Hebrew's right-to-left procedure (available to the Greeks via the Phoenicians) could be traced, I suppose, to stone carving, i.e., to the process in which the carver holds the stylus in his left hand and the mallet in the right. In other words, the origins of this written language were not exactly in writing: moving this way, an ancient scribe would inevitably smudge his work with his sleeve or his elbow. A Sumerian (available to the Greeks, alas, directly), on the other hand, relying on clay rather than stone for his narrative or documentation, could press his wedge into the soft surface as easily as he could use a pen (or whatever he would have instead) on the papyri or parchment. The other hand in this case would be the right one.
The Greek boustrophedon, with its shuttle-like movement, suggests the absence of sufficient physical obstacles to the scribe's progress. In other words, its procedure doesn't seem to be motivated by the nature of available writing material. It is so nonchalant in its treading back and forth that it looks almost decorative and brings to mind the lettering on Greek ceramics, with its pictorial and ornamental freedom. It's quite possible that precisely ceramics gave rise to Greek written language, since pictographs normally precede ideograms. We must also bear in mind that, unlike the Hebrew or Sumerian, Greek was the language of an archipelago civilization, and heaving boulders was not the best way to communicate between islands.
Ultimately, because ceramics employ paint, it's safe to assume that written language—lettering, actually—did likewise. Hence its fluency and the knack for continuing regardless of limits. All right, says a sentence hitting the edge of its ceramic tablet, I'll just turn and proceed with what I've got to say to the available surface—for it's most likely that both lettering and images, not to mention ornament, were executed by the same hand.
In other words, the very material used in Greek writing at the time, as well as its relative fragility, suggests the fairly immediate and frequent character of the procedure. In this sense alone, the Greek written language, boustrophedon or no boustrophedon, was much more an ecriture than similar processes in Hebrew or Sumerian, and presumably evolved faster than the other two. To say the least, the relatively short history of boustrophedon and its status as an archaeological curiosity testifies to that evolution's pace. And as a part of that evolution, the emergence of poetry in Greek owes quite a lot to this archaeological curiosity, for it is difficult not to recognize in boustrophedon—at least visu- ally—a precursor of verse.
For "verse," which comes from the Latin versus, means "tum." Of direction, of one thing into another: left, right, U-; of thesis into antithesis, metamorphosis, juxtaposition, paradox, metaphor, if you will, especially successful metaphor; ultimately, rhyme, when two things sound the same but their meanings diverge.
It all comes from the Latin versus. And in a sense this whole poem, as well as the very myth of Orpheus, is one large verse, because it is about turning. Or should we say it's about a U-tum within a U-tum, for it's about Orpheus turning his back on his trip back from Hades? And that divine taboo was as sound as your traffic regulations?
Perhaps. One thing we can be confident about, though, is that the division of Orpheus' senses and its simile owes first to the medium itself, which is verse, and the poet's imagination, which is conditioned by that medium. And that this simile's movement itself conveys extremely well the medium's own progress, being perhaps the best imitation by a dog of ox-ways on record.
It seemed to him at times as though it stretched
back to the progress of those other two
who should be following up this whole ascent.
Then once more there was nothing else behind him
but his climb's echo and his mantle's wind.
He, though, assured himself they still were coming;
said it aloud and heard it die away.
They still were coming, only they were two
that trod with fearful lightness. If he durst
but once look back (if only looking back
were not undoing of this whole enterprise still to be done), he could not fail to see them, the to light-footers, following him in silence . . .
If one could speak of Rilke's emotional investment in his depiction of Orpheus—and our poet has done everything within his power from the title on to avoid any semblance of sentiment for his hero—it is in these lines that one may detect it. That's not surprising, since these lines deal with the extremes of self-awareness: something every poet is familiar with because of the nature of his enterprise, and something he can't detach himself from, as hard as he may try.
This passage, wonderful as it is in its psychological accuracy, warrants no particular comment save the small matter dealt with-by the author in parentheses. Taken as a whole, though, these lines indeed represent a slight shift in the narrator's attitude toward the figure of the ur-poet: there is an air of reluctant sympathy here, although Rilke is doing everything to keep his sentiments in check, including the aforesaid matter in parentheses.
Or should we say, perhaps, matter of parentheses? Because this parenthetical matter is the most audacious job pulled off by any poet dealing with this sort of material in the history of our civilization.
What Mr. Rilke puts here in the parentheses, as a matter of some secondary or tertiary importance, is the main provision of the myth—nay, the very premise of the myth— nay again, the myth itself. For the entire story of Orpheus' descent into the netherworld to bring back his wife and of his unsuccessful return revolves precisely around the Olympians' taboo and his violating it. A good half of world poetry is about this taboo! Well, even if it's one-tenth, say from Virgil to Goethe, making a huge meal precisely of this taboo! And Rilke gives it such short shrift. Why?
Because he is a modern poet who sees everything as psychological conflict? Or is it because of all those exalted ornate jobs done before him, and his wanting to sound different—say, deadpan? Does he really perceive Orpheus as a severely fatigued, perplexed creature, saddled with one more problem to solve, working his way out of Hades, with the main condition of the deal stashed away at the back ofhis mind? Or is this something to do with that rhyming inertia and boustrophedon again?
Well, what's modern here is not the poet but the reader, consideration for whose attention span prompts the poet to issue this reminder. Also, since the relevance of the whole story for this reader is not exactly a given, this business-like parenthetical reminder may do some good. For parenthesis is the typographical equivalent of the back of one's mind: the true seat of civilization in modern man.
So the smaller the shrift, the easier the reader's—not the poet's—identification with the poet's hero lubricated further by having been thrown into the midst of the situation, as though it were happening this week, with a minimum of alienating archaic features. The irony—and "if only looking back/were not undoing of this whole enterprise/still to be done" is highly ironical in its stumbling, prose-like cadence and cumbersome enjambments—also helps. Moreover, these lines are just the last brushstrokes completing the depiction of the ur-poet's appearance—not ofhis substance, which comes six lines later— so the more mortal he looks, the better for what lies ahead.
But does our poet know what lies ahead? He certainly knows the ropes of the story—and so, especially after the reminder, does the reader. So he knows that there are two more figures to be introduced and moved through the poem. He also knows that the means of their transportation is blank verse, and that he has to keep the iambic pentameter under tight control, for it has a tendency to march to its own music, occasionally bursting into song. He knows that thus far he has managed to hold the poem to the key given by the title and rein the meter in pretty well, but after forty lines any meter acquires a certain critical mass that presses for vocal release, for a lyrical resolution. So the question is, where is he to let his meter sing, especially since his story, being a tragic one, presents him with constant opportunities? For instance, here, in the first line of the passage introducing Hermes, the pentameter is about to get out from under the poet's dispassionate controclass="underline"