Her work has been described as playful and deep, perceptive and probing.
And, on Thursday, Anne Carson joined an elite group of poets who have been recognized with a Nobel Prize in Literature.
The Star asked those who read, teach and study her work for their favourite passages by the Toronto-born author. Here is what they said.
‘If Not, Winter’
Selected by Scott Griffin, founder of the Griffin Poetry Prize, of which Carson is a two-time recipient. Poem by Sappho, translated by Carson, 2002.
You came and I was crazy for you
and you cooled my mind that burned with longing.
‘Autobiography of Red’
Selected by Michael Cobb, English professor at the University of Toronto. Novel, 1998.
Somehow Geryon made it to adolescence.
* * *
Then he met Herakles and the kingdoms of his life all shifted down a few notches.
They were two superior eels
at the bottom of the tank and they recognized each other like italics.
Geryon was going into the Bus Depot
one Friday night about three a.m. to get change to call home. Herakles stepped off
the bus from New Mexico and Geryon
came fast around the corner of the platform and there it was one of those moments
that is the opposite of blindness.
The world poured back and forth between their eyes once or twice. Other people
wishing to disembark the bus from New Mexico
were jamming up behind Herakles who had stopped on the bottom step
with his suitcase in one hand
trying to tuck in his shirt with the other. Do you have change for a dollar?
Geryon heard Geryon say.
No. Herakles stared straight at Geryon. But I’ll give you a quarter for free.
Why would you do that?
I believe in being gracious. Some hours later they were down
at the railroad tracks
standing close together by the switch lights. The huge night moved overhead
scattering drops of itself.
You’re cold, said Herakles suddenly, your hands are cold. Here.
He put Geryon’s hands inside his shirt.
‘Short Talk on Reading’
Selected by Cobb. Prose poem from Short Talks, a collection of prose poems, 1992.
Some fathers hate to read but love to take the family on trips. Some children hate trips but love to read. Funny how often these find themselves passengers in the same automobile. I glimpse the stupendous clearcut shoulders of the Rockies form between paragraphs of Madame Bovary. Cloud shadows roved languidly across her huge rock throat, traced her fir flanks. Since those days I do not look at hair on female flesh without thinking, Deciduous?
‘The Beauty of the Husband’
Selected by Nick Mount, professor at the University of Toronto who studies Canadian literature. Poetry essay, 2001.
To say Beauty is Truth and stop.
Rather than to eat it.
Rather than to want to eat it. This was my pure early thought.
I overlooked one thing.
That the beautiful when I encountered it would turn out to be
prior — inside my own heart,
already eaten.
Not out there with purposiveness, with temples, with God.
Inside. He was already me.
Condition of me.
‘Variations on the Right to Remain Silent’
Selected by Michael Helm, editor at Brick magazine, where Carson has contributed. Essay, 2013.
Adam had just performed the primordial act of naming, had taken the first step towards imposing on the wide-open pointless meaningless directionless dementia of the real a set of clichés that no one would ever dislodge, or want to dislodge — they are our human history, our edifice of thought, our answer to chaos. Eve’s instinct was to bite this answer in half.
‘Short Talk on Pink’
Selected by Helm. Prose poem from Short Talks, 1992.
I was fond of the angels. Sky-blue light blew around them wherever they were. The one gave no trouble, lounging quiet in his corner of the fresco, I nodded to him when I went up the stairs. The other had temperament. Stalking the salons, trailing folds of cloud or bloody sunset, making a show. It vexed my father, oh it vexed him. The sound of wings fanning and closing downstairs made him grind his teeth. Father was not a patient man. Still, I was shocked to hear mad cries from the basement one day and went to look. Who knew you could melt angels down, with a hag torch perhaps, or that they turn pink? I had nothing to say, my emotions all over the place, but the weirdest part, as they melted they seemed to devolve down the ages: first heavenly beings, then prehistoric birds, then regular seagulls, then bipedal humans walking away, then glass. They just walked away into glass. Why does everyone look so much more lonely from the back?
‘Short Talk On The King And His Courage’
Selected by David Leonard, executive director of the Writers’ Trust of Canada. Prose poem from Short Talks, 1992.
He arose laden with doubt as to how he should begin. He looked back at the bed where the grindstone lay. He looked out at the world, the most famous experimental prison of its time. Beyond the torture stakes he could see, nothing. Yet he could see.
