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One Secret Thing de Sharon Olds

One Secret Thing

Autor Sharon Olds
en Limba Engleză Paperback – 30 sep 2008

Notăm cu interes apariția volumului One Secret Thing, o lucrare esențială pentru studenții la litere, cercetătorii în poezie contemporană și practicienii scrierii creative care doresc să analizeze mecanismele intimității transformate în artă. În acest volum de 96 de pagini, publicat de Puffin Classics, descoperim o structură narativă riguroasă ce închide ciclul poemelor de familie al autoarei. Sharon Olds propune o tranziție de la imaginile violente ale războiului către un spațiu domestic marcat de o onestitate tăioasă, unde umorul și compasiunea coexistă paradoxal. Remarcăm în special poemul „Easter 1960”, care ancorează experiența personală a pierderii într-o estetică a detaliului aproape tactil.

Această lucrare ocupă un loc central în opera autoarei, continuând explorarea corpului și a politicii sexuale din Your Family, Your Body și pregătind terenul pentru profunzimea elegiacă din Stag's Leap, volumul premiat cu T.S. Eliot Prize. Dacă în The Dead and the Living accentul cădea pe selecția riguroasă a momentelor biografice, în One Secret Thing asistăm la o „revizuire” emoțională a figurii materne, proces ce culminează cu o serie de elegii despre un doliu greu câștigat.

Comparativ cu Blood, Tin, Straw, care proiectează o energie similară a limbajului și a riscului poetic, One Secret Thing prezintă o abordare mai concentrată asupra auto-conștientizării și a ironiei. De asemenea, deși acoperă teme conexe precum doliul și relația fiică-mamă prezente în Once – Poems de Meghan O`rourke, volumul lui Sharon Olds se distinge prin ritmul său armonic și prin acea capacitate unică de a privi direct către „lucrurile secrete” fără a clipi.

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Specificații

ISBN-13: 9780375711770
ISBN-10: 0375711775
Pagini: 114
Dimensiuni: 149 x 213 x 8 mm
Greutate: 0.18 kg
Editura: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group

De ce să citești această carte

Recomandăm acest volum cititorilor care caută o poezie a realismului psihologic brut. Prin One Secret Thing, câștigați acces la tehnica unei maestre a confesiunii care refuză sentimentalismul în favoarea unei precizii aproape chirurgicale. Este o lectură fundamentală pentru a înțelege cum trauma personală și istoria publică se pot contopi într-o voce lirică unitară, oferind o perspectivă matură asupra iertării și a memoriei familiale.

Despre autor

Sharon Olds este o figură proeminentă a poeziei americane contemporane, deținând titlul de profesor Erich Maria Remarque de scriere creativă la New York University. Recunoscută pentru stilul său confesiv și curajul de a aborda teme tabu legate de familie și sexualitate, Olds a fost distinsă cu premiul Pulitzer și premiul T.S. Eliot. Opera sa, care include volume de referință precum The Dead and the Living, este studiată la nivel academic pentru forța sa imaginativă și pentru modul în care reușește să transforme experiența privată în universalitate poetică. One Secret Thing reprezintă o etapă de maturitate în cariera sa, fiind nominalizat la Forward Poetry Prize.

Notă biografică

Sharon Olds was born in San Francisco. Her poetry has been chosen as the Lamont Poetry Selection and won the National Book Critics Circle Award. She lives in New York City.

Extras

DiagnosisBy the time I was six months old, she knew somethingwas wrong with me. I got looks on my faceshe had not seen on any childin the family, or the extended family,or the neighborhood. My mother took me into the pediatrician with the kind hands,a doctor with a name like a suit size for a wheel:Hub Long. My mom did not tell himwhat she thought in truth, that I was Possessed.It was just these strange looks on my face—he held me, and conversed with me,chatting as one does with a baby, and my mothersaid, She’s doing it now! Look!She’s doing it now! and the doctor said,What your daughter hasis called a senseof humor. Ohhh, she said, and took meback to the house where that sense would be testedand found to be incurable.When Our Firstborn Slept InMy breasts hardening with milk—little seepsleaking into the folded husbandhankies set into the front curvesof the nursing harness—I would wander aroundthe quiet apartment when her nap would last a littlelonger than usual. When she was awake, I waspurpose, I was a soft domesticprowling of goodness—only when she sleptwas I free to think the thoughts of onein bondage. I had wanted to be someone—not justsomeone’s mom, but someone, some one.Yet I know that this work that I did with herlay at the heart of what mattered to me—wasthat heart. And still there was a part of meleft out by it, as if exposed on a mountainby mothering. And when she slept in,I smelled the husks of olive rindon that slope, I heard the blue knockof the eucalyptus locket nut, Itasted the breath of the wolf seekingthe flesh to enrich her milk, I saw thebending of the cedar under the seaof the wind—while she slept, it was as ifmy pierced ankles loosed themselvesand I walked like a hunter in the horror-joyof the unattached. Girl of a mother,mother of a girl, I paced, listening,almost part-fearing, sometimes, that she might have stoppedbreathing, knowing nothing was anything, for me,next to the small motions as she woke,light and wind on the face of the water.And then that faint cry, like apelagic bird, who sleeps in flight, and I wouldturn, pivot on a spice-crushing heel,and approach her door.Calvinist ParentsSometime during the Truman Administration,Sharon Olds’s parents tied her to a chair,and she is still writing about it.—review of The Unswept RoomMy father was a gentleman, and he expectedus to be gentlemen. If we did not observethe niceties of etiquette he whoppedus with his belt. He had a strong arm,and boy did we feel it.—Prescott Sheldon Bush,brother to a president anduncle to anotherThey put roofs over our heads.Ours was made of bent tiles,so the edge of the roof had a broken look,as if a lot of crockeryhad been thrown down, onto the home—a dump for heaven’s cheap earthenware.Along the eaves, the arches were likeentries to the Colosseumwhere a lion might appear, or an eight-foot armoredbeing with the painted faceof a simpering lady. Bees would not roostin those concave combs, above our rooms,birds not swarm. How does a young ’unpay for room and board? They put aroof over our heads, against lightning,and droppings—no foreign genes, no outsidegestures, no unfamilial words;and under that roof, they labored as they had beenlabored over, they beat us into swords.One Secret ThingOne secret thing happenedat the end of my mother’s life, when I wasalone with her. I knew it should happen—I knew someone was there, in there,something less unlike my mother thananything else on earth. And the jarwas there on the table, the space around itpulled back from it, like the awestruck handmadeair around the crèche, and her openmouth was parched. It was late. The lideased off. I watched my finger draw throughthe jelly, its egg-sex essence, the fourcorners of the room were not creatures, were notthe four winds of the earth, if I did notdo this, what was I—I rubbed the cowlick ofpetrolatum on the skin around where thefinal measures of what was almost notbreath swayed, and her throat made a gutturalcreek bed sound, like pebbly relief. But eachlip was stuck by chap to its rowof teeth, stuck fast. And then I workedfor my motherhood, my humanhood, Islid my forefinger slowly back andforth, along the scab-line and underlyingcanines and incisors, upper lip and thenlower lip, until, like a bastedseam, softly ripped, what had beenjoined was asunder, I ran the salve insidethe folds, along the gums,common mercy. The secret washow deeply I did not want to touchinside her, and how much the actwas an act of escape, my last chanceto free myself.


From the Hardcover edition.

Descriere scurtă

Sharon Olds completes her cycle of family poems in a book at once intense and harmonic, playful with language, and rich with a new self-awareness and sense of irony.

The opening poem, with its sequence of fearsome images of war, serves as a prelude to poems of home in which humor, anger, and compassion sing together with lyric energy—sometimes comic, sometimes filled with a kind of unblinking forgiveness. These songs of joy and danger—public and private—illuminate one another. As the book unfolds, the portrait of the mother goes through a moving revisioning, leading us to a final series of elegies of hard-won mourning. One Secret Thing is charged throughout with Sharon Olds’s characteristic passion, imagination, and poetic power.

The doctor on the phone was young, maybe on his
first rotation in the emergency room.
On the ancient boarding-school radio,
in the attic hall, the announcer had given my
boyfriend’s name as one of two
brought to the hospital after the sunrise
service, the egg-hunt, the crash—one of them
critical, one of them dead. I was looking at the
stairwell banisters, at their lathing,
the necks and knobs like joints and bones,
the varnish here thicker here thinner—I had said
Which one of them died, and now the world was
an ant’s world: the huge crumb of each
second thrown, somehow, up onto
my back, and the young, tired voice
said my fresh love’s name.

from “Easter 1960”

Recenzii

"A memorable collection" -- M Wynn Thomas The Guardian "Sharon Olds's poems are pure fire in the hands - risky, on the verge of falling, and in the end leaping up. I love the roughness and humour and brag and tenderness and completion in her work as she carries the reader through rooms of passion and loss" -- Michael Ondaatje "As devastatingly accurate in its depiction of our deepest wishes and secret inner lives as we have come to expect from this brilliant and fearless poet" -- Joyce Carol Oates Times Literary Supplement, Books of the Year "Her best work exhibits a lyrical acuity which is both purifying and redemptive. She sees description as a means to catharsis, and the result is impossible to forget... Sharon Olds is enormously self-aware; her poetry is remarkable for its candour, its eroticism, and its power to move" -- David Leavitt "She has written without embarassment or apology, with remarkable passion and savagery and nerve, poems about family and family pathology, early erotic fascination and sexual life inside marriage" -- Amy Hempel