. Basho would have some cool comments regarding On the Road, since he himself was something of a traveler & adventurer. We’ll find out the answer to all these many questions & more, once we finish building the Antique and Junk Poem Shop.
William Michaelian: Aye. Reading Basho’s travel sketches, it’s easy to come away with the impression that he’s an old man. But he died at the age of fifty. And yet I find this age factor present in so many great artists, some of whom already seem so wise, experienced, and world-weary, even when they’re in their twenties. Childlike, too. God, I love frogs.
John Berbrich: It would be a sadder world without them. Have you ever eaten a frog? I mean like froglegs? I haven’t. About the world. Part of it is the media, the constant bombardment of news from all over the globe. Sure speeds things up, in one’s mind at least. The illusion of intensifying insanity. Well, people go nuts due to illusions, or delusions; works out to the same thing. Digging down to really real reality. That’s what so many artists want — those people you mention who seem so wise in their 20’s. They want Truth, however one defines that. Some merely want a kick. Most people want to be comfortably numb. At least that’s the illusion. Frogs are just frogs, & they seem to love it.
William Michaelian: Speaking of cheerful frogs, Mr. Pink Floyd, I wrote a little frog poem a couple of years ago. Here ’tis:
Frogs
Like any frog,
at the end
of a hard day
I tie one on
at the nearest
sand bar.
I stay until
my wife croaks,
then I hop
on home.
To celebrate
our love,
I give her
eucalyptus perfume.
Ribbit on, she says. Ribbit on.
It’s no match, of course, for Basho’s frog. And no, I haven’t eaten a frog.
John Berbrich: I love your poem, Willie. Here’s my earliest frog poem (it’s actually a limerick). My 10th grade teacher loved it.
There once was a frog named Dud
Who lived in a bog in the mud;
He turned into a toad
And the bog overflowed,
And he drowned in the ensuing flood.
William Michaelian: Alas, poor Dud! I love toads too, by the way. When I was a kid, my brother and I used to call them “non-hoppo’s.” And frogs were “hoppo’s.” You said earliest frog poem. Do you have many more? Wouldn’t it be great to publish a collection of frog poems?
John Berbrich: Good idea. I don’t have enough for a collection, except maybe a very small one. Here’s another:
Carnegie Hall
in the theater of the swamp
rain patters
like gentle scattered applause
for the love-songs
of the frogs
William Michaelian: Excellent. A fine poem. If you had, say, five of those, and letterpress-printed them on some rugged paper handmade in someone’s basement, and sewed them into a similar but heavier cover with a drawing of a frog that’s poised to leap off the edge . . . well, then.
John Berbrich: Right. There you go again, Willie. Such a dreamer. I’m listening to the frogs right now. Wait, that’s a ringing in my ears.
William Michaelian: Well, aren’t you going to answer it? On the other hand, there’s the little frog poem I just came up with:
Chorus
On warm summer nights
the little ones climb the walls —
they think they are frogs.
Then August comes
and the ditch runs wide.
Full of bugs,
frogs hop
across the lawn.
That old bearded one
looks like my grandfather,
but he jumps like
my son —
into the shadows,
where someone is singing.
John Berbrich: A good reminder that a frog’s world is filled w/ song. Your poem points out so many things that are important to a frog: water, shade, bugs, singing. Hopping. I can read it over & over.
William Michaelian: Thanks. Croak. And then there’s the play by Aristophanes. I think I have The Frogs here somewhere, but I haven’t read it. I’ll bet you have.
John Berbrich: Actually I haven’t. I own a lovely black hardcover of Aristophanes. I read the first play & didn’t like it a bit. Perhaps it was the fault of the translation, I’m not sure. Anyway, I simply have not returned to that book. Sad to say. Of all the Greeks, I’d say that Aristophanes is my weakest point.
William Michaelian: That’s okay. You’re forgiven. I did find The Frogs in my old copy of Fifteen Greek Plays — I think I mentioned that book to you about a hundred years ago, I’m not sure in what context — possibly we were talking about your lovely drama, The Shade Returneth. In any case, in my blog this morning, I quoted the Frogs themselves:
Ah, no! ah, no!
Loud and louder our chant must flow.
Sing if ever ye sang of yore,
When in sunny and glorious days
Through the rushes and marsh-flags springing
On we swept, in the joy of singing
Myriad-diving roundelays.
Or when fleeing the storm, we went
Down to the depths, and our choral song
Wildly raised to a loud and long
Bubble-bursting accompaniment.
The translation was done by one Benjamin Bickley Rogers, an English classical scholar born in 1828. After he left his legal practice due to increasing deafness, he translated all of the plays of Aristophanes.
John Berbrich: Wow. Quite a project. I’ve found those same lines in my book. The translator is unnamed. Here goes: “Not we; we shall only cry the louder. On fine sunny days, it pleases us to hop through galingale and sedge and to sing while we swim; and when Zeus is pouring down his rain, we join our lively voices to the rustle of the drops. Brekekex, coax, coax.”
William Michaelian: Well I’ll be darned. The two translations are exactly the same. The note on Rogers also says he reproduced the original meter. So apparently Aristophanes won a prize for this play when it was performed at an annual festival called the Lenaia, way back in 405 BC. Galingale is an interesting word. When was your book published?
John Berbrich: The book was published by the Horace Liveright company of New York in June 1930. My copy is from the fourth printing, August 1932. A publisher’s note indicates that the translation was originally published by The Athenian Society of London in 1912, for subscribers only. As I said the translator’s name is unknown.
William Michaelian: Too bad. But you know, I run across that in a lot of old books, and I’m sure you do too. Translators not mentioned, the names of illustators not given. I suppose the artists were working on some sort of contract. But it’s a shame now, years later.
John Berbrich: I agree. Even some authors were anonymous. I’ve read that Edgar Allan Poe’s first collection of poems, Tamerlane, published when he was 18, had By a Bostonian on it instead of the author’s name.
William Michaelian: That’s right. And I see in that title’s Wikipedia entry that only fifty copies were printed, and as far as is known, twelve copies of the original printing survive. It also says the poems were largely inspired by Lord Byron, Shelley, and Coleridge. And some other mysterious poet, Sir Lord Winston Berbrich, who owned a printing press and specialized in works on frogs. Any relation?
John Berbrich: My son. He’s only seven years old now, so we mustn’t expect too much of him. Named him after a cigarette brand, I did. In first grade the kids had to dissect a frog & little Winston refused. I was proud & defended him against the entire administration. What a fight that was!
William Michaelian: I’ll bet, with their unholy lust for frog-murder. Oh, the fiends. You did the right thing. But how is it that you have a seven-year-old son born in the eighteen century?
John Berbrich: It’s a little difficult to explain but let’s not forget that time is relative. If you don’t believe me ask Einstein.
William Michaelian: I would, but I find the man rather obtuse. For instance, once I tried asking him this simple question: If light travels 186,000 miles per second, then how fast does thought travel? And instead of answering, or scribbling out some sort of equation, he looked at me like I was some kind of nut.
John Berbrich: Perhaps he was on to something.
William Michaelian: Well, I prefer to look at it this way: I stumped Einstein.
John Berbrich: Well, I guess that was your 15 seconds of fame, or whatever it was that Warhol said. Good for you, Willie. So folks these days who look at you like you’re a nut have something in common w/ Einstein. They must find that relatively inspiring!
William Michaelian: Ha! Could be. I’d like to conduct a poll, but I don’t know how to go about it. And just think how far my light has traveled in those fifteen seconds! That is, if you except the notion that people do give off their own light.
John Berbrich: Do you mean except or accept? Or both?
William Michaelian: Hmm. A good question. Very good, in fact. If you accept the notion that I meant except, I think that ultimately you will be led astray, by which I mean, away from my intended meaning. So. Do you accept the notion or not? Or do you take exception to it?
John Berbrich: Your explanation is exceptional & acceptable. However, I’m not sure just what light you are referring to. Do you mean some sort of bioluminescence?
William Michaelian: Pretty much, but with a little mysticism thrown in. I know nothing about such matters scientifically, yet it seems to me that we must give off light in varying degrees — according to our awareness, our work, our positive efforts. Is the light only figurative? I don’t know.
Also by William Michaelian
POETRY
Winter Poems
ISBN: 978-0-9796599-0-4
52 pages. Paper.
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Another Song I Know
ISBN: 978-0-9796599-1-1
80 pages. Paper.
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