2012年3月11日 星期日
How a Poem Happens: Robert Hass
How a Poem Happens: Robert Hass
THE WORLD AS WILL AND REPRESENTATION
When I was a child my father every morning—
Some mornings, for a time, when I was ten or so,
My father gave my mother a drug called antabuse.
It makes you sick if you drink alcohol.
They were little yellow pills. He ground them
In a glass, dissolved them in water, handed her
The glass and watched her closely while she drank.
It was the late nineteen-forties, a time,
A social world, in which the men got up
And went to work, leaving the women with the children.
His wink at me was a nineteen-forties wink.
He watched her closely so she couldn’t “pull
A fast one” or “put anything over” on a pair
As shrewd as the two of us. I hear those phrases
In old movies and my mind begins to drift.
The reason he ground the medications fine
Was that the pills could be hidden under the tongue
And spit out later. The reason that this ritual
Occurred so early in the morning—I was told,
And knew it to be true—was that she could,
If she wanted, induce herself to vomit,
So she had to be watched until her system had
Absorbed the drug. Hard to render, in these lines,
The rhythm of the act. He ground two of them
To powder in a glass, filled it with water,
Handed it to her, and watched her drink.
In my memory, he’s wearing a suit, gray,
Herringbone, a white shirt she had ironed.
Some mornings, as in the comics we read
When Dagwood went off early to placate
Mr. Dithers, leaving Blondie with crusts
Of toast and yellow rivulets of egg yolk
To be cleared before she went shopping—
On what the comic called a shopping spree—
With Trixie, the next-door neighbor, my father
Would catch an early bus and leave the task
Of vigilance to me. “Keep and eye on Mama, pardner.”
You know the passage of the Aeneid? The man
Who leaves the burning city with his father
On his shoulders, holding his young son’s hand,
Means to do well among the flaming arras
And the falling columns while the blind prophet,
Arms upraised, howls from the inner chamber,
“Great Troy is fallen. Great Troy is no more.”
Slumped in a bathrobe, penitent and biddable,
My mother at the kitchen table gagged and drank,
Drank and gagged. We get our first moral idea
About the world—about justice and power,
Gender and the order of things—from somewhere.
THE WORLD AS WILL AND REPRESENTATION
When I was a child my father every morning—
Some mornings, for a time, when I was ten or so,
My father gave my mother a drug called antabuse.
It makes you sick if you drink alcohol.
They were little yellow pills. He ground them
In a glass, dissolved them in water, handed her
The glass and watched her closely while she drank.
It was the late nineteen-forties, a time,
A social world, in which the men got up
And went to work, leaving the women with the children.
His wink at me was a nineteen-forties wink.
He watched her closely so she couldn’t “pull
A fast one” or “put anything over” on a pair
As shrewd as the two of us. I hear those phrases
In old movies and my mind begins to drift.
The reason he ground the medications fine
Was that the pills could be hidden under the tongue
And spit out later. The reason that this ritual
Occurred so early in the morning—I was told,
And knew it to be true—was that she could,
If she wanted, induce herself to vomit,
So she had to be watched until her system had
Absorbed the drug. Hard to render, in these lines,
The rhythm of the act. He ground two of them
To powder in a glass, filled it with water,
Handed it to her, and watched her drink.
In my memory, he’s wearing a suit, gray,
Herringbone, a white shirt she had ironed.
Some mornings, as in the comics we read
When Dagwood went off early to placate
Mr. Dithers, leaving Blondie with crusts
Of toast and yellow rivulets of egg yolk
To be cleared before she went shopping—
On what the comic called a shopping spree—
With Trixie, the next-door neighbor, my father
Would catch an early bus and leave the task
Of vigilance to me. “Keep and eye on Mama, pardner.”
You know the passage of the Aeneid? The man
Who leaves the burning city with his father
On his shoulders, holding his young son’s hand,
Means to do well among the flaming arras
And the falling columns while the blind prophet,
Arms upraised, howls from the inner chamber,
“Great Troy is fallen. Great Troy is no more.”
Slumped in a bathrobe, penitent and biddable,
My mother at the kitchen table gagged and drank,
Drank and gagged. We get our first moral idea
About the world—about justice and power,
Gender and the order of things—from somewhere.
Guernica / The Consequences
Guernica / The Consequences
Poet Robert Hass has a bright face. Alert, keen, present in a room, he disarms with a wide grin, frequent hand gestures, and an occasional burst of high-pitched giggling. He looks directly, almost insistently, at whoever is speaking to him, and then waits a beat after they’ve finished, as though considering the full implications of what they’ve said. This inquisitiveness, or perhaps acquisitiveness, is belied by a slightly disheveled appearance: his hair somewhat mussed, his eyebrows in need of a trim. But his gaze contradicts any pretense of clutter.
Poet Robert Hass has a bright face. Alert, keen, present in a room, he disarms with a wide grin, frequent hand gestures, and an occasional burst of high-pitched giggling. He looks directly, almost insistently, at whoever is speaking to him, and then waits a beat after they’ve finished, as though considering the full implications of what they’ve said. This inquisitiveness, or perhaps acquisitiveness, is belied by a slightly disheveled appearance: his hair somewhat mussed, his eyebrows in need of a trim. But his gaze contradicts any pretense of clutter.
Robert Hass - Bookworm on KCRW
Robert Hass - Bookworm on KCRW
Time and Materials: Poems 1997–2005 (Ecco)
If it can still be said that a poet can have a humanizing influence on his culture, Robert Hass is such a poet. Here, as we discuss the poems in his National Book Award-winning collection, the beautiful, moving humanity of Hass' voice emerges, making us wish we were better people.
Time and Materials: Poems 1997–2005 (Ecco)
If it can still be said that a poet can have a humanizing influence on his culture, Robert Hass is such a poet. Here, as we discuss the poems in his National Book Award-winning collection, the beautiful, moving humanity of Hass' voice emerges, making us wish we were better people.
UC Berkeley English
UC Berkeley English
Distinguished Professor in Poetry and Poetics
405 Wheeler
Please contact directly for office hours.
bobhass@berkeley.edu
Robert L. Hass
ProfessorDistinguished Professor in Poetry and Poetics
405 Wheeler
Please contact directly for office hours.
bobhass@berkeley.edu
Poets Q&A | Smartish Pace (a poetry review)
Poets Q&A | Smartish Pace (a poetry review)
Robert Hass was born in San Francisco on March 1, 1941. He attended St. Mary's College in Moraga, California and received both an MA and Ph.D. in English from Stanford University.
His books of poetry include Time and Materials (Ecco Press, 2007), which won the 2007 National Book Award; Sun Under Wood: New Poems (1996); Human Wishes (1989); Praise (1979); and Field Guide (1973), which was selected by Stanley Kunitz for the Yale Younger Poets Series. About Hass's work, Kunitz wrote, "Reading a poem by Robert Hass is like stepping into the ocean when the temperature of the water is not much different from that of the air. You scarcely know, until you feel the undertow tug at you, that you have entered into another element."
Hass has also co-translated several volumes of poetry with Czeslaw Milosz, most recently Facing the River (1995), and is author or editor of several other collections of essays and translation, including The Essential Haiku: Versions of Basho, Buson, and Issa (1994), and Twentieth Century Pleasures: Prose on Poetry (1984).
Hass served as Poet Laureate of the United States from 1995 to 1997 and as a Chancellor of The Academy of American Poets from 2001 to 2007. He lives in California with his wife, poet Brenda Hillman, and teaches at the University of California, Berkeley.
Q&A with Robert Hass
Robert Hass was born in San Francisco on March 1, 1941. He attended St. Mary's College in Moraga, California and received both an MA and Ph.D. in English from Stanford University.His books of poetry include Time and Materials (Ecco Press, 2007), which won the 2007 National Book Award; Sun Under Wood: New Poems (1996); Human Wishes (1989); Praise (1979); and Field Guide (1973), which was selected by Stanley Kunitz for the Yale Younger Poets Series. About Hass's work, Kunitz wrote, "Reading a poem by Robert Hass is like stepping into the ocean when the temperature of the water is not much different from that of the air. You scarcely know, until you feel the undertow tug at you, that you have entered into another element."
Hass has also co-translated several volumes of poetry with Czeslaw Milosz, most recently Facing the River (1995), and is author or editor of several other collections of essays and translation, including The Essential Haiku: Versions of Basho, Buson, and Issa (1994), and Twentieth Century Pleasures: Prose on Poetry (1984).
Hass served as Poet Laureate of the United States from 1995 to 1997 and as a Chancellor of The Academy of American Poets from 2001 to 2007. He lives in California with his wife, poet Brenda Hillman, and teaches at the University of California, Berkeley.
2012年3月9日 星期五
系統学 - Wikipedia
系統学 - Wikipedia
表形分類学（phenetics）とは、生物の多くの形質を 同時に比較し、近いもの・遠いものを定量的に明らかにする考え方である。これは分類を客観的に行うことに主眼を置き、進化系統は必ずしも考慮していない。 この考え方は現在はあまり重視されないが、分子系統学は塩基配列などの表形分類的な比較から始まっている（現在は分岐論的あるいは種々の統計学的方法も用 いている）。
一方、分岐学（cladistics） とは、進化に伴う分岐パターンを正確に明らかにしようとする考え方で、（分岐分類学という言い方もされるが）どちらかといえば系統学の方法論である。これ は生物の多くの形質を同時に比較する点では表形分類学と共通するが、想定されるいろいろな進化の道筋から、分岐回数がなるべく少ないものを正しいと考える （最節約の原理）のが特徴である。この考え方はその後次第に分類学にも取り入れられ、恐竜など化石生物の研究で主流となっている。現在では特に分子系統学に基づく分類においても重要な考え方である。
表形分類学（phenetics）とは、生物の多くの形質を 同時に比較し、近いもの・遠いものを定量的に明らかにする考え方である。これは分類を客観的に行うことに主眼を置き、進化系統は必ずしも考慮していない。 この考え方は現在はあまり重視されないが、分子系統学は塩基配列などの表形分類的な比較から始まっている（現在は分岐論的あるいは種々の統計学的方法も用 いている）。
一方、分岐学（cladistics） とは、進化に伴う分岐パターンを正確に明らかにしようとする考え方で、（分岐分類学という言い方もされるが）どちらかといえば系統学の方法論である。これ は生物の多くの形質を同時に比較する点では表形分類学と共通するが、想定されるいろいろな進化の道筋から、分岐回数がなるべく少ないものを正しいと考える （最節約の原理）のが特徴である。この考え方はその後次第に分類学にも取り入れられ、恐竜など化石生物の研究で主流となっている。現在では特に分子系統学に基づく分類においても重要な考え方である。
2012年3月6日 星期二
CHAPTER I (from Anton Chekhov's book: My Life - The Story of A Provincial)
CHAPTER I (from Anton Chekhov's book: My Life - The Story of A Provincial)
"What do you think about yourself?" my father went on. "By the time they are your age, young men have a secure social position, while look at you: you are a proletarian, a beggar, a burden on your father!"
And as usual he proceeded to declare that the young people of to-day were on the road to perdition through infidelity, materialism, and self-conceit, and that amateur theatricals ought to be prohibited, because they seduced young people from religion and their duties.
"To-morrow we shall go together, and you shall apologize to the superintendent, and promise him to work conscientiously," he said in conclusion. "You ought not to remain one single day with no regular position in society."
"I beg you to listen to me," I said sullenly, expecting nothing good from this conversation. "What you call a position in society is the privilege of capital and education. Those who have neither wealth nor education earn their daily bread by manual labour, and I see no grounds for my being an exception."
"When you begin talking about manual labour it is always stupid and vulgar!" said my father with irritation. "Understand, you dense fellow--understand, you addle-pate, that besides coarse physical strength you have the divine spirit, a spark of the holy fire, which distinguishes you in the most striking way from the ass or the reptile, and brings you nearer to the Deity! This fire is the fruit of the efforts of the best of mankind during thousands of years. Your great-grandfather Poloznev, the general, fought at Borodino; your grandfather was a poet, an orator, and a Marshal of Nobility; your uncle is a schoolmaster; and lastly, I, your father, am an architect! All the Poloznevs have guarded the sacred fire for you to put it out!"
"One must be just," I said. "Millions of people put up with manual labour."
"And let them put up with it! They don't know how to do anything else! Anybody, even the most abject fool or criminal, is capable of manual labour; such labour is the distinguishing mark of the slave and the barbarian, while the holy fire is vouchsafed only to a few!"
To continue this conversation was unprofitable. My father worshipped himself, and nothing was convincing to him but what he said himself. Besides, I knew perfectly well that the disdain with which he talked of physical toil was founded not so much on reverence for the sacred fire as on a secret dread that I should become a workman, and should set the whole town talking about me; what was worse, all my contemporaries had long ago taken their degrees and were getting on well, and the son of the manager of the State Bank was already a collegiate assessor, while I, his only son, was nothing! To continue the conversation was unprofitable and unpleasant, but I still sat on and feebly retorted, hoping that I might at last be understood. The whole question, of course, was clear and simple, and only concerned with the means of my earning my living; but the simplicity of it was not seen, and I was talked to in mawkishly rounded phrases of Borodino, of the sacred fire, of my uncle a forgotten poet, who had once written poor and artificial verses; I was rudely called an addlepate and a dense fellow. And how I longed to be understood! In spite of everything, I loved my father and my sister and it had been my habit from childhood to consult them-- a habit so deeply rooted that I doubt whether I could ever have got rid of it; whether I were in the right or the wrong, I was in constant dread of wounding them, constantly afraid that my father's thin neck would turn crimson and that he would have a stroke.
"To sit in a stuffy room," I began, "to copy, to compete with a typewriter, is shameful and humiliating for a man of my age. What can the sacred fire have to do with it?"
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