Introduction by William Carlos Williams
When he was younger, and I was younger, I used to know
Allen Ginsberg, a young poet living in Paterson, New Jersey,
where he, son of a well-known poet, had been born and grew
up. He was physically slight of build and mentally much
disturbed by the life which he had encountered about him
during those first years after the first world war as it was exhi
bited to him in and about New York City. He was always on
the point of ‘going away’, where it didn’t seem to matter; he
disturbed me, I never thought he’d live to grow up and write
a book of poems. His ability to survive, travel, and go on
writing astonishes me. That he has gone on developing and
perfecting his art is no less amazing to me.Now he turns up fifteen or twenty years later with an arresting
poem. Literally he has, from all the evidence, been through
hell. On the way he met a man named Carl Solomon with
whom he shared among the teeth and excrement of this life
something that cannot be described but in the words he has
used to describe it. It is a howl of defeat. Not defeat at all for
he has gone through defeat as if it were an ordinary experience,
a trivial experience. Everyone in this life is defeated but a man,
if he be a man, is not defeated.It is the poet, Allen Ginsberg, who has gone, in his own body,
through the horrifying experiences described from life in these
pages. The wonder of the thing is not that he has survived
but that he, from the very depths, has found a fellow whom he
can love, a love he celebrates without looking aside in these
poems. Say what you will, he proves to us, in spite of the most
debasing experiences that life can offer a man, the spirit of
love survives to ennoble our lives if we have the wit and the
courage and the faith — and the art! to persist.It is the belief in the art of poetry that has gone hand in hand
with this man into his Golgotha, from that charnel house,
similar in every way, to that of the Jews in the past war. But
this is in our own country, our own fondest purlieus. We are
blind and live our blind lives out in blindness. Poets are
damned but they are not blind, they see with the eyes of the
angels. This poet sees through and all around the horrors he
partakes of in the very intimate details of his poem. He avoids
nothing but experiences it to the hilt. He contains it. Claims
it as his own – and, we believe, laughs at it and has the
time and affrontery to love a fellow of his choice and record
that love in a well-made poem.Hold back the edges of your gowns, Ladies, we are going
through hell.William Carlos Williams.