It is preposterous to agree to write a short piece on Anne Carson’s work. The task is impossible, akin to that of solving the mathematical problem of dividing zero by zero. If one had the power to solve it, perhaps one would have some confidence in attempting to write about Anne Carson’s work. Attempting, I say, not succeeding. In attempting to do so, I shall emphasise that all words fall short in extreme situations, which not only include unfathomable losses (of children, in my case) but also include articulating anything about Anne Carson’s work.
One could start with Carson’s words. “Words, if you let them, will do what they want to do and what they have to do.” (Autobiography of Red) But to let the words exist in their own desires and yearnings and frustrations and confusions, to let the words scream with inarticulable pain or tell a riddle with a twinkling smile or make love to one another – how many of us have achieved that kind of mastery of words? But, oh no, mastery is the wrong word here. Only the minor and the greedy and the power-thirsty writers want to be the masters of the words. Carson does not subjugate or manipulate her words. She lets them be; and lets herself be led by the words – hers, and the ancients’ translated into unforgettable English by her.
