The library of discarded interests

Here are two boxes of Krishnamurti books, destroyed when our basement flooded.

When our basement flooded two years ago I lost books, literary papers, archives, old family photographs, manuscripts, and old diaries. Losing these things was strangely liberating, I didn't really care as much as I thought I would. I had already begun discarding books; years before the flood I began downsizing my library; I kept poetry and books on poetics, biographies of poets, books on poets’ work, books of interviews with poets, and some other books that still meant something to me. But fiction was easy to discard, except for a few novels--Moby Dick, The Great Gatsby, novels by Margaret Laurence, and other Canadian novelists--most of the rest were discarded.

Years ago I read all of Henry Miller's books, some were purchased second hand, some new, some remaindered, and some from antiquarian book stores. I read books that Miller recommended, for instance, the diaries and novels of Anais Nin and I heard her speak at Sir George Williams University; I read Blaise Cendrar and other writers that Miller knew. Read Henry Miller's The Books in My Life (1952); I am pretty sure that I discovered J. Krishnamurti because of Miller's essay on him in this book. I remember late one day, taking a city bus home, and meeting Louis Dudek on the same bus; he had planned to publish something by Henry Miller but decided against it; he writes, somewhere, that the big influence on his writing was Matthew Arnold and Henry Miller. He liked Miller’s conversational style of writing and that Miller was intelligent but not academic.

Also, I must have read all of the novels of Jack Kerouac, and then I moved on to other Beat writers, Corso, Burroughs, Michael McClure, Ferlinghetti, and Diane di Prima. It used to be that when I would read someone whose books I liked I read all of their work, their novels, poems, essays, letters, books on their writing, and biographies. And I’ll read the books they recommend or books that influenced them. 

I began reading Jack Kerouac in the fall of 1969, around the time I heard Allen Ginsberg read his poems at Sir George Williams University where I was a student; by then, Kerouac had fallen into obscurity, he drank his way into oblivion, and then he died; by then the public had moved on from the Beatniks to the Hippies and left Kerouac behind. Back then, in 1969, I found it difficult to find Kerouac's books; today, they're in the remaining bookstores that we have. But now I have no real interest in Kerouac or Allen Ginsberg. As bpNichol said to me, when he read his work at the college where I was teaching, Kerouac is for when you are young, when you get older you want something more substantial. I'm no longer interested in reading Kerouac's novels but I kept his poetry, I still like Kerouac's poetry.                                 

I remember the evening of 21 October 1969, a dark and rainy evening, I was downtown on McKay Street when I heard that Kerouac had died. But death was good for his reputation as a writer, over the following years and decades his popularity has grown and his unpublished manuscripts have been published; books on Kerouac, biographies and memoirs, have also been published. 

Back in the late 1960s there were still people around who had known Kerouac from his visits to Montreal. A professor and friend, it was Scotty Gardiner at SGWU, told me that he expected Kerouac to come for supper at a friend's home but Kerouac never arrived. It was the usual story of a drunk Jack Kerouac disappointing people and not caring, he could be belligerent and argumentative when drunk. Ginsberg also read in Montreal, in November 1969, and from where I was sitting I could see George Bowering in the first row with Peter Orlovsky. The years passed and Ginsberg returned to read in Montreal (I can't find documentation for this visit) but Ginsberg's readings were no longer important cultural events, it was golden oldies, and people demonstrated against Ginsberg's advocacy for adult men having sex with young boys. Ginsberg discredited himself advocating for this issue, he was not ahead of his time, he was out of touch with society, its norms, and values. Here is something ironic: a few days ago I read that when Ginsberg was young, he lived for a while with William Burroughs, and when he moved out he complained to Burroughs that he didn't want to have sex with some old man... Actually, Ginsberg said a lot worse about Burroughs' private anatomy than I will repeat. Ken Norris writes in a poem that, when he was young, poets were our heroes, and they were. A friend, Trevor Carolan, wrote on Ginsberg in Giving Up Poetry: With Allen Ginsberg At Hollyhock (Banff Centre Press, 2001). Ginsberg, like Kerouac, is a writer of one's youth, not one’s older years. 

Our flooded basement:

Flooded basement, July 2023

On Louis Dudek's Continuation

Cedar Avenue,  Feb. 20, 1954

Louis Dudek's Collected Poems (1971) is the end of the first half of Dudek’s body of work; the second half begins with his Continuation books (published in 1980, 1990, and excerpts were published in two separate books published in 1997 and 2000). In fact, Dudek's Collected Poems contains poems from both halves of his published poems; there is what was published before Continuation and after that there are the Continuation books; one leads to the other, they overlap, and Dudek's Collected Poems is the border between the two. 

Some critics consider Dudek overly influenced by his mentor, Ezra Pound. Here is what Northrop Frye wrote in a review of Dudek's Europe (1954):  

I find large stretches of the book unrewarding. In the first place, the influence of Pound is oppressive. Pound is everywhere: the rub-a-dub three- and four-accent, the trick of snapped-up quotations and allusion, the harangues against usura, the toboggan-slide theory of the decline of Europe after the Middle Ages, and so on. In the second place, the conversational style brings the ideas into sharp relief, and the ideas are commonplace, prejudice reinforced by superficial tourism... 

Well, that wasn't very nice but it’s also how some critics perceived Dudek’s poetry; of course, all poets are influenced by previous generations of poets, or by specific poets belonging to previous generations of poets. The turning point for Dudek’s poetry was his use of epigrams, for instance in Continuation, and the importance of epigrams is shown when Dudek said that all good poems begin with, or contain, a significant epigrammatic line. 

Reading Continuation, one statement, one line, one epigram, doesn’t always lead in any meaningful or logical way to the next line or epigram; there seems little relationship to the previous or the following line or epigram. We know how the mind imposes order, or invents order and meaning, in what is perceived; when meaning isn't apparent, it is imposed by the mind. Reading Williams Burrough's cut-ups, those randomly selected excerpts of texts, one finds some incredible, and startling, juxtapositions of images and ideas; a similar effect, this time juxtaposing unrelated dream generated images, is found in poems by the Dadaists and the Surrealists. Here is William Burrough's statement on the human mind imposing meaning:

Our ancestors saw the creatures of the constellations in the apparently unorganized distribution of the stars. It has been shown experimentally through the viewing of random white dots on a screen that man tends to find pattern and picture where objectively there is none: his mental process shapes what it sees.                                                                                                                                   
                                        --William Burroughs, The Job, Interviews with
                                        Daniel Odier (1969), p. 360

The human mind has a meaning function and a narrative function; our concept of reality is based on consensus, on common agreement, on what we have been conditioned or told to believe is real or factually true. There is the narrative with its structure of beginning, middle, and end or whatever arrangement one wants. The mind is essentially very conservative and needs to make sense or impose order on what is perceived; there are also the very infrequent moments of “Ah-Ha!”, those sudden insights or illumination, or epiphanies, that transcend both the meaning function, the narrative function, and consensual reality; a new order is discovered in this way. In Continuation, by placing one epigram beside another unrelated epigram, the cumulative effect is a possibly meaningful statement. Dudek, the social conservative, a man who was outwardly the advocate of the intellect, of “reason over passion”, also had an  irrational side, as do all artists and poets, and this can be seen in Dudek’s Continuation.

Cutting up A.M. Klein's "The Mountain"

The mountain in the distance, at Mount Royal and Park Avenue

This is in response to Jason Camlot’s “After the Mountain; The A.M. Klein Reboot Project”. Klein’s original poem, “The Mountain”, is published below; it is followed by my cut-up of Klein’s poem, published in a chapbook of the same title, compiled and edited by Jason Camlot, and published by Synapse Press, Montreal, 2011:

For many years I have been interested in William Burroughs and Brion Gysins’ experiments in “cutting-up” texts. In this poem I have literally “re-mixed” A.M. Klein’s poem “The Mountain”. This “re-mix” is a fairly conservative cut-up of Klein’s original poem; that is, I have kept the integrity of Klein’s lines in tact but I have re-mixed the order of the lines. Klein’s text was cut-up with scissors and then randomly reassembled. The resulting “cut-up” text changes a straight linear poem—Klein’s lyrical “A Mountain”—reassembles or re-mixes the poem, and finds in the new text a similar lyrical expression as in Klein’s poem, but without the linearity of the original poem. Meaning persists, but it emerges strangely transformed by the re-mix.

Stephen Morrissey
14 November 2011



Klein’s original poem:

The Mountain

A.M. Klein

Who knows it only by the famous cross which bleeds
into the fifty miles of night its light
knows a night—scene;
and who upon a postcard knows its shape —
the buffalo straggled of the laurentian herd, —
holds in his hand a postcard.

In layers of mountains the history of mankind,
and in Mount Royal
which daily in a streetcar I surround
my youth, my childhood —
the pissabed dandelion, the coolie acorn,
green prickly husk of chestnut beneath mat of grass—
O all the amber afternoons
are still to be found.

There is a meadow, near the pebbly brook,
where buttercups, like once on the under of my chin
upon my heart still throw their rounds of yellow.

And Cartier's monument, based with nude figures
still stands where playing hookey
Lefty and I tested our gravel aim
(with occupation flinging away our guilt)
against the bronze tits of Justice.

And all my Aprils there are marked and spotted
upon the adder's tongue, darting in light,
upon the easy threes of trilliums, dark green, green, and white,
threaded with earth, and rooted
beside the bloodroots near the leaning fence—
corms and corollas of childhood,
a teacher's presents.

And chokecherry summer clowning black on my teeth!

The birchtree stripped by the golden zigzag still
stands at the mouth of the dry cave where I
one suppertime in August watched the sky
grow dark, the wood quiet, and then suddenly spill
from barrels of thunder and broken staves of lightning —
terror and holiday!

One of these days I shall go up to the second terrace
to see if it still is there—
the uncomfortable sentimental bench
where, — as we listened to the brass of the band concerts
made soft and to our mood by dark and distance—
I told the girl I loved
I loved her.


The Mountain, Re-mix One

Stephen Morrissey

O all the amber afternoons
are still to be found.
And all my Aprils there are marked and spotted
upon the adder’s tongue, darting in light,
the pissabed dandelion, the coolie acorn,
green prickly husk of chestnut beneath mat of grass —
from barrels of thunder and broken staves of lightning —
terror and holiday!
Who knows it only by the famous cross which bleeds
into fifty miles of night its light
upon the easy threes of trillium, dark, green, and white,
threaded with earth, and rooted
And Cartier’s monument, based with nude figures
still stands where playing hookey
Lefty and I tested our gravel aim
(with occupation flinging away our guilt)
holds in his hand a postcard.
In layers of mountains the history of mankind,
and in Mount Royal
There is a meadow, near the pebbly brook,
where buttercups, like once on the under of my chin
a teacher’s presents.
And chokecherry summer clowning black on my teeth!
One of these days I shall go up to the second terrace
to see if it is still there—
one suppertime in August watched the sky
grow dark, the wood quiet, and then suddenly spill
The birch tree stripped by the golden zigzag still
stands at the mouth of the dry cave where I
which daily in a streetcar I surround
my youth, my childhood—
against the bronze tits of Justice.
the uncomfortable sentimental bench
where, —as we listened to the brass of the band concerts
knows a night-scene;
and who upon a postcard knows its shape —
the buffalo straggled of the laurentian herd, —
upon my heart still throw their rounds of yellow.
made soft and to our mood by dark and distance —
I told the girl I loved
I loved her.
beside the bloodroots near the leaning fence—
corms and corollas of childhood.


The Mountain, Re-mix Two, unpublished


Stephen Morrissey

one suppertime in August watched the sky
grow dark, the wood quiet, and then suddenly spill
a night-scene;
and who upon a postcard knows its shape
stands at the mouth of a dry cave where I
beside the bloodroots near the leaning fence—
corms and corollas of childhood,
against the bronze tits of Justice.
And all my Aprils there are marked and spotted
the pissabed dandelion, the coolie acorn,
green prickly husk of chestnut beneath mat of grass—
There is a meadow, near the pebbly brook,
where buttercups, like once on the under of my chin
The birchtree striped by the golden zigzag still
(with occupation flinging away our guilt)
and in Mount Royal
which daily in a streetcar I surround
holds in his hand a postcard.
In layers of mountains the history of mankind,
into the fifty miles of night
from barrels of thunder and broken staves of lightning—
terror and holiday!
upon the adder’s tongue, darting in light,
upon the easy threes of trilliums, dark, green, and white,
One of these days I shall go to the second terrace
upon my heart still throw their rounds of yellow..
And Cartier’s monument, based with nude figures
Who knows it only by the famous cross which bleeds
threaded with earth, and rooted
to see if it still is there—
the uncomfortable sentimental bench
still stands where playing hookey
Lefty and I tested our gravel aim
my youth, my childhood—
O all the amber afternoons
are still to be found.
where,—as we listened to the brass of the band concerts
made soft and to our mood by dark and distance—
I told the girl I loved
And chokecherry summer clowning on my teeth
the buffalo straggled of the laurentian herd,—
a teacher’s presents.
I loved her.

11 November 2011

Cutting-up Atlantis (Seven)

primeval men of that country of the gods, that they distributed the and made for themselves temples and for his lot the island of Atlantis, begat in a part of the island, which I will centre of the whole island, there was a plain and very fertile. Near the plain again, of about fifty stadia, there was a mountain there dwelt one of the earth-born Evenor, and he has a wife named was called Cleito. The maiden had already died; Poseidon fell in love with her and inclosed the hill in which she dwelt all larger and smaller, encircling one another; he turned as with a lathe, each having its so that no man could get to the himself, being a god, found no difficulty land, bringing up two springs of water the other of cold, and making every I have before remarked in speaking of the whole earth into portions differing in extent, instituted sacrifices. And Poseidon, receiving children by a mortal woman, and settled them describe. Looking towards the sea, but in the which is said to have been the fairest of all and also in the centre of the island at a distance mountain not very high on any side. In this primeval men of that country, whose name was Leucippe , and they had an only daughter who reached womanhood, when her father and mother had intercourse with her, and breaking the round, making alternate zones of sea and land there were two of land and three of water, which circumference equidistant every way from the island, for ships and voyages were not as yet. in making special arrangements for the centre from beneath the earth, one of warm water and 

____________________________________ 

Cut-up of an original text, Critias, by Plato

The Cut-up Technique, now including the Fold-in Technique

John Cage poem by Stephen Morrissey

Cut-up poem from around 2010 by Stephen Morrissey

The process of making cut-ups is fairly simple. Take a page of someone’s writing—for instance Arthur Rimbaud or Blaise Cendrars—and cut the page into four, eight, ten, or whatever number of pieces one chooses. Then, randomly assemble the cut-up pieces of text by gluing them onto a fresh sheet of paper. Now, you have a new piece of writing by the same author, but changed, the words altered, a new voice speaking through the random assemblage of fragments of their work. The linear writing you began with has been re-visioned in a non-linear way, often producing surprising new phrases that contradict normal rational logic. As a variation on this process, you can take two authors, cut-up their writing, and assemble a new, single, and combined page of, for instance, Rimbaud-Cendrars.

I learned of the cut-up method in William Burroughs and Brion Gysin’s book Minutes to Go that I read in the early 1970s. I was just beginning to read my work in public and the cut-ups made a huge impression on me at the time. Indeed, the writings of Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg, Gregory Corso and William Burroughs, and others, spoke to many of us in a personal and relevant way. Writing poetry was our journey and these older writers were our mentors. I also read all of Henry Miller and Anaïs Nin, and other writers that Henry Miller recommended in his The Books in my Life; indeed, that’s where I first heard of Blaise Cendrars and, possibly, J. Krishnamurti. At the time of these early public readings and performances, I was also involved with the writings of John Cage that emphasized silence, randomness, coincidence/synchronicity, and non-linearity in art.

I have always liked several things about making cut-ups: For instance, 1) the physicality (or non-cerebral aspect) of the cut-ups, using scissors and glue to create new writing; 2) the relationship of the cut-ups to making collages, which are really visual cut-ups; 3) I have always been intrigued by the randomness of the cut-ups, allowing a new voice to emerge from the writing; 4) the connection to visual art (painting, film, etc.) interested me; 5) avoiding the imposition of the ego in the writing, always seemed to me one of the objectives I was attempting to achieve in my experimental writing; 6) cut-ups can be performed using several voices, or a room full of voices, or the reading/performance can have several cut-ups read simultaneously.

The cut-ups remind us of a serious ambition in poetry, in sound poetry, in visual poetry, and in printed poetry. In my writing since the cut-ups—writing concerned with redemption and witness—the context has always been living in an existential world in which insight and affirmation of life has been hard-won. The cut-ups affirm life, they show meaning and creativity in randomness and coincidence.

A final note: you can't escape the trickster archetype in all of this. The idea of new, intelligible poems coming from the cut-up remains of someone else's poems suggests a supreme act of disrupting our usual way of thinking about life. Are our poems so slight, or so dense, that a new and possibly significant text can be found after its cut-up pieces are randomly assembled? Is the cut-up up technique also some kind of manifestation of the trickster? Of course, it’s all a part of the same process...

30 October, 2008

Addendum

William Burrough's "fold-in" technique

William S. Burroughs' "fold-in" method is a literary technique where two pages of text with the same line spacing are folded vertically and placed on top of each other. The new text is then read by taking half of each original page, creating a composite text that can produce new narratives and meanings. It was a variation of the broader cut-up technique that Burroughs developed with Brion Gysin.

How it works

Preparation: Take two pages of text—which can be your own writing or someone else's—and ensure they have the same line spacing.

Folding: Fold each page in half vertically.

Combining: Place the two folded pages on top of each other.

Reading: Read across the resulting composite page, taking half of the first text and half of the second text for each line.

Purpose and effects:

New narrative: The method creates new and unexpected combinations of words and phrases, leading to a new narrative or a different perspective on the original texts.

Temporal shifts: Burroughs used it to create effects like flashbacks by folding page one into page one hundred and placing it as page ten, creating a temporal loop for the reader.

Discovering meaning: Burroughs and Gysin believed the technique could reveal the implicit or "true" meaning of a text by disrupting its linear structure.

Clarity and comprehensibility: Interestingly, Burroughs noted that sometimes the composite text produced by the fold-in method was clearer than the original texts.

Revised: 20 October 2025