Seeing The Light

I've been listening, on and off, to Seamus Heaney reading his collection Electric Light on the car stereo. The verse is so densely packed I find I only want to sample two or three poems a time, though it would be easy to just let the tape run and enjoy that wonderful Irish lilt without really trying to take in a word.

This morning, on the way to a rehearsal at work, I listened to Out of the Bag, an unusually long piece for Heaney, blending extraordinary, almost hallucinogenic, memories of the doctor who came for the delivery of various of the Heaney siblings (at least, that's what I assume) with other times and places, Lourdes, a holiday in Greece and (possibly) his mother ill, later in life. The fact that I couldn't quite pin down an exact 'meaning' for the poem, and still can't despite a more leisurely reading later in the day, seems to add to its impact. Being able to be content with something less than full understanding seems to me a necessary part of the experience of reading - the possibility for even greater illumination somewhere down the road is, surely, liberating. As it is, regarding Heaney, I think I can grasp sufficient to 'get it' enough to be satisfied.

A question: could it be that our rage to understand, our will to know, is in itself a limitation on our knowingness?