• Email
  • Single Page
  • Print

Seeing Is Not Believing’

Selected Poems

by Anthony Hecht, edited by J.D. McClatchy
Knopf, 272 pp., $21.00 (paper)
Detroit Institute of Arts
Albert Pinkham Ryder: The Tempest, 1892


Anthony Hecht, more than any other American poet of the past half-century, wrote as a champion of traditional forms and elevated syntax. Formal verse, in his eyes, embodied the dignity and grandeur of law itself. He titled one of his books of criticism The Hidden Law (1993), another On the Laws of the Poetic Art (1995). The laws that governed poems were for him the symbols of universal moral law, and equally demanding. Hecht wrote of the

    solitary, self-denying work
That issues in something
  harmless, like a poem,
Governed by laws that stand for
  other laws.

A book of essays about him is titled The Burdens of Formality, a title that points toward, in the editor’s words, the “taut and demanding relation between formality and fate” in Hecht’s poems, his sense that he is both compelled and privileged to uphold the laws of poetic form. The title also points to the idea, frequent among reviewers, that he was a defender of civilized standards everywhere under threat. He presented himself as a scourge of poetical outlaws who swarm from “the woods and woodwork”:

  They speak in tongues, no
High glossolalia, runic gibberish.
  Some are like desert saints,
Wheat-germ ascetics, draped in
    pelt and clout.
  Some come in schools, like fish.
These make their litany of dark
  Those laugh and rejoice
At liberation from the bonds of
  Race, morals and mind,
As well as meter, rhyme and the
    human voice.

The Sixties, he said, were an era “when the inalienable rights of Americans were deemed to include Free Love, Free Verse, and the Pursuit of Sloppiness.”

“An aristocrat among poets” was J.D. McClatchy’s summary in 1988 of Hecht’s manner and status. “The lofty rhetorical grace of his work…brings to mind another, finer age. But,” McClatchy continued, “just beneath their elegant surfaces his poems often manifest an unnerving, nearly Jacobean intensity.” More than any other critic, McClatchy—Hecht’s literary executor and editor of a well-judged and deftly annotated Selected Poems—is alert to Hecht’s double edge, his oscillation between formal, aristocratic disdain and abased, formless despair.

Hecht told a friend that his poem “Green: An Epistle” was about “the way we disguise our deepest truths from ourselves.” But he seems to have been willing to acknowledge only at the end of his life, in an essay that he never finished, that even magisterial literary judgments like his own might arise from a hidden source, that his aristocratic disdain issued from childhood miseries. The last letter in his Selected Letters, written two months before his death at eighty-one, reports that the essay he is working on

will concern how deeply personal, quirky and often irrational, are our judgments of taste, about which we are sometimes very defensive, and about which we sometimes feel vulnerable, residing as these judgments do in some highly private inwardness, deeply severed from what we normally think of as our faculty of judgment.

In a familiar paradox of art, Hecht’s poems got their structure and strength from his irrational judgments and defensive vulnerability. But Hecht did something deeper and more complex than finding compensations in the perfections of art for the faults of life. What is uniquely unsettling about his poetry is its insistence that its aristocratic poise is helpless against the inner terror that gave rise to it. As he suggests in “A Birthday Poem,” he finds in art a “clarity that never was,” a clarity outside of time that offers only an illusion of escape from the tangled misery of actual and specific moments, naming as an example “that mid-afternoon of our disgrace.”


Hecht was born in New York in 1923 to upper-class secular Jews whose grandparents had emigrated from Germany. His father had dropped out of Harvard to run the family’s kitchen utensil business when his own father went blind. Three times during the Depression, starting when Hecht was around seven, Hecht’s father lost all his money and that of his investors. All three times he attempted suicide and was rescued financially by Hecht’s mother’s family. On one occasion he briefly and mysteriously disappeared.

“The first serious poem I ever tried to write was a disaster,” Hecht said, “and it was bad because I tried to express unmediated feelings about one of my father’s collapses.” Paternal failure hurt him into poetry. For the rest of his life, all his serious poems expressed well-mediated feelings about his father’s failure as the giver and keeper of law that a father ought to be. In the world of Hecht’s imagination a father always fails or departs or a son is lost or abandoned. In a more or less different way, when the son grows up to be a father, he too fails or departs.

Hecht’s sons, he writes in one poem, imagine him as a folktale hero, while his own image of himself is that of a Jewish father helpless against the Nazis, a father “Who could not, at one time,/Have saved them from the gas.” In some of his letters, he half-jokingly imagines himself his father’s father, addressing his parents as “Dear kids” or “Kinderlein [little children].” The novelist whom he most admired was William Maxwell, whose mother died when Maxwell was ten and whose whole body of work, like Hecht’s, looks back to a childhood catastrophe.

Hecht enlisted in the Army in 1942, and in the last few months of the war experienced the horrors of the battlefield—including the slaughter of German women and children by his own side—and the horrors revealed when his division liberated the death camp at Flossenbürg. On his return he taught poetry in colleges, had a nervous breakdown, launched his reputation through the lucid formal intensity of his early poems, and won a year-long fellowship to Rome, where he later returned for a another year. As McClatchy writes in his introduction to the Selected Poems, on the map of Hecht’s sensibility “Germany and Italy border each other.” The first is the site of manifest, bloody horrors, the second of hidden, psychological ones.

At thirty-one he married Patricia Harris, with whom he had two sons. The marriage began unhappily and got worse. On the evidence of almost any writer’s letters, including Hecht’s, all unhappy marriages fail in the same way. The letter-writer looks on in passive bewilderment while his spouse, with no visible motive, metamorphoses into an irrational fury. Hecht’s early poems, however, suggest that he understood his wife’s grievances and knew he was unable to relieve them. These poems record his dismay at his own adolescent smartness about sex and his alienation from intimacy. “The Dover Bitch,” for example, is a monologue spoken by a man who occasionally spends a night with the woman to whom Matthew Arnold had addressed “Dover Beach”:

       To have been brought
All the way down from London,
  and then be addressed
As a sort of mournful cosmic last
Is really tough on a girl, and she
  was pretty….
                I still see her once
  in a while
And she always treats me right.
  We have a drink
And I give her a good time, and
  perhaps it’s a year
Before I see her again, but there
  she is,
Running to fat, but dependable as
  they come.
And sometimes I bring her a
  bottle of Nuit d’Amour.

In many of Hecht’s early poems, his formal stanzas, Latinate diction, and learned allusions are the means by which he makes himself heir to generations of British literary fathers from Shakespeare and Herbert through Yeats and Auden. (He spoke with an English accent though he never lived in England.) In “The Dover Bitch” he wins an Oedipal battle by going to bed with a woman loved by one of his literary fathers. He writes the poem in the bad-boy style he used in his other early poems about sex, and he portrays himself—and the woman—as cynically shallow, incapable of Arnold’s intensity and depth. The subtitle of Hecht’s poem is Arnold’s phrase about poetry, “A Criticism of Life,” and the poem is his criticism of his own life.

A year after Hecht and his wife divorced, she married a Belgian and announced that she was taking Hecht’s two sons with her to Europe. Deeply depressed at imagining himself another in a line of failed fathers, he spent three months in a mental hospital. After a letter in which he reports to a friend that he has seen his sons for the last time before their departure, a three-year gap opens in the Selected Letters, during which he returns to teaching but seems to leave no visible record of his inner life.

Hecht’s poems ask repeatedly why he is moved by the weightless luminescence he finds in art and nature. In “Somebody’s Life” he wonders at his taste for poetic diction:

He smoked, recalled some lines
  of poetry,
Felt himself claimed by such rash
These were the lofty figures of his
What was it moved him in all that
  swash and polish?

In “After the Rain” he wonders at his taste for evanescent mists:

Yet what puzzles me the most
Is my unwavering taste
For these dim, weathery

In “Still Life” he wonders at being drawn to the motionless silence above a lake:

Why does this so much stir me,
  like a code
       Or muffled intimation
Of purposes and preordained

He answered these questions in his longest poem, the lightly disguised double autobiography “The Venetian Vespers.” The larger of the two autobiographies is that of the speaker, a rentier living alone in Venice, remembering from childhood

       those first precocious hints
  of hell,
Those intuitions of living
That last a lifetime.

Hecht insisted that the narrator “is not me, though I have used some events in my life,” but the psychological self-portrait is unmistakable. The speaker grew up above his uncle’s store, where his father worked. One day his father disappeared. “We never heard from him again.” When the speaker was six, his mother died. “My whole life was changed/Without my having done a single thing.” Other sufferings followed. Now, in Venice, the architectural filigree of St. Mark’s offers an escape from time and loss, but also from all meaning:

                No room is left
For antecedence, inference,
One escapes from all the anguish
  of this world
Into the refuge of the present
The past is mercifully dissolved,
  and in
Easy obedience to the gospel’s
One takes no thought whatever of
The soul being drenched in fine

The next line breaks the spell: “Seeing is misbelieving.”

Hecht detailed in a letter the miseries behind the poem. The speaker, he wrote,

has cut himself off from family life as his father was cut off. He has taken upon himself the penance for all the accumulated guilt, largely suspected, but absolutely unproveable, of what went on when he was a child.

Venetian architecture offers to the speaker the same delusive paradis artificiel—an inferno in elegant disguise—that Hecht’s prosody and diction offer to himself, the same “clarity that never was”:

His [the speaker’s] doom is never to know for sure; therefore his constant attention throughout the poem to visual clarity, and his constant assertions that visual clarity, for all its clarity, is misleading: we never know the truth. Venice for him is hell. But it is an apt, a fitting hell because it is all artificial, that is, man-made, just as all he suffers from is man-made.

Hecht’s much-praised visual descriptions, such as his grand evocation of a storm rising over Venice, are gorgeous but wheel-spinning, as if he felt compelled to create in verse the same artificial hell that he found in the stones of Venice.

The second autobiography in the poem is a quick vignette of an army comrade who cherished a copy of Emily Post’s Etiquette, another work of man-made clarity and elegance:

       he had been brought up in
  an orphanage,
So the book was his fiction of
A novel in which personages of
Firmly secure domestic
This was to him a sort of Corpus
An ancient piety and

The soldier, Hecht said, was real, someone he knew in the army. What makes him autobiographical is Hecht’s interpretation of him as a son without a father, seeking in the rules of etiquette the same body of laws that Hecht sought in poetry:

He haunts me here, that seeker
  after law
In a lawless world….
He was killed by enemy machine-gun fire.

Hecht saw himself a seeker after law in a world where even poetry was ultimately lawless. He acknowledged in the preface to his book of criticism On the Laws of the Poetic Art that “I shall be accused of mincing matters to such a degree that no laws whatever are even discernible.”

What moves him about the purity of nature’s light and silence, and about art’s clarity and loftiness, is the impossible vision they offer of unanxious calm and unalterable law in a real world of anxiety and change. Unexpectedly, when Hecht was forty-eight, he experienced in life the calm clarity that he imagined to be possible only in the illusions of art. He chanced to meet a former student, Helen D’Alessandro, who was twenty years younger than he; they married three months later; his third son was born the next year.

The happiest and comeliest of his poems, “Peripeteia,” ends in a moment when vision suddenly becomes real. As he sits in the audience at a performance of The Tempest,

                she, even she,
Miraculous Miranda, steps from
  the stage,
Moves up the aisle to my seat,
  where she stops,
Smiles gently, seriously, and takes
  my hand
And leads me out of the theater,
  into a night
As luminous as noon, more
  deeply real,
Simply because of her hand, than
  any dream
Shakespeare or I or anyone ever
  • Email
  • Single Page
  • Print