emilyrems.com

Yesterday, Omar sent me a link to this interview done a couple of years ago with one of our most beloved profs from Emerson College, a cranky, demanding, inspiring poet named Bill Knott. I took his workshops in ‘96 and ‘97, weathering the storms of his outright disdain, striving to please him with a flash of something that could pass as a poem . He taught me to respect the rigors of form, and he never coddled his students or couched his words. Unfortunately, this sometimes resulted in aspiring poets (mostly girls) running from his classroom crying after one of his critiques. But that girl was never me. I wanted to know what he thought. I wanted to get better. And most importantly, I trusted his judgment. Even though I was somewhat terrified of him, I would sometimes ask him questions or borrow poetry books from him during his office hours. Once I even mentioned to him that as my senior thesis project in directing, I would be putting on a production of my stage adaptation of The Rime of the Ancient Mariner at the end of the semester. I didn’t expect him to care. I was just trying to show him what kind of reading I was getting into. But when opening night finally rolled around, there he was, in the front row, wearing a sweater full of holes and glasses held together by a safety pin. Looking back, I realize that seeing him there in the audience has become one my happiest memories of college. Even now, I can’t believe that he actually cared enough to stop by, and to tell me afterwards that he thought my play was “interesting.”

Which brings me to the interview I mentioned up top. What goes down in this lengthy Q&A with Bill Knott is probably one of the most depressing things I’ve ever read. Ever. In it, he basically details all the ways in which he’s a failure, both in life and in art. He discounts everything he’s ever done. It’s a monument of self-loathing. I actually almost cried when reading it, especially when I got to the part where he says:

“I regret everything I had to do with poetry in my life. My involvement with it has brought nothing but unhappiness and bitterness.”

Or how about this one…

“Maybe I could be thankful to have survived the unhappiness of the past if the unhappiness of the present wasn’t overwhelming me. I’d be happy to pay the price of the experience if the resulting poems were worth it, but they aren’t.”

I’m feeling clobbered by the whole interview because it’s just further evidence that a lifetime of dedication to your art can leave you just as empty as you would be if you had never even tried. Maybe even more so. He’s wrong. His poems are not worthless. And as a teacher, he’s improved the work of literally thousands of writers. But I doubt he cares enough about what his former-students think of him to let that be any comfort. It would be a real shame if he finally got the recognition he deserves after his death, which at this point seems likely. I think he deserves it now.