I will get to the point and then stray from it. This is an essay born of frustration. I am tired of living in a world of devolution and of participating in this mediocrity myself. I feel it necessary to share what I believe is important: an account of apathy.
Let those six letters simmer slowly in your mind as I divulge my societal and literary concerns. I take issue with the casual nature of people in the modern world. I do not speak of those without ability, however. As I will soon explain, I take issue with those with capabilities—financial means and working brains. I take issue with those who, years ago, were conceived by miraculous means: one sperm and one egg and for whom the magic of life spurred reality on with spirit and vigor. Those who developed in the womb for nine months, growing a heart, skin, limbs, eyes and everything one needs to sustain oneself with precision and articulate artistry. They burst from the womb like a rare flower into a world filled with gifts: moments, memories, sensation, color, smell, taste, touch, sound and comprehension. These people once emerged from the maternal craftsmanship to take on the challenge of life with gusto, sucking in air with a squeal and grabbing at the teat in order to become more, to continue the process of life and persist, thrust into reality, chewing and swallowing, speaking and writing, correlating, considering and creating. People who, by any account, are embodiments of the meaning of life, yet they have become careless husks. They carry a neglected spirit begging to connect with the world in which it was thrust. These people, the apathetic people, are the people of today.
There is a saying made famous by the historian Michael Hopf: “Hard times create strong men. Strong men create good times. Good times create weak men. And, weak men create hard times." It is a spectacularly straightforward idea. We are caught in this cycle. The World Wars demanded strength, insisting that only the strong push through. After World War II we, arguably, saw easier times in this country. Since then people have softened and weakened. I argue that we are in an era of fragility and uncertainty and toxicity. This is apparent in our high political divisions between the left and the right, in waves of mindsets and policies which seek to destroy traditions and standards. One could even argue it follows the rise of mental health diagnoses. If people think the current state of the world is a mess, just wait; I can imagine more to come. It does not have to though and, if it does, there is a path one can take to help combat the chaos: order. Before getting to the main argument, let me discuss the literary world and its issues.
I was first introduced to poetry through writers like Poe and Yeats who, in their mastery, have stuck with the world. Before them there were others who changed the literary world: Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Byron, and the Brownings. After them a smaller handful: poets like Pound, Eliot, Frost, and Stevens. But what of the past 40 years? What poet has so masterfully risen through these ranks? Charles Simic? Louise Glück? Seamus Heaney? Alice Fulton? I cannot say. It is neither my place nor time. What I can say is that my experience with contemporary poetry is nothing short of unsatisfactory, even draining. I often take notice of newly published poems in the best journals and magazines in the country and around the world. These poems unfailingly rely too heavily on a prosaic style, which has corrupted much of the contemporary world. I do not mean that there is no value in prose poetry but, rather, it has made it so much easier for people to write badly and get away with it. This is not to say that all contemporary poetry is bad. I have often found poems I enjoy in newer journals, albeit not as much as the older ones above.
The rise of social media and self-publishing has flooded low quality poetry into the world, hurting its public image. I even saw a recently published poem in a prestigious journal where the author explained the metaphor that was used immediately after having used it. This then, of course, ruined the poem for me. On top of this, experimental poetry has hit a wall where “flashiness” has overcome skill and anything new is considered good, valued through its novelty without regards to an actual depth.
In this sense, the literary world is fraught with chaos. Consider as well that more contemporary books are published in a year than in all of human history. The world of poetry, as it stands, is both disorienting and lackluster. There is an extant literary loss and an absence of greats at least not yet found or defined.
Now, as for the modern people: sweatpants adorned but not exercising; loose t-shirts because it’s quick and easy; a rise in fast food consumption evolved from of a desire to shove toxins down your throat while wearing said pajamas. With this has come a rise in minimalism and a decline in quality and detail. The older architecture is more exquisite. The older houses stronger. But now you can wrap your pesticide-coated fruit in plastic to bring them home before you forget about them to throw them out because you were too busy staring at your phone and binging “Friends” on your laptop in your room in the dark. Maybe this is a facetious rant but it helps paint the picture of that which ultimately disturbs me: apathy.
Do not give excuses. You have the capacity to pursue care in your life and to have respect for yourself. I do not doubt this. You may read this and say, “What an interesting article in The Cal Review today,” and then go about your day as if you simply wanted to hear the sound of your own voice. I cannot make people care any more than they do, only urge the great unthinking masses to consider the possibilities. I can, however, introduce the source of a cure, some order in this chaos, and it is with regard to this that I do all of my poetic work and hold my poetic philosophy: beauty.
Beauty, to me, requires order and order requires effort. That which is unrestrained is chaotic, messy and, I propose, ugly. This holds true when one looks at some of the greatest feats of man: The new St. Peter’s Basilica took 120 years to build. The Notre Dame Cathedral took two centuries. Walt Whitman worked on Leaves of Grass throughout his entire life. I devoted myself to my academics for years in order to enjoy some time here at a prestigious university. You have the potential to be more than you are. Whatever helps you summon the courage to put in this effort, find it. For me it is beauty.
Everywhere around you is something of value, of attention to detail, particularly in nature. The spewing colors of the sky, the crinkled zest of autumn noon, the sparkling quiet of the snow and you were born with the capacity to fit like a puzzle piece directly into this grand tapestry. You were born with the highest of destinies: to be beautiful. Pursue the good. Pursue justice. Pursue order and vibrancy. Pursue yourself and your dreams. Make your home and your body beautiful. Work hard for a good suit or pick out a lovely dress. Smile to friends and mean it. Give your family fresh and healthy food. Keep your ties hung neatly. Polish your shoes. Thank a bus driver. Go for a run. Make meaningful connections. Read a book. Speak mindfully and listen carefully.
