The Writer Who Willed Herself Into Oblivion

William Boyd, “The Writer Who Willed Herself Into Oblivion,” The Times (Saturday Review), 30 April 2022, p. 18

Writers deliberately don’t seek oblivion — for very obious reasons — it’s oblivion that seeks them out. The case of Rosemary Tonks (1928-2014) is a different matter, however; unique in English literature, I believe. A successful poet and novelist, at some time in the late 1970s she wilfully ran into the arms of oblivion and effectively disappeared.

Tonks had published two collections of poetry and six novels between 1963 and 1972, when she made the decision to quit her life as an increasingly acclaimed writer and leave it behind. Round about 1977 she had some kind of a breakdown — a combination of ill health coinciding with a profound crisis of faith. She abandoned her nom de plume, her maiden name, and became a religious recluse, living out the decades that remained to her in Bournemouth under her married name, Lightband, although she and her husband were divorced. She turned her back irrevocably on her former self and the literary life she had been leading. . . .

. . . Tonks is, I suppose, a kind of English version of Arthur Rimbaud, perhaps the only other writer who determinedly junked his literary career; in the 1870s he stopped writing and eventually set himself up as a merchant in what is now Ethiopia. There is nothing quite so exotic and romantic in Tonks’s example, but there is still definitely something Rimbaldian and strangely heroic, in a very English way, about how she lived out her years of dogged seclusion in a provincial seaside town.

Tonks resisted every attempt, when encouraged, to tell her story and step back into the literary limelight. . . .

. . . Paradoxically, the story of Tonks’s astounding efforts in seeking oblivion, ensuring the non-existence of her literary self, and being so successful in achieving it, has brought her a degree of posthumous fame that her shade would deeply resent. . . .

This Terrible Glare

Anne Carson, “The Art of Poetry No. 88,” interview by Will Aitken, The Paris Review 171, Fall 2004″

CARSON

Yes, a glare from behind the set where I’m standing. So if I’m a little actor on stage, there’s this terrible glare coming from behind me. And people feel that. I don’t feel it, but I’m aware of it going past me, and I see dismay on their faces mixed with this other thing. I think that’s why sometimes I am spooky to people. Because this glare is mixed with an infantile charm that disarms. And they have to deal with both.

INTERVIEWER

But what is that glare?

CARSON

I don’t know. It’s just absolute dread. It’s bumping up against the fact that you die alone. You think about that from time to time all through life, and it continues to make no sense against all the little efforts you make to be happy and have friends and pass the time.

The Magic of Fragments

Anne Carson, “The Art of Poetry No. 88,” interview by Will Aitken, The Paris Review 171, Fall 2004″

In Sappho’s poem, her addresses to gods are orderly, perfect poetic products, but the way — and this is the magic of fragments — the way that poem breaks off leads into a thought that can’t ever be apprehended. There is the space where a thought would be, but which you can’t get hold of. I love that space. It’s the reason I like to deal with fragments. Because no matter what the thought would be if it were fully worked out, it wouldn’t be as good as the suggestion of a thought that the space gives you. Nothing fully worked out could be so arresting, so spooky.”

What We Could Play

Lars Iyer, Nietzsche and the Burbs (2020)

Art, turning the amplifiers up. Listen, man, just listen, he says.
A kind of buzzing. A hum, almost sublminal. Hissing and crackling. Popping. The feeling of forces gathering. Of something about to begin …
Doesn’t it sound cool? Art asks. Have you ever heard anything more exciting?
We’re only going to ruin it by actually playing something, I say.
We should play this, Art says, pressing his ear to the speaker cone. Play all this potential … Like, what we could play, rather than anything we actually play.

[See Peter Markus.]