On Snobbery

Last night, I was having dinner with Paul Siegell at The Good Dog off of Locust Street, Philadelphia (Paul espoused GD to me as "the best burger in Philly" and I'm not inclined to disagree with him.) The conversation, of course, turned to poetry. We discussed the idea of hierarchy, where poetry (or, more specifically, po biz) is concerned; that certain journals, presses, and institutions are generally considered "high level" or "low level," "recognized" or "unrecognized," "superior" or "subaltern." This is a frustrating issue for me, for a number of reasons: firstly, because the differential factor in poetry is quite low (ie, publishing with a high-level press by no means guarantees book sales or recognition, and the same applies to high-level journals), secondly because poets who feel that they have achieved status via "high-level whatever" are deluding themselves (wake up, you feel like saying, the general public still doesn't give a shit about you), thirdly because it deflects attention from the only really pertinent issue that we should be concerned with: how good is the writing?

Let me say this quite clearly: the only good reason to be a snob is the quality of your writing. The douchebaggy careerists who waste time worrying about recognition will be (usually) swept under the rug of history; those with enduring value are the artists, who look at the meat of the matter first, and all the ancillary, inessential aspects of po biz second, third, or fourth. Of course, this formulation presents its own kind of challenges: we can privilege ourselves, our aesthetics, our projects, and still not be very good. Nevertheless, ultimately, focus placed squarely on artful text, in its autonomous hegemony, is, as hipsters say these days, the only way to roll. I'm tird of poets trying to impress me with bullshit status symbols to cover up a mediocre level of talent; tired of conversations more concerned with perceived legitimacy than with perceived artistic/aesthetic validity; tired, as I said, of the douchebaggy careerists who are far better at marketing then they are at poetry. It doesn't matter how mediocrity is packaged; turds in nice wrappers remain turds. There's quite a bit of flim-flam around, and not everyone is discerning about what's real and what isn't. Do I privilege my notions of "realness" and validity? Absolutely. But, show me an artist worth his or her salt (and there aren't many) who don't do this, and I'll show you an empty table.

Why do you think Jonathan Franzen opted out of being included in Oprah's book club? People accused him of snobbery, and they were correct: but it was (in my estimation) the right kind of snobbery. It seems to have been based on Franzen's realization that most of what constituted (and still constitutes) Oprah's book club is subaltern (aesthetically speaking) garbage. The Corrections is a brilliant book, that has more to do with Balzac than with A Million Little Pieces. Of course, if one is a snob based on the self-perceived quality of one's writing, rather than on status symbols (or book sales), other questions become pertinent. One perk that comes with a will-to-create rather than a will-to-status is freedom; that you can write whatever you want, whatever way you want, and thus create new forms, new dynamics, new hybrids. In any art-form, for any serious artist, freedom is priceless. It's maintaining "status" that creates an oppressive, stifling scenario. Of course, if status is your priority, freedom does not matter, because you only create to please others (so that they will elevate you). Yet, I pride myself on being a freedom snob; it's the same sort of thing I discussed regarding Neil Young, that has to do with doing what you want. You have to be confident that what you are creating is strong enough to take on a life of its own.

I do, in fact, have that confidence about much of my work, though it may just be hubris. Still, better I take pride in the quality of the work rather than where it comes out, who puts it out, and who says what about it. I have entered a grand total of one poetry contest since I began writing seriously, and I have no intention of entering another one. The douchebaggy careerists write specifically for these contests. I think I can bring this up without mentioning names; most of you will know many of the culprits I am speaking of. I am happy to say that these poets are as marginal to me as I am to them. In fact, all the poets, wherever they might be, who have tried to marginalize me, are as marginal to me as I am to them. It's what I call The Margin Game, and poets love to play it: pointing the finger at the Other and saying I'm not marginal, you are! Then the Other says the same thing back. It's a Cosmic Joke: we're all marginal, the world couldn't care less about us. Tough shit. If we are going to play the poetry game, let's play it right: first things first, what matters is if you can write or if you can't. If someone can't write, tell them to fuck off. Don't worry what press put out their book and who just wrote something nice about them; put them back in the margins where they belong. If you are any good, don't be afraid to privilege yourself. This is Emersonian self-reliance we're talking about here, because, good God almighty, this is still, unbelievably, the United States of America. Even at this late date, maybe that means something. I would like to hope that it does.