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TIME: Almanac 1995
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<text id=94TT0474>
<title>
Apr. 25, 1994: Books:She Mastered The Art Of Losing
</title>
<history>
TIME--The Weekly Newsmagazine--1994
Apr. 25, 1994 Hope in the War against Cancer
</history>
<article>
<source>Time Magazine</source>
<hdr>
BOOKS, Page 82
She Mastered The Art Of Losing
</hdr>
<body>
<p>Elizabeth Bishop was a great American poet whose work was polished
and humane; her letters reveal a life that was less serene
</p>
<p>By Paul Gray
</p>
<p> She seemed in many ways the odd woman out among her generation
of U.S. poets, and not only because of her gender. Elizabeth
Bishop (1911-79) suffered none of the public breakdowns, burnouts
and crack-ups that afflicted such talented contemporaries as
Robert Lowell, Delmore Schwartz, John Berryman, Randall Jarrell
and Theodore Roethke. "You are the soberest poet we've had here
yet," a secretary at the University of Washington once told
her; she cherished the comment and repeated it to others. Bishop's
public image seemed serene--photographs taken well into her
middle years invariably show small features arranged impassively
within a round face--and she grew famous in part for her fastidious
reserve about her own work. She allowed only 80 or so of her
poems to be published during her lifetime, and their scarcity--not to mention their polished, haunting artistry--made
them all the more cherished by her admirers. When she won a
Pulitzer Prize for poetry in 1956, she wrote a friend, "I'm
sure it's never been given for such a miserable quantity of
work before."
</p>
<p> What can her private correspondence add to the legacy of her
poems? A great deal, as it turns out, including the struggles
that lay behind Bishop's quest for perfection. One Art (Farrar
Straus Giroux; 668 pages; $35) offers 541 letters selected from
the more than 3,000 assembled by her editor Robert Giroux. The
book amounts to a kind of daily autobiography, with none of
the reshaping that memory can impose. Bishop loved sending and
receiving mail. "I sometimes wish," she wrote while a student
at Vassar, "that I had nothing, or little more, to do but write
letters to the people who are not here." This sentence proved
prophetic; by accident or design, she spent much of her life
in places where her friends were not.
</p>
<p> She recounted in one letter telling her hairdresser, "I was
an orphan," and the remark, while technically untrue, was emotionally
accurate. Her father died eight months after her birth, a loss
that drove her mother into a mental home. The child lived with
various relatives, including a spell with her mother's family
in Nova Scotia.
</p>
<p> Bishop knew even before college that she would be a poet, and
the task she set herself while at Vassar--"to develop a manner
of one's own, to say the most difficult things and to be funny
if possible"--remained the same throughout her career. She
sought out Marianne Moore as a mentor, but she did not always
take the older poet's technical advice: "I'm afraid I was quite
ungracious in that I accepted most of your suggestions but refused
some--that seems almost worse than refusing all assistance."
</p>
<p> Bishop was blessed and cursed with severe good taste. "I'm rather
critical," she told one correspondent with thundering understatement.
Her letters regularly registered her dislikes. She called a
performance of T.S. Eliot's The Cocktail Party "a mess." She
found "a streak of insensitivity" in the poetry of William Carlos
Williams. Not even children's books escaped her opprobrium.
After meeting E.B. White, she read a copy of his Charlotte's
Web and then reported that it is "so awful." She was hardest
of all on her own work. Apologizing for her meager output, she
begged Moore, "Can you please forgive me and believe that it
is really because I want to do something well that I don't do
it at all?"
</p>
<p> The trimness of Bishop's work and her artistic judgments were
not always reflected in her personal affairs. She was a lesbian,
but no evidence in these letters suggests that she or her friends
were bothered by her preferences; inevitably, though, some of
her partners caused her suffering. She spent what she called
"the 12 or 13 happiest years of my life" on a Brazilian mountaintop
estate owned by Lota de Macedo Soares, a flamboyant architect
of Portuguese descent, but the affair ended with Lota's gradual
nervous collapse and eventual suicide in Bishop's Manhattan
apartment. A subsequent companion also suffered a breakdown.
Despite appearances, Bishop was tempted by alcohol much of her
life, a weakness she tried to hide from everyone but her physician.
Recounting one of her lapses, she wrote, "I think that when
something like that happens I'm so overcome with remorse, before
I even get drunk, that that's why I get to feeling so damned
sick--and it's much more the mental aftermath than the physical."
After learning of the death of Dylan Thomas, she wrote, "In
my own minor way I know enough about drink & destruction."
</p>
<p> Giroux took the title One Art from a Bishop villanelle published
in 1976, three years before her sudden death of a cerebral aneurysm.
The poem draws its power from the repeated refrain "The art
of losing isn't hard to master." Her letters--so consistently
intelligent, entertaining and humane--record the losses that
being alive incurs. And when possible, they are funny.
</p>
</body>
</article>
</text>