"Speak not of comfort where no comfort is,
Speak not at all; can words make foul things fair?
Our life's a cheat, our death a black abyss:
Hush and be mute envisaging despair. --"
(Book XVI, lines 39-42)
First off, this is not the poet described by John Berryman in The Dream Songs #231 as "That Boring Shit James Thomson, Seasonal," who is, logically, most well-known for his long poem The Seasons, along with "The Castle of Indolence" and other works. But since that earlier poet (1700-1748) is known as a major figure in the so-called "Graveyard School of Poetry," and the latter (1834-1882) has been described as "the laureate of pessimism," you've almost got to wonder if there's something, maybe numerological, about the name James Thomson.
This is probably the easiest of Thomson's books to acquire, available through Canongate Classics, an imprint out of Edinburgh devoted to Scots writers who are, sadly, largely little-known in this country and century. Although the poem is, strictly speaking, book-length, the book in question is only 77 pages long, including the excellent introduction by Edwin Morgan and the end notations, and makes for a quick read. But its tone of unrelenting despair might prevent it from being an easy read. However, I find its absolute bleakness actually almost cheering. When watching CNN merely reminds one of how harsh reality can be, there's no point in pretending it's all shiny and happy. Best to face up to the potential for despair and deal with it.
The poem is divided into 21 short sections in which the narrator, an insomniac, wanders the streets of "the City," describing scenes and encountering characters, but primarily pondering on existence and railing against God in terms so harsh I almost wonder if they would be publishable today in any mainstream media. Thomson is aware of the darkness of his vision:
"Surely I write not for the hopeful young,
Or those who deem their happiness of worth,
Or such as pasture and grow fat among
The shows of life and feel nor doubt nor dearth...
If any cares for the weak words here written,
It must be some one desolate, Fate-smitten,
Whose faith and hope are dead, and who would die."
-- Proem, 15-18, 26-28
That, my friends, is on the very first page, and it goes on like that until the last page, where we find:
"The sense that every struggle brings defeat
Because Fate holds no prize to crown success;
That all the oracles are dumb or cheat
Because they have no secrets to express;
That none can pierce the vast black veil uncertain
Because there is no light beyond the curtain;
That all is vanity and nothingness."
-- Book XXI, lines 64-70
It doesn't get boring, though, because, as seen in these examples, the work is eminently quotable and underlineable. The experience of walking around a mostly empty city of strangers at night hasn't changed much in a hundred years. And Thomson couldn't have been a total pessimist...he also wrote an essay called "The Speedy Extinction of of Evil and Misery," which is hopeful enough. The plan to do that, though, is for all individuals to stop worrying about other people, rid themselves of the seven deadly sins, and put on the cardinal virtues; then the world will take care of itself. Okay, maybe he was a pessimist. But definitely a poet to be reckoned with in 2002.