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Interviewer: John Amen
JA: I'm excited to be featuring you in this issue of The Pedestal Magazine. Let me begin by asking you: What, in your view, is the relationship between inspiration and discipline? I mean, we talk about "the importance of the muse," but, in your experience, what does the muse expect of us?
HC: Inspiration is the occurrence of an idea, a sequence of images or sounds, a vision or an unvoiced emotion, or almost any mental transaction in anyone's consciousness. The occurrence may be sudden and without apparent antecedents, which led the ancients to invent their concept of the muse, an external and mystical aid to artists seeking a means to ply their artistry. In our age of micro-biology we assign any such figment to the category of the quaint and unuseful, although some artists continue--foolishly, I think--to pay "lip service" to it. This leads to insincerity and false projections.
JA: Could you speak a little about your experiences as a teacher? I mean, obviously teaching is a way in which you help folks to find their voices, but is it also a learning experience for you? Does teaching, in some way, inform you as a writer, help to further facilitate your own writing?
HC: I became a teacher when I was sixty years old. I had no notion what to do. In the classroom I improvised, often wildly. But in the graduate school at Syracuse I was lucky to have students who sympathized with my predicament. They helped me to teach them things about poetry which they needed to know. Many of them became good friends. But teaching, considered by itself, had no actual connection to my own writing.
JA: You are someone who has written poetry in many styles, used many approaches. You have not "settled" on one way of doing things. What are or have been some of your greatest challenges as a writer? What do you see as some of your major breakthroughs?
HC: Poetry for me is a way of being, of existing. Naturally it occurs in large and complicated structures of circumstance. These are what poetry responds to. They are what shape the techniques of art, all techniques. Various artists adopt various techniques, as they must. To my mind, the more varied the better. And you can substitute "style," in the broadest sense, for "technique." One of my greatest "challenges" as a writer is to reply to e-mail messages, which are almost always fragmentary and inartistic. As for my "major" inventions, I think I must let other people talk about that.
JA: You have served as editor of several prominent literary journals, including Poetry, Harper's, and The Hudson Review. Could you talk a little about being an editor? What does that "hat" consist of for you? What, quite simply, are some qualities that help to make a good editor?
HC: A good editor is different from a good artist, though sometimes they coincide. An editor needs objectivity, an ability to give himself entirely to the work of others and to the greater good of the arts in general. He--or she, for many great editors have been women--must be receptive not only to novel and even outrageous works, since the outrageous may turn into the beautiful and brave overnight, but to all works submitted to his attention by anyone. Finally he must be well acquainted with the theoretical underpinnings if the arts, and ideally he should contribute something to them.
JA: You have written in many genres; i.e., fiction, non-fiction, etc. Has it been difficult for you to move from one genre to another, or is that simply one of the ways in which you have been blessed?-- that you have an intuitive sense of what genre would be best suited to embrace certain content?
HC: Anyone who has studied the arts knows which genre, as you call them, is suited to a particular expressive complex. Shifting from one genre to another may be difficult or easy, depending largely on the personality of the artist. No mystery exists here. Anyone who can write a good limerick can also write a good serious poem. The difference between good poetry and prose is almost nil. The precepts of good writing apply equally to both.
JA: In a letter, included in your book, Letters to Jane, you wrote, after judging a literary contest, that most of the poems were "frightfully stylish and clever and Cantabrigian. Not the direction in which our poetry should be moving at this point." Do you sense a general homogeneity in some of the poetry that's currently being published? Do you sense that editors and publishers are, for whatever reason, oftentimes "playing it safe?"
HC: I cannot comment in good faith on current poetry in America. I am old and ill, and except for the work of friends I have not kept up with what is being done. In the past I was a conscientious editor and reviewer, which required, believe me, an immense effort and much stamina. But now I am too weak for such exertions.
JA: If you're comfortable doing so, I'm wondering if you would speak a little about your views regarding current world and/or domestic situations. What are some of your primary concerns? On the other hand, are there areas in which you think we're making significant progress?
HC: To my mind, this era in the evolution of American civilization is actually an appalling devolution. Our culture is coming apart. What could be more antithetical to the fostering of art and literature? Artists now bear a greater burden than ever before. We must continually disprove the efficacy of violence and greed in human affairs. We must continuously dissuade our fellow citizens from supporting the program of violence and greed which has been foisted on us. And we must, in honor and honesty, continuously criticize and castigate persons of powers in our society who have raised up and sustained this program. Far more than the well-being of art and literature is at stake in our endeavors. We are the vindicators of good sense in our nation. Our voices will resonate throughout the world.
JA: As you reflect on a life devoted to the arts, what are you most proud of? And, do you have regrets? What do you feel that your unique contribution has been or will be?
HC: I have no clear realization of the place occupied by my work in the general conspectus. That would be a foolish concern for any artist. Pride is always silly, and regrets are usually silly too, though genuine remorse may be an important element of artistic purpose. Any good artist studies his own work, of course. But attempts to make discriminative comparisons with the work of others are detrimental to the self and invidious to all others.
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