by David D. Horowitz
“But I worked for two weeks on this poem,” I whined, “and it still doesn’t read well.”
“Ah, well,” responded Professor Dunlop in his English accent. “Blood, sweat, toil, and tears.”
“But two weeks! And there’s the risk of it being a failure.”
Sitting behind his paper-crowded desk in his compact University of Washington office, Professor Dunlop sat silently, pausing to measure his words. “There are worse things to be,” he said softly, “than an honest failure.”
The words sank into me. This was no casual utterance. I felt the man had revealed something deep about himself—something poignant and yet pitilessly honest, too. For I sensed he wasn’t simply referring to himself but to others’ delusions about their own literary talents. During the next five years I tracked down about fifteen of William’s published poems and learned he’d never had a full-length collection published. But my sense his magnificent talent had not been duly acknowledged originated with his remark about “honest failure.” No, I thought: William is the success. I couldn’t resist a teacher who on the first day of poetry composition class cited two students’ work of years before: a young man who, in describing his first orgasm, wrote “my spine sneezed,” and a young woman who compared a squirrel standing on her front lawn to “a little grey coffeepot.” Yes, Professor Dunlop, I understand your emphasis on vividly distinct verbs and precisely etched physical imagery. You made your point quite clear!
So, Professor Dunlop’s class in Autumn 1977 was an origin of sorts. And yet, no single origin inspires a lifelong literary commitment. I recall the summer of 1974 and my last few months living at home with my mother on Greenwood Avenue North in Seattle. The sunsets for three consecutive weeks were splendid, and I strove to do them descriptive justice: “red-orange,” “purple-orange-red,” “pink and purple.” None of those felt quite right, though, as I scribbled in the poetry journal I’d began keeping. Then, three weeks on, magic happened as I gazed at the Olympic Mountains to the west: “Salmon!” I felt such intense pleasure! “Salmon,” I repeated, and I dashed home to jot down my inspiration in my poetry journal.
The pleasure of that descriptive discovery lives with me to this day, almost fifty years later. There have been others, as when I realized crows on the University of Washington campus “jeer.” Yes, that’s the precise word! But that earlier epiphany—“salmon” as a sunset color—remains special.
Later I became a small press publisher—two times immaturely, with Urban Hiker Press and Lyceum Press. And finally as a modest, if not particularly profitable, success through Rose Alley Press, which I founded in 1995 and still manage. And for me to publish in 1997 William Dunlop’s first full collection, Caruso for the Children, & Other Poems, was a special experience: finally, genuine recognition of William’s magnificent poetic talent! I was so glad I had convinced him to let me publish his collection through then-nascent Rose Alley Press.
And, yet, while I could recognize and honor the origins of my devotion to poetry and small press publishing, such devotion poses many challenges, not the least of which is helping foster literary community. For community does not originate in mere feelgood rhetoric but a mature understanding of human psychology, and, indeed, patience with human flaw.
William Dunlop, despite his magnificent talent and many virtues, could be difficult to the point of overt rudeness. I did not terribly appreciate, for example, his randomly announcing on two occasions that he had a mind to destroy Rose Alley Press—with no apparent reason or prompting for saying this. A bad day at the office, a bit too much evening wine—oh well, not everything he uttered was empathetic or reasonable. And by the time William passed in 2005 I had limited contact with him—but we still were on speaking terms and could unite to promote an event, and fundamentally, he remained considerate and charmingly raconteurial. He was not perfect, though, and neither was I. Indeed, I recall once performing for fifteen minutes longer than I’d promised to do, and this angered William, who understandably felt upstaged. He never forgot it or stopped ribbing me about it. But mutual respect remained. Community originates for diverse reasons, yet only continual recommitment can sustain it. Little gifts, willingness to schedule and promote literary readings, rides home from readings, the effort behind scrupulous proofreading—they build trust and affection, which in turn help literary community flourish.
Yet, literary community requires more than that. It takes commitment to a larger culture, not just one’s career, company, or cohorts. Not everyone grasps this. Many years ago, shortly after founding Rose Alley Press, I organized a reading for an independent bookstore whose owners valued my efforts. I invited three other poets to read and worked hard to attract a sizable crowd. The reading went well: about twenty-five people attended, and a fair number of books were sold. But a relative of one of the performing poets behaved standoffishly. I tried to say hello and thank her for attending, but she rebuffed me, turned to her relative and praised “his reading,” although other poets had read and I had not only read but organized the event. Then, she strolled out of the store, saying nothing to me, the other poets, the storeowners, or anyone else. The whole event to her seemed to provide an opportunity to puff herself up as someone linked to fame. I felt rather offended, and for a few seconds I thought of no longer organizing events, that people didn’t deserve my efforts. Yet, skillfully wrought writing is integral to a healthy culture; I suddenly felt I had to keep Rose Alley Press going. I let the incident with the poet’s relative serve to deepen my commitment to the culture, not just my career. Mind you, I unapologetically acknowledge desire for praise and some degree of success. But someone has to do the editing, publishing, and promoting, and such efforts are not always rewarded with commensurate recognition.
Participating in literary endeavor has been richly rewarding, regardless of my not becoming fabulously famous or wealthy. And, whatever my level of success, there are worse things to be than an honest failure. But wait: what exactly is “failure”? I’ll let you decide. Here are the final two stanzas of “Love Duet,” a meditation on opera and romance, by William Dunlop:
And so, my love, switch off that braggart tenor
plighting his troth in full fidelity,
that shrill soprano’s billowing high sea
of outrage offered her ambiguous honor—
I love them both, indeed, but to distraction:
your being here concerns my satisfaction.
Love moves by subtler rhythms, and small sounds:
a glass set down, clothes shucked, skins’ conversation,
duet of breaths—the orchestration’s
conventional enough, but it abounds
in touches of a sheer felicity: catch
in my voice; your chuckle; a struck match.