However, immediately upon moving into the second stanza, a "pleasant instantaneous gleam" glides into the reader's field of perusal. By prefacing the initiation of this positive sensation with the words "at length" the author confirms a sense of expectation the reader has been experiencing since launching into the work. At this point, however, Wordsworth unveils the first touch of irony in the poem. Although the reader fully expects light to enter the setting, the traveller is surprised at the sudden, dramatic change it makes on his surroundings. This is seen in Wordsworth's stress of the word "Asunder,-" in describing the traveller looking upward. Denotatively and connotatively this word speaks of physical violence which has the power to capture and hold one's attention. Also, it is seen that the shock effect on the traveller does not wear off quickly, for much later in the poem Wordsworth places the same stress on the words "Yet vanish not!-" showing that emotionally he is totally caught up in the experience. Over all, Wordsworth's handling of the emotional details in the work are analogous to the light spectrum he used effectively to dramatize natural elements coming from divinity. Just as the poem started with an absence of illumination, and gradually made the necessary introductions of light to carry the required development along, the traveller initially is devoid of emotion, contemplating nothing more weighty than his step along the country lane, but in looking heavenward he becomes infused with awe as his spirit courses upward in sublimity in facing divinity. In turning attention towards another aspect of the poem it becomes obvious after considerable rumination over the nuances of symbol and suggestion inherent in poetry that through the structural form Wordsworth is creating a universe of spheres within spheres. Or that one sphere of influence houses another in successive order, compiling a rather complex system which is dense at the core and rare at the boundary. Of course, this physical orb upon which men live out their lives is the foundation upon which Wordsworth builds this symbolic device. The earth, itself, is the lowest level in this unique view of existence. This accounts for Wordsworth's carefully setting forth all of the various substances making up this world in the first stanza. Light falls on "rock, plant, tree or tower," the whole collection suggesting the immense diversity, and even confusion which is a natural part of this mortal realm. Then, launching off from this base of solid elements Wordsworth paints a picture where "clouds" form a snug envelope of a separate existence with slightly different properties and conditions from that lying directly below. And, above terra firma and cloud, comes a chimera of ether forming the transparent, rare "vault" of the heavens. Thus, factitive existence in this case is a system of three spheres superimposed on one another. The word "texture" is a good key to unlocking the enigma of these different spheres, or synonymously, levels of influence. The ether making up heaven is utterly transparent, completely lacking any sensible texture, and is therefore the ultimate transmitter of light. Clouds, however, have a greater degree of texture, or density, causing the medium to distort and refract light in a hundred different ways, forming a rainbow effect. This is generally thought of as very beautiful, but falling short of the pure white light symbolic of divinity. Thus, clouds form the second level. They are not as accommodating for light transmission as ether, but not completely opaque as earth. Herein Wordsworth has at once established a picture of the universe and assigned it order and value in an effective poetic device having successive spheres upon which man can concentrate his imagination as he steadily moves higher in contemplating the mysteries and wonders of God. There is a distinct suggestion within the poem that the traveller experiences an annihilation of his own self concept as his psyche rises in sublimity. From a prostrated "unobserving" state where the traveller is aware of little more than himself, he ascends mentally to the height of heaven, and then "slowly settles into a peaceful calm" in musing upon his singular experience. This brief moment when an individual can escape from himself and worldly cares becomes a soothing bit of respite and relaxation. It is precisely because these sublime moments are so beneficial for the over all well being of the individual that Wordsworth attempted to detail the basic parameters of the experience in poetry. Through showing the remarkable changes in attitude and disposition that are possible when carefully observing nature with a receptive intellect, Wordsworth hoped to prompt others to obtain some good in their lives. Therefore, Wordsworth's traveller remains locked physically to the earth upon which he stands, but through slowly allowing his psyche to focus on the light coming from heaven he mentally transcends his bounds to soar upward in sublimity. Although the experience is ephemeral, it is a sufficiently sustaining glimpse of divinity to carry him along through this life with a sense of purpose and destiny. Wordsworth's masterful handling of the poem's syntax combines simple words describing nature, which grow in strength and fullness inversely proportional to the economy of expression. In the end the reader comes to feel that he too was able to vicariously experience the awe affecting the traveller while contemplating the wonders of nature. A NIGHT-PIECE The sky is overcast With a continuous cloud of texture close, Heavy and wan, all whitened by the Moon, Which through that veil is indistinctly seen, A dull, contracted circle, yielding light So feebly spread that not a shadow falls, Chequering the ground-from rock, plant, tree, or tower. At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam Startles the pensive traveller while he treads His lonesome path, with unobserving eye Bent earthwards; he looks up-the clouds are split Asunder,-and above his head he sees The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens. There in a black-blue vault she sails along, Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss Drive as he drives; how fast they wheel away, Yet vanish not!-the wind is in the tree, But they are silent;-still they roll along Immeasurably distant; and the vault, Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds, Still deepens its unfathomable depth. At length the Vision closes; and the mind, Not undisturbed by the delight it feels, Which slowly settles into peaceful calm, Is left to muse upon the solemn scene. 1793 HOW WORDS STAY ALIVE by Frank Cook His life was recorded on bits of scratch paper, on the backs of envelopes, and on the torn out cardboard of kleenex boxes. He used white, ruled 3x5 cards to record some of his more profound observations, but the bulk of his file which contained unfinished work was helter-skelter; written haphazardly on whatever was near at hand. 2 The Aardvark Review Volume 2, Number 1 A man in a deep, dark hole sees a pinpoint of light above. It is too far away to reach and too dim to make the darkness more bearable. The phone started ringing and reverberating in my mind again while I was asleep on the plane. It woke me sharply. I ordered a Rum and Coke from the stewardess, trying to suppress the vivid recollection of the conversation that had prompted my trip. "Hello, Mr. Richardson?" "Yes, may I help you?" "I'm sorry to bother you at work. I'm Frank Ware; Jack Harrington's lawyer Jack requested that I call you suicide Librium autopsy yes, I'm sorry Right away yes I'll see you in my office tomorrow. Yes, thank you I'm sorry." Sometimes, I wish I could stop thinking just shut off the barrage of thought that constantly explodes in my mind. I walked into his den and opened the curtains. A spray of sunlight sliced across the room and concentrated itself on the back of his empty chair. I sat down heavily elbows on the desk rubbed both eyes with the soft heels of my hands and then duteously surveyed the place where Jack had lived. He had saved everything. All of his work that had been published or that pleased him was kept in the desk's file drawer. The manuscripts were arranged chronologically in plain red folders and divided into a section for fiction, one for non-fiction, and one for poetry. Behind the portion of the file for his finished work was a large section marked "unfinished work"; behind that were two hardbound books that lay flat in the file. I stared down into the open drawer and wept. To Poets: We, like pensive physicians, must grope for the pulse to feel life flowing. A literary critic once described him as an "obscure intellect" and he called to ask me whether I thought it was an accurate statement or not. I told him that I thought it was succint and he laughed like a friend should laugh when his question has been left unanswered. He built it fast, and it fell down. He would talk with his hands or stand up and go through a dramatic dialogue with himself in order to convey the exact thought that was in his mind. He would do it at a cafe while having a cup of coffee or at a wedding reception while hand-shaking his way thorugh the line. If his pattern of speech revealed inadequate support for some point that he was trying to make then he would apologize and start over. He would ask questions and then clarify by making his hands into whatever abstract thought he was trying to communicate. He was captivating when he made sense and frustrating when he didn't. If there is some vague distance in my eyes, it is because I have travelled far. If there is some indefinite halting in my speech, it is because I have spoken much. If there is some obscure magnetism in my touch, it is because I have touched sincerely. When conviction and stability permeated his ideas he would speak acutely. But when he was unsure of himself or was developing an idea as he spoke he would hesitate and stutter. If he didn't know you he would speak to you in riddles, but if he knew you well he would caress you with the accuracy of his speech. I wear a mask mostly an arduous task of putting on and taking off again. He wrote and wrote and wrote and whatever he was working on influenced his moods. If the writing was evolutionary then life was joy and everything about it flowered with eloquence, but if the writing reached a stand-still then life was pain and everything about it reeked with absurdity. The pain and the beauty, Jack would say, created the intensity that he needed to feel alive. Sometimes it stops sometimes it starts sometimes it togethers sometimes it aparts. His creativity was a solitary, singular endeavor. He didn't own a television. He loved music. He once told me that during his most concentrated writing episodes he would begin to talk to himself loudly and emphatically. When the typewriter could no longer keep up with his thoughts he would talk alone for several hours. He would develop language structures in the air and then come back to the typewriter after the solo narration had ended and spend the rest of the night trying to sort out the parts that should be written down. Feedin' the fire that burns within my breast Feedin' the fire that rumbles through my chest He took drugs every day. He said that marijuana was organic and that cocaine was a local anesthetic but his eyes reflected a distinct knowledge of the damage that was being done. He smoked to celebrate and he smoked to mourn. He frequently took a hundred dollars, turned it into a gram of cocaine, and then sniffed it up his nose. I had once asked him if he could be as creative without using drugs. He gave me his hurt-puppy look, and said, "I hope so." I got nothin' more to hide no more, I just got nothin' left to say. He wrote an entire poem in phonetic language and an experimental short story that had two narrators at the same time. He knew something theoretical about nearly everything and something practical about almost nothing. Two novels had been started but neither one was finished. He ran out of money and went back to critical essays and short stories for income and did some free-lance journalism during the last few years. Just a stranger wandering in a world they claim they own. Just a traveller longing in a way they'll never know. Volume 2, Number 1 The Aardvark Review 3