1914–1972. He went to rehab. “The Dream Songs” is a hubbub, and some of it is spoken in blackface—or, to be accurate, in what might be described as blackvoice. I cannot read that wretched mind, so strong& so undone. Berryman's, once so high, has probably dipped below that of Elizabeth Bishop and Robert Lowell, according to Times columnist Orr. The son says to the mother, “I hope you’re well, darling, and less worried.” The mother tells the son, “I have loved you too much for wisdom, or it is perhaps nearer truth to say that with love or in anger, I am not wise.” We are offered a facsimile of a letter from 1953, in which Berryman begins, “Mother, I have always failed; but I am not failing now.”, One obvious shortfall in the “Selected Letters” is that “We Dream of Honour” took the cream of the crop. And some of the jokes are a little silly, if we are going to be honest with each other in this space. —Did your gal leave you? "I think kids would love to read Berryman. John Berryman, Sylvia Plath and W. D. Snodgrass are each commonly associated with the poetic movement known as ‘confessionalism’ which emerged in the USA in the late 1950s and early 1960s. Just as the first word of the Iliad means “Wrath,” so the first word of the opening Dream Song is “Huffy.” Seldom can you predict the cause of his looming ire. John E Berryman BIRTH 2 Aug 1833 DEATH 15 Aug 1904 (aged 71) BURIAL Linton Corner Cemetery Linton Corner, Victoria County, New Brunswick, Canada MEMORIAL ID 113403993 . This was the poem with which he broke through—discovering not just a receptive audience but a voice that, in its heightened lyrical pressure, sounded like his and nobody else’s. Reading Berryman is a reminder that poetry is sound, that it should be enjoyed as music, not words alone. Berryman has not been forgotten, but his gnomic revelations have less force than they used to. © 2021 Condé Nast. The family was living in Clearwater, Florida, at the time, and young John was eleven years old. Smith’s death would become the primal wound for his older son. Pastiche can be useful when you have a grudge to convey: “My dear Sir: You are plainly either a fool or a scoundrel. A photograph of 1941 shows Berryman in a dark coat, a hat, and a bow tie. Of late, Berryman’s star has waned. And there is another thing he has in mind like a grave Sienese face a thousand years would fail to blur the still profiled reproach of. There is also the inescapable matter of poetry's declining relevance to a nation whose finest minds devote themselves to the question of whether one should recline airplane seats. Sign up for the Books & Fiction newsletter. One item in the new book that I have never read before, and would prefer not to read again, is a letter from the fourteen-year-old Berryman to his stepfather, whom he calls Uncle Jack, and before whom he cringes as if whipped. The best thing one can do for Berryman today is to forget him and to remember his poems. Most of them had been written long before, in 1947, in heat and haste, during an affair with a woman named Chris Haynes. Actually born John Smith, John Berrymangrew up as ordinary as his given name. “I regard every word in the poem as either a murderer or a lover.” As for Anne, who perished in 1672, “I certainly at some point fell in love with her.” Berryman adds, as if to prove his devotion, “I used three shirts at a time, in relays. Finches could roost in it. As for the poet, he was baptized with his father’s name, was known as Billy in infancy, and then, in deference to his brand-new stepfather, became John Berryman. When John Berryman was born in Oklahoma, his name was John Allyn Smith, Jr..His father was a banker named John Allyn Smith. As he writes in one of the final Dream Songs, “I spit upon this dreadful banker’s grave / who shot his heart out in a Florida dawn / O ho alas alas.” Haffenden quotes these lines, raw with recrimination, in his biography; dryly informs us that the poet, in fact, never visited his father’s grave; and supplies us with relevant notes that Berryman made in 1970—two years before he, in turn, found a bridge and did what he thought was needed. We touch at certain points.” In 1968, along came a further three hundred and eight Songs, under the title “His Toy, His Dream, His Rest.” (A haunting phrase, which grabs the seven ages of man, as outlined in “As You Like It,” and squeezes them down to three.) "I am at the point of death—physical mental spiritual," Severance says. John Berryman. John Berryman John Berryman (1914–1972) was one of the leading writers of American postwar poetry. Marvellous,unforbidding Majesty.Swell, imperious bells. The trouble is that we know how he died. Photo by Mark Kauffman/The LIFE Picture Collection via Getty Images. View details for John Berryman - Oklahoma City, OK. A version of this essay will appear as the afterword to a collection celebrating John Berryman’s centenary, edited by Philip Coleman and Peter Campion, to … I wish I were dead.”. By the 1940s, William Faulkner had slipped into obscurity, to be rescued by the 1946 publication of Malcolm Cowley's Portable Faulkner, which made the case for the taciturn Southerner's immortality. Two days after publication, he was asked, by the Harvard Advocate, about his profession. And there are smart little swerves into the aphoristic—“Writers should be heard and not seen”; “All modern writers are complicated before they are good”—or into courteous eighteenth-century brusquerie. John Berryman - Biography and Works John Berryman is an American poet noted for asserting the importance of the personal element in poetry. The poet John Berryman was born in 1914, in McAlester, Oklahoma. He is so disreputable and rebellious, which is what they would like to be. “This thermonuclear business wd tip me up all over again if I were in shape to attend to it,” Berryman writes, before moving on to a harrowing digest of his diarrhea. He wrote in Dream Song #120: "I totter to the lip of the cliff.". “I’m a coward, a cheat, a bully, and a thief if I had the guts to steal,” the boy writes. Hannah Edgett Berryman 1802–1881. Kevin Young, who is Black, prefaces his choice of Berryman’s poetry by arguing, “Much of the force of The Dream Songs comes from its use of race and blackface to express a (white) self unraveling.” Some readers will share Young’s generously inquiring attitude; others will veer away from Berryman and never go back. Yet the poet was scarcely unique in his vexations; we all have our fridges to bear. There are definite jitters of comedy in so funereal a pose, and detractors of Berryman would say that he keeps trying on his desolation, like a man getting fitted for a dark suit. In the chambers of the end we’ll meet againI will say Randall, he’ll say Pussycatand all will be as beforewhenas we sought, among the beloved faces,eminence and were dissatisfied with thatand needed more. “I have to make my pleasure out of sound,” he says. Find a Grave, database and images (https://www.findagrave.com: accessed ), memorial page for John Berryman (18 Jul 1825–27 Jun 1896), Find a Grave Memorial no. Their forefather is Berryman, who in Mistress Bradstreet writes from the voice of a 17th century poetess; who in the Dream Songs lapses (too often, for my taste) into minstrelsy; who knows that if you're not writing about longing and dying, you might as well be composing infomercial jingles. John Berryman was elected a Fellow of the Academy of American Poets in 1966 and served as a … Family Members Parents Anthony Berryman 1810–1875. It is also surprisingly political for a poet who effortlessly channels Sir Thomas Wyatt's lyrical seductions, a poet who often seemed lost in the dim labyrinths of his own mind. ", Literary reputations are always rising and falling. Berryman forsook the distillations of Eliot for the profusion of Whitman; the Dream Songs, endlessly rocking and rolling, surge onward in waves. Hemingway père used a .32-caliber pistol from the Civil War; in the case of Berryman's father, the instrument of death was a shotgun, outside the 12-year-old's bedroom window. According to his biographer Paul Mariani, Berryman experienced "a sudden and radical shift from a belief in a transcendent God ... to a belief in a God who cared for the individual fates of human beings and who even interceded for them." John Allyn Berryman was an American poet and scholar, born in McAlester, Oklahoma. To revisit this article, visit My Profile, then View saved stories. Or maybe just a man in Minneapolis who has lingered too often on Mississippi bridges. It is tempting to turn biography into cartography—unrolling the record of somebody’s life, smoothing it flat, and indicating the major fork in the road. “I feel like weeping all the time,” he tells one friend. The history of his health, physical and mental, was no less fitful and spasmodic, and alcohol, which has a soft spot for poets, found him an easy mark. So maybe my long self-pity has been based on an error, and there has been no (hero-) villain (Father) ruling my life, but only an unspeakably powerful possessive adoring MOTHER, whose life at 75 is still centered wholly on me. According to the editors of The Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry, he lived turbulently. I can all too easily imagine him today, sitting at a seminar table in Palo Alto or Iowa City, buoyed by a decent dose of Wellbutrin, listening as some regular contributor to the Northwestern Maine Quarterly Review piously instructs impious John to simmer down, center himself, drop the unceasing allusions to Shakespeare, find his voice and tell us how he really feels. John Berryman was born John Smith in MacAlester, Oklahoma, in 1914. In a similar vein, his romantic life was lunging, irrepressible, and desperate, so much so that it squandered any lasting claim to romance. You could probably write a dissertation about "tranquil hills, & gin," or about the brilliantly insane syntax/diction of the last line. John later took the name Berryman, after his stepfather. —Is that thing on the front of your head what it seems to be, pal? The road didn’t simply split in two; it was cratered, in the summer of 1926, when his father, John Allyn Smith, committed suicide. The book is full of noises, heartsick with hilarity, and they await their transmutation into verse. He tells a friend, “We had a baby, Sarah Rebecca, in June—a beauty.”. It is her tough, pious, and hardscrabble history that Berryman chronicles: “Food endless, people few, all to be done. "I overestimated myself, as it turned out," he told The Paris Review in 1970, "and felt bitter, bitterly neglected." Michael John Berryman (born September 4, 1948) is an American character actor. It deals in unembarrassed minstrelsy, complete with a caricature of verbal tics, all too pointedly transcribed: “Now there you exaggerate, Sah. Berryman "seems pretty suited to the world right now" thinks David Orr, poetry columnist for The New York Times Sunday Book Review. John Stanley BERRYMAN of Redruth On Monday 25th May 2020, peacefully at Royal Cornwall Hospital, Treliske, aged 83 years. Nobody pining for mere self-expression, or craving a therapeutic blurt, could lavish on a paramour, as Berryman did, lines as elaborately wrought as these: Loves are the summer’s. Notice how the tough and Hemingway-tinged curtness of “did what was needed” gives way, all too soon, to the halting stammer of “I—I’m trying.” The wound was suppurating and unhealable, and there is little doubt that it deepened the festering of Berryman’s life. As Berryman explained, “Henry both is and is not me, obviously. (So much for Wallace Stevens, who composed much of his work while gainfully employed, on a handsome salary, as an insurance executive.) Haffenden has already cited that letter, however, and doubts whether it was ever sent. Family and friends can light a candle as a loving gesture for their loved one. Get book recommendations, fiction, poetry, and dispatches from the world of literature in your in-box. They gesticulate and splay, as if he were conducting an orchestra that he alone can hear. April 27, 2017 Death Row, My Crime Library 3 Comments. To wit, the famous third stanza to "Dream Song #14" ("Life, friends, is boring"; you won't regret spending six minutes on a YouTube video of an obviously drunk Berryman getting to, and through, the poem): And the tranquil hills, & gin, look like a drag, has taken itself & its tail considerably away. But he struggled with alcoholism and madness throughout his life. You have to reach back to Donne to find so commanding an exercise in the clever-sensual. Few knew it better than Berryman, or shouldered the burdens of serious reading with a more remorseless joy. But even then... "I hear brilliance," Wright says of the Dream Songs. No such Profile appeared; nor, to one’s infinite regret, did the edition of “King Lear” on which Berryman toiled for years. Poet Laureate Charles Wright says it remains a problematic aspect of Berryman's work and "undercuts his legacy a little bit.". Less than eleven weeks after his death, she married her landlord, John Angus McAlpin Berryman, and thereafter called herself Jill, or Jill Angel. In an existence that was littered with loss, the one thing that never failed him, apart from his unwaning and wax-free ear for English verse, was his sense of humor. "He's an erratic poet." "All you have to do with the Dream Songs is read them aloud to students," Vendler told me. I fly. Here, it is necessary. In May, 1955, commiserating with Saul Bellow, whose father has just passed away, Berryman writes, “Unfortunately I am in a v g position to feel with you: my father died for me all over again last week.” He unfolds his larger theme: “His father’s death is one of the few main things that happens to a man, I think, and it matters greatly to the life when it happens.” Bellow’s affliction, Berryman reassures him, lofts him into illustrious company: “Shakespeare was probably in the middle of Hamlet and I think his effort increased.” Freud and Luther are then added to the roster of the fruitfully bereaved. I have nothing to lose.". Wright, the current Poet Laureate, says Berryman was the greatest of the midcentury poets, along with Theodore Roethke (who died at 55 in 1963, after a heart attack probably caused by drinking). As Berryman remarks, “Damn Berrymans and their names.”, A book of back-and-forth correspondence with his mother was published in 1988, under the title “We Dream of Honour.” (Having picked up the habit of British spelling, at Cambridge, Berryman never kicked it.) His lapse into the demotic language of minstrelsy in the Dream Songs may turn off readers who have every right to be offended by lines like "yo legal & yo good. In the end, he leapt to his death from a bridge in Minneapolis. And don’t forget the authoritative 1982 biography by John Haffenden, who also put together a posthumous collection, “Henry’s Fate and Other Poems,” in 1977, as well as “Berryman’s Shakespeare” (1999), a Falstaffian banquet of his scholarly work on the Bard. John Berryman VC (18 July 1825 – 27 June 1896) was a British Army non-commissioned officer and a recipient of the Victoria Cross, the highest award for gallantry in the face of the enemy that can be awarded to British and Commonwealth forces. The only shade of the Berryman of old is the wrest/rest joke. Even if he is putting on an act, for the horrified benefit of his correspondents, it is still a rehearsal for the main event, and you can’t inspect the long lament that he sends to Eileen in 1953—after they have separated—without glancing ahead, almost twenty years, to the dénouement of his days. Tragically, on January 7, 1972, he died by jumping off a bridge in Minneapolis. They did not, however, write works of undiluted autobiography; through close readings of their Holocaust verse, I take the poetry, rather than the lives of There are alarming valedictions: “Nurse w. another shot. Watch him fumble with the mechanisms of the everyday, “ghoulishly inefficient about details and tickets and visas and trains and money and hotels.” Chores are as heavy as millstones, to his hypersensitive neck: “Do this, do that, phone these, phone those, repair this, drown that, poison the other.” We start to sniff a blend—peculiar to Berryman, like a special tobacco—of the humbled and the immodest. 130 they took now to be a circus, now to be a sea-chantey, & I fled in the middle to escape their Cavatina.” The following year, an epic letter to his landlord, on Grove Street, in Boston, is almost entirely concerned with a refrigerator, which has “developed a high-pitched scream.” Berryman was not an easy man to live with, or to love, and the likelihood that even household appliances found his company intolerable cannot be dismissed. The cup runneth over. John, much loved husband of Bridget, proud and loving dad of Rachael and Rebecca, father-in-law and friend to Rob and Ben, adored grampus of Charlie, Thaddeus, India, Noah and Milo, a devoted brother to Paul and Rozanne and uncle … The Pill That Will Help Us Say \'Not Tonight\' to a Drink, John Berryman, whose "Dream Songs" remain one of the most celebrated yet enigmatic achievements in American verse, is ready for his close-up, Terrence Spencer/The LIFE Picture Collection/Getty, Poet Maya Angelou on Leadership, Politics and Race, Jesus Was Crucified Because Disciples Were Armed, Bible Analysis Suggests, Giving 'Sight' to the Blind Through Electricity, The Pill Truvada Can Prevent HIV/AIDS, and for Some, That's a Problem, Opinion: The Apolitical Supreme Court Is Dead, How the CDC Would Combat an Ebola Outbreak, However Unlikely, How the Roma Are Becoming Europe's New Moral Army, Thousands of Syrian Refugees Are Desperate to Escape the Camps That Gave Them Shelter, The Pill That Will Help Us Say 'Not Tonight' to a Drink, The Love of Hitler Leads a Nazi Revival in Indonesia, Inside the Mind of Nigel Farage: 'I Want to Be Minister for Europe', The Bird of Prey That Is Being Killed Off by Its Victims, The Danes Wheel Out Their Bikes as Cars are Eliminated, a YouTube video of an obviously drunk Berryman. He was seen as one of the chief poets of confessional poetry.. Life. The Vegetable Dish That Will Transport You to France, Berryman in 1966, two years after the publication of “77 Dream Songs.”. Young John was soon officially adopted by Berryman, and he took his new step-father's name. (I certainly pickt up enough of Mother’s self-blame to accuse her once, drunk & raging, of having actually murdered him & staged a suicide.). Thrice married, he fathered a son and two daughters. Its glow was never steady in the first place, but it has dimmed appreciably, because of lines like these: Arrive a time when all coons lose dere grip,but is he come? And, in this huge new hoard of letters, how many are addressed to Haynes? There was plenty of all that jazz. The events surrounding his father's death, which occurred when Berryman was twelve, profoundly affected his life and his poetry. To the appalled gratification of posterity, his fall was witnessed by somebody named Art Hitman. Only eight letters here are addressed to Martha, six of them mailed from school, and, if you’re approaching Berryman as a novice, your take on him will be unavoidably skewed. Included are more than 600 letters to almost 200 people—editors, family members, students, colleagues, and friends. —Pal, radioactive. Even if you dispute the male ability (or the right) to articulate such an experience, it’s hard not to be swayed by the fervor of dramatic effort: I can can no longerand it passes the wretched trap whelming and I am me. The rims of his glasses are now thick and black, and his hands, in many images, refuse to be at rest. Gossip hunters will slouch off in frustration, and good luck to them; on the other hand, anyone who delights in listening to Berryman, and who can’t help wondering how the singer becomes the songs, will find much to treasure here, in these garrulous and pedantic pages. One of the things most people know about him is that he did not. If one virtue emerged from the wreckage of his early years, it was a capacity to console; later, in the midst of his drinking and his lechery, he remained a reliable guide to grief, and to the blast area that surrounds it. The British critic Al Alvarez once noted that Berryman had "a gift for grief." In an essay called "Mine Own Berryman," published in the autobiographical essay collection The Bread of Time, Levine calls Berryman an "addicted reader of The New York Times," one who was particularly dismayed by the Communist witch hunts of that era. —Has you the night sweats & the day sweats, pal? Le’s do a hoedown, gal. You may hear, here, Shakespeare, Hopkins, Ecclesiastes. Berkeley is summed up as “Paradise, with anthrax.”) The earliest letter, dated September, 1925, is from the schoolboy Berryman to his parents, and ends, “I love you too much to talk about.” In a pleasing symmetry, the final letter printed here, from 1971, shows Berryman rejoicing in his own parenthood. More or less the polyphony that you’d expect, should you come pre-tuned into Berryman. I’ve always tried. Spread the love. To revisit this article, select My⁠ ⁠Account, then View saved stories. A poem called "Damned" leaves almost too little to the imagination, and though Berryman disliked being grouped with the confessional school of poetry, it is hard to see the below as anything else: O this has been a long long night of wrest. What the poem cost its creator, over more than four years, is made plain in the letters, which ring with an exhausted ecstasy. John Berryman was an energetic correspondent. And what lies in between? In Berryman’s case, however, there was a fork, so terrible and so palpable that no account of him, and no encounter with his poems, can afford to ignore it. This is most evident in the first collection of Dream Songs, which please the ear even as they confound the cerebral cortex. The reissue of a writer's work on the anniversary of his or her birth or death is nothing more than a ploy. A scholar and professor as well as a poet, John Berryman is best-known for The Dream Songs (1969), an intensely personal sequence of 385 poems which brought him the Pulitzer Prize and National Book Award. The publisher is also releasing the memoir Poets in Their Youth, by Eileen Simpson, who had once been married to Berryman. Yes, Berryman means the pine confines that await all mortal flesh, but even a grade-schooler knows of that dread finale. Berryman, a Harvard lecturer from 1940 to 1943, was 57. Precisely one. The New Yorker may earn a portion of sales from products that are purchased through our site as part of our Affiliate Partnerships with retailers. Berryman would have laughed at that. Once, in the midst of class (a graduate seminar at the Iowa Writers' Workshop), Berryman called Senator Joe McCarthy a "habitual liar," using one of the demagogue's statements as a lesson on the unruliness of language. View Francis John BERRYMAN's notice to leave tributes, photos, videos, light candles and for funeral arrangements Skip to Add Tribute Skip to Content While you enjoy our new look and all the great new features, rest assured that we haven’t changed any of the 4.7 million notices or … His labors on the Songs began in 1955 and led to “77 Dream Songs,” which was published in 1964 and won him a Pulitzer Prize. At the same time, FSG is republishing the original 77 Dream Songs, the full Dream Songs and Berryman's Sonnets, written for Chris, a grad student's wife with whom he'd conducted an affair in 1947 (he withheld publishing the amorous poems for two decades, by which time his reputation as a lothario was beyond dispute). It is a poetry of anxiety and attention deficit, as earnest as an episode of Glee, as revealingly scattered as the tabs left open on your browser. To the critic Mark Van Doren, who had been his mentor at Columbia, he was more formal in his woe, declaring, “Each year I hope that next year will find me dead, and so far I have been disappointed, but I do not lose that hope, which is almost my only one.” We are close to the borders of Beckett. Too much, sometimes. John Berryman (1914–1972) was an important American poet in the second part of the 1900s. Shakespeare. who loves people and valiant art, which bores me.And the tranquil hills, & gin, look like a dragand somehow a doghas taken itself & its tail considerably awayinto mountains or sea or sky, leavingbehind: me, wag. Our love to Carolyn, Elizabeth and Richard.From Bernard & Suzanne Katz In 1939, B… Proceed with caution; we can be a cranky bunch. ", You have 4 free articles remaining this month, Sign-up to our daily newsletter for more articles like this + access to 5 extra articles. His jaw is clean-shaven and firm. A concert performance by the Stradivarius Quartet, in the fall of 1941, drives him away: “Beethoven’s op. Thoughts of oblivion, unlike oblivion itself, you actually have to endure. Berryman’s mother, born Martha Little, married John Allyn Smith. In "Dream Song #162," called Vietnam, he writes of a "war which was no war," confiding, frustrated, "Better would be a definite war with the dragon." Something else, far below the hum of daily pique, resounds through this massive book—a ground bass of doom and dejection. No one but Berryman, it’s fair to say, would write from a hospital in Minneapolis, having been admitted in a state of alcoholic and nervous prostration, to a bookstore in Oxford, asking, “Can you let me know what Elizabethan Bibles you have in stock?” The recklessness with which he abuses his body is paired with an indefatigable and nurselike care for textual minutiae. He was born in McAlester, Oklahoma October 25, 1914. The irony is that he did so by assuming the role of a woman: Anne Bradstreet, herself a poet, who emigrated from England to America, in 1630. Skip ahead to the older Berryman, and you observe a very different beast, with a beard like the mane of a disenchanted lion. It is with deep sorrow that we announce the death of John Berryman of Gastonia, North Carolina, born in Gaston, North Carolina, who passed away on January 6, 2021, at the age of 17, leaving to mourn family and friends. Summer like a beeSucks out our best, thigh-brushes, and is gone. At some point, he interrupted our argument to recite a bit of poetry: it was Berryman’s “He Resigns,” from Delusions Etc., published the year he committed suicide. He burned brilliantly, but all fires end in ashes. Anthony Berryman unknown–1893 Nancy Jane Berryman Wilband 1833–1911 To read such words is to marvel that Berryman survived as long as he did. But also visible are the struggles of a working artist grappling with alcoholism and depression. These poems remind us less of unrestrained Parker than of the plangent, controlled Miles Davis of Kind of Blue (the more common comparison is of Berryman to Dylan, but jazz is more apt). Such plunges into the past, with its promise of adventure and refuge, came naturally to Berryman, nowhere more so than in “Homage to Mistress Bradstreet,” which was published in the Partisan Review in 1953 and, three years later, as a book. Is this how we like poetry to be brought forth, even now? There is hardly a paragraph in which Berryman—poet, pedagogue, boozehound, and symphonic self-destroyer—may not be heard straining toward the condition of music. His drinking and womanizing, his unsoothable anguish, seem less the stuff of heroism than of mutinous neurotransmitters. Berryman "sounds completely like himself and nobody else," says Helen Vendler, the Harvard professor widely regarded as our foremost scholar of 20th century verse. ", Fame came late to Berryman. I was first introduced to Berryman my freshman year of college, during a fight with a boy I was seeing. For anyone willing to stick around, there’s a new book on the block. This is like Hamlet having to call himself Claudius, Jr., on top of everything else. Nobody should have been surprised when, on January 7, 1972, the poet John Berryman killed himself by jumping off the Washington Avenue Bridge, which … Bernard Williams & Son Funeral Directors. "He's got a lot of bad work," Orr explains. The first that I heard of Berryman was this: Life, friends, is boring. ("Dream Song #2") Some may want to pretend that the minstrelsy isn't there—as many have done with Henry Miller's contempt for women and T.S. Janis Joplin was wrong: Freedom's not the thing you're left with when you have nothing left to lose. He was educated at Columbia and then in England, where he studied at Cambridge, met W. H. Auden and Dylan Thomas, and lit a cigarette for W. B. Yeats. He died in 1972, by jumping from the Washington Avenue Bridge in Minneapolis. Such a horrific event permanently darkened John's psyche and would eventually show up in much of his poetry. Inner Resources.’ I conclude now I have noinner resources, because I am heavy bored.Peoples bore me,literature bores me, especially great literature,Henry bores me, with his plights & gripesas bad as achilles.

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