Good Manners, Good Literaturernby Richard WilburrnFor this very welcome and unexpected award, I thank ThernIngersoll Foundation and all concerned. When I was inrnhigh school, there were certain books that I carried around inrnorder to impress people with my literariness. One was the CollectedrnPoems oi Hart Crane, whom I didn’t altogether understand,rnbut whose words made me dizzy. Another was a slenderrnbook of James Joyce’s poems; the poems inside it were melodious,rnconventional, and easy to understand, but the book’s coverrngave other people the impression that I was reading an authorrnboth difficult and scandalous. A third book that I carried withrnme like a sword or attribute was T.S. Eliot’s Collected Poems ofrn1935. The book was physically delectable; it was bound in blue,rnand its pages were crisp and creamy like hearts of lettuce; it wasrna kind of transcendental sandwich, and though I didn’t understandrnall the poems in it, I did consume them. It seems to mernthat the books I used for purposes of ostentation were in factrnwell-chosen, for I was truly drawn to them, and when I wasrnthrough showing off by their means, I went on to know themrnbetter and better. What I first loved in Eliot was his mastery ofrntone and of changes of tone, his power to marshal various voices,rnand his ability, in such a poem as “Sweeney Among thernNightingales,” to take a form suggestive of light verse and bernsavagely serious in it. I still admire all those things, though forrnme Eliot has come to be above all the poet of that great poemrnof spiritual struggle, “Ash Wednesday.” It is an especial honorrnto receive a prize which bears his name.rnBecause I am generally accounted a formalist poet, I shouldrnlike to say something this afternoon about form and order andrnthe making of order. The other day, a man I didn’t know camernup to me and said, “I saw your latest poem in the New Yorker.rnWhat a pleasure to read iambic pentameter again!” I thankedrnhim, and was glad to have met a reader who, after severalrndecades of free verse ascendancy, could still recognize a meter.rnAt the same time I hoped that he did not, as some do, nostalgicallyrnconfuse formal poetry with conservatism, law and order,rnRichard Wilbur was the recipient of The Ingersoll Foundation’srn1996 T.S. Eliot Award for Creative Writing, for which this wasrnhis acceptance speech.rnand the old-fashioned virtues and verities. The fact is thatrniambic pentameter is in itself meaningless, and belongs to nornage or party; it is simply an instrument, like a No. 2 pencil, andrnas such can be used either well or badly.rnIn life, of course, there are many forms which are meaningfulrnin themselves and of great value. I think, for instance, of goodrnmanners. Some of my college students of the I960’s, believingrnthemselves to be naturally good and loving, rejected good mannersrnalong with certain other things, such as attractive dress andrncorrect grammar, which they believed to be artificial. That wasrna sad mistake. Manners are no more coercive than a dance steprnis coercive, and indeed they are liberating: seating ladies andrnopening doors for people, and writing thank-you notes torngrandmother, are acts of compliance with a code, but they alsornfacilitate social dealings and the growth and expression of truernkindness. The forms of religion can also be benignly enabling.rnEleanor Clark, when living in Italy, found herself drawn towardrnthe Roman Church, and she asked an Italian Catholic friendrnhow she could best find out whether Catholicism was for her.rnThe friend said, “Go to Mass. Kneel when the others kneel.rnDo and say what the others do and say. Ultimately you willrnhave a Catholic experience.” Similady T.S. Eliot, at one stagernof his religious quest, reversed St. Paul by valuing the letterrnabove the spirit. On the American stage, we are familiar withrnso-called “studio” acting, in which the actor creates the role byrngoing deep into this own subjectivity; but there is another kindrnof theater in which performances are shaped externally by therndirector in accordance with his knowledge of the play. I amrntold that Herman Shumlin would sometimes address an actorrnin such terms as these: “Take two steps forward, raise your eyebrows,rnhold out your hands, and say the line.” That may soundrnbrutal, but Edmund Burke would understand and approve, andrnI am sure that many actors have learned by such means whatrntheir characters were feeling.rnSo, there are forms and outward disciplines which may bernenhancing and enlarging. The wodd is also full, as we know, ofrndismal routines and of oppressions large and small. People who,rnlike me, visited the Soviet Union in the pre-Corbachev days,rnmay not have encountered the gulags, but they did encounterrn28/CHRONICLESrnrnrn