How is writing going in the sweet life . . .
Because he himself—Rilke—is verse, "writing" becomes a euphemism for existence in general (which, in fact, this word really is), and instead of being condescending, "in the sweet life" becomes compassionate. Not satisfied with this, Tsvetaeva enhances the picture of the "sweet life" through the absence of details typical of the imperfect life, i.e., the earthly one (developed later on in the cycle "Desk"):
How is writing going in the sweet life Without a desk for your elbow, or brow for
your hand (Palm).
The mutual necessity of these details raises their absence to the status of mutual absence, equivalent, that is, to a literal absence, to the physical annihilation not only of the effect but of the cause as well—which is, if not one of the possible definitions, then, at any rate, one of the most definite consequences of death. In these two lines Tsvetaeva offers the most capacious formula for the "next world," imparting to nonexistence the quality of an active process. The absence of usual (primary in the interpretation of being as writing) signs of being is not equated with non- being but surpasses being in its tangibility. In any case, it is precisely that effect—of negative tangibility—which is achieved by the author through the further qualification of "hand I (Palm)." Absence, in the final analysis, is a crude version of detachment: psychologically it is synonymous with presence in some other place and, in this way, expands the notion of being. In turn, the more significant the absent object, the more signs there are of its existence. This is especially apparent in the case of a poet whose "signs" are the entire phenomenal and speculative world described (comprehended) by him. Here is where the poetic version of "eternal life" originates. Furthermore: the difference between language (art) and reality is specifically that any itemization of whatever no longer is or does not yet exist is an entirely independent reality in itself That is why nonbeing, i.e., death, consisting utterly and entirely of absence, is nothing but a continuation of language:
Rainer, are you pleased with new rhymes? For, properly interpreting the word "Rhyme," what—if not a whole row of new Rhymes—is Death?
If one takes into account that the concern here is with a poet who addressed the subject of death and being in general with great regularity, then the linguistic reality of the "next world" is materialized into a part of speech, into a grammatical tense. And it is in favor of this time that the author of "Novogodnee" rejects the present.
This scholasticism is the scholasticism of grief. The more powerful an individual's thinking, the less comfort it affords its possessor in the event of some tragedy. Grief as experience has two components: one emotional, the other rational. The distinguishing feature of their interrelationship in the case of a highly developed analytical apparatus is that the latter (the apparatus), rather than alleviating the situation of the former, i.e., the emotions, aggravates it. In these cases, instead of being an ally and consoler, the reason of an individual turns into an enemy and expands the radius of the tragedy to an extent unforeseen by its possessor. Thus, at times, the mind of a sick person, instead of painting pictures of recovery, depicts a scene of inevitable demise and thereby cripples his defense mechanisms. The difference between the creative process and the clinical one, however, is that neither the material (in the given instance, language) out of which a work is created nor the conscience of its creator can be given a sedative. In a work of literature, at any rate, an author always pays heed to what he is told by the frightening voice of reason.
The emotional aspect of the grief that forms the content of "Novogodnee" is expressed, first of all, in terms of plasticity—in the metrics of this poem, in its caesuras, trochaic openings of lines, in the principle of couplet rhyme, which increases the possibilities of emotional adequacy in a line of verse. The rational side is expressed in the semantics of the poem, which is so patently dominant in the text that it could quite easily be the object of independent analysis. Such a separation, of course^^ven if it were possible—makes no practical sense; but if one distances oneself from "Novogodnee" for a moment and looks at it from the outside, as it were, one may observe that on the level of "pure thought" the poem is more eventful than on the purely verse level. If what is thus accessible to the eye gets translated into simple language, an impression emerges that the author's feelings, under the weight of what has befallen them, rushed to seek consolation from reason, which has taken them extremely far, for reason itself has no one from whom it can seek consolation. With the exception, naturally, of language—which signified a return to the helplessness of feelings. The more rational, in other words, the worse it is—for the author, anyway.
It is precisely on account of its destructive rationalism that "Novogodnee" falls outside Russian poetic tradition, which prefers to resolve problems in a key that while not necessarily positive is at least consoling. Knowing to whom the poem is addressed, one might assume that the consistency of Tsvetaeva's logic in "Novogodnee" is a tribute to the legendary pedantry of German (and, in general, Western) mentality—a tribute all the more easily paid because "German is more native than Russian." There may be a grain of justice in this; but the rationalism of "Novogodnee" is not at all unique in Tsvetaeva's oeuvre. Precisely the opposite is true: it is typical. The only thing, perhaps, that distinguishes "Novogodnee" from other poems of the same period is its developed argumentation; whereas in "Poem of the End" or in "The Pied Piper," for example, we are dealing with the reverse phenomenon—an almost hieroglyphic condensation of arguments. (It is even possible that the argumentation in "Novogodnee" is so detailed because Russian was somewhat familiar to Rilke, and, as though Tsvetaeva were fearful of the misunderstandings that are especially common when the language barrier is slightly lowered, she intentionally "enunciates" her thoughts. In the end, this letter is the last; it is important to say everything while he has not yet gone "completely," that is, before the onset of oblivion, while life without Rilke has not yet become natural.) In any case, however, we encounter this destructive characteristic of Tsvetaeva's logicality, the premier mark of her authorship.
It might be more reasonable to say that "Novogodnee" does not fall outside Russian poetic tradition but expands it. For this poem—"national in form and Tsvetaevan in content"*—extends, or better yet, refines the understanding of "national." Tsvetaeva's thinking is unique only for Russian poetry; for Russian consciousness it is natural, and even preconditioned by Russian syntax. Literature, however, always lags behind individual experience, for it comes about as its result. Moreover, the Russian poetic tradition always balks at disconsolation—not so much because of the possibility of hysterics implicit in disconsolation as because of the Orthodox inertia in justifying the existential order (by any, preferably metaphysical, means). Tsvetaeva, however, is uncompromising as a poet and in the highest degree uncomfortable. The world and many of the things that happen in it all too often lack any sort of justification for her, including a theological one. For art is something more ancient and universal than any faith with which it enters into matrimony, begets children—but with which it does not die. The judgment of art is a judgment more demanding than the Final Judgment. The Russian poetic tradition by the time "Novogodnee" was written was still in the grip of feelings for the Orthodox version of Christianity, with which it had been acquainted for only three hundred years. It's only natural that against such a background a poet who cries out, "There's not just one God, right? Above him there must be yet another I GodF' proves to be an outcast. The latter circumstance may have played an even greater role in her life than the civil war.