AMERICAN LITERATURE


American Literature is the written or literary work produced in the area of the United States and its preceding colonies. For more specific discussions of poetry and theater, see Poetry of the United States and Theater in the United States. During its early history, America was a series of British colonies on the eastern coast of the present-day United States. Therefore, its literary tradition begins as linked to the broader tradition of English literature. However, unique American characteristics and the breadth of its production usually now cause it to be considered a separate path and tradition.


Module 01:AMERICAN LITERATURE
Posted by: JOHN REY QUITARA TALISAYSAY
Sources:http://www.harvardsquarelibrary.org/poets/agee_james.php
                        http://www.harvardsquarelibrary.org/__________________________________________________________________________

James Agee

1909 - 1955

James Agee
James Agee
Above all else, James Agee was a writer-from his modest early days in Knoxville, Tennessee, where he was born in 1909, to his final heart attack in a New York taxi cab in 1955, when he was forty-five years old.
His father, who came of sturdy farmer stock in the mountains of Tennessee, became a postal worker who died in an auto accident, leaving James in the care of his Anglo-Catholic, well-educated mother. He was a student at tiny nearby St. Andrew's School, then at Exeter Academy in New Hampshire, and Harvard College, where he concentrated as editor and author of poetry published in the Harvard Advocate. Impressed by his achievement, Archibald MacLeish nominated him as an author in the Yale Series of Younger Poets and wrote the introduction.
While a college student, Agee published a satire of Time Magazine that led journalism's Emperor Henry Luce to offer him a position in New York, where he wrote articles as well as book and film reviews for fourteen years. He also wrote cinema reports for The Nation and the script for an Omnibus television series celebrating Lincoln.
Taking a break, Agee joined with photographer Walker Evans to tell a long, illustrated story of the plight of three sharecropper families, published as Let Us Now Praise Famous Men.
Personal problems plagued Agee: endless smoking of cigarettes, plus an insatiable thirst for liquor and love, which damaged two of his three marriages and his children. His first heart attack came when he was strenuously countering John Huston in a hopeless tennis contest. Agee was then writing the script Houston requested for his movie, The African Queen. Here are two poems by James Agee. First, the title poem of his first book:
PERMIT ME VOYAGE
From the Third Voyage of Hart Crane
Take these who will as may be: I
Am careless now of what they fail:
My heart and mind discharted lie
And surely as the nerved nail

Appoints all quarters on the north
So now it designates him forth
My sovereign God my princely soul
Whereon my flesh is priestly stole:

Whence forth shall my heart and mind
To God through soul entirely bow,
Therein such strong increase to find
In truth as is my fate to know:

Small though that be great God I know
I know in this gigantic day
What God is ruined and I know
How labors with Godhead this day:

How from the porches of our sky
The crested glory is declined:
And hear with what translated cry
The stridden soul is overshined:

And how this world of wildness through
True poets shall walk who herald you:
Of whom God grant me of your grace
To be, that shall preserve this race.

Permit me voyage, Love, into your hands.
Next are lines not included in The Collected Poems edited by his Harvard friend, Robert Fitzgerald. They are a variant of lyrics Agee composed for Lillian Hellman's Candide.
Reason, Magic, Skill and Love,

Frankly, I think poorly of.
Flesh and Figment, Brain and Breath.
All are parodies of Death.
Death alone can’t paint it true;

Only Death can say for sure;
Who but Death can sing to you?
Death my dearest, sparse and pure.
Life is but a sorrowing haze

Through which we grope; and our five senses,
Trammeling snares. In all our way
Artists put their subtle fences:
Telling us that Life is All;

Cheating us with hints of glory;
Charming us. We fail, we fall
Stupefied, and buy their story. 

_________________________________________________________________________

Text, “Knoxville: Summer of 1915”— from James Agee’s essay "Knoxville" and the introduction to his Pulitzer Prize-winning posthumous novel, A Death in the Family
We are talking now of summer evenings in Knoxville Tennessee in the time that I lived there so successfully disguised to myself as a child.
...It has become that time of evening when people sit on their porches, rocking gently and talking gently and watching the street and the standing up into their sphere of possession of the trees, of birds' hung havens, hangars. People go by; things go by. A horse, drawing a buggy, breaking his hollow iron music on the asphalt: a loud auto: a quiet auto: people in pairs, not in a hurry, scuffling, switching their weight of aestival body, talking casually, the taste hovering over them of vanilla, strawberry, pasteboard, and starched milk, the image upon them of lovers and horsemen, squaring with clowns in hueless amber. A streetcar raising its iron moan; stopping; belling and starting, stertorous; rousing and raising again its iron increasing moan and swimming its gold windows and straw seats on past and past and past, the bleak spark crackling and cursing above it like a small malignant spirit set to dog its tracks; the iron whine rises on rising speed; still risen, faints; halts; the faint stinging bell; rises again, still fainter; fainting, lifting, lifts, faints foregone: forgotten. Now is the night one blue dew.
Now is the night one blue dew, my father has drained, he has coiled the hose.
Low in the length of lawns, a frailing of fire who breathes...
Parents on porches: rock and rock. From damp strings morning glories hang their ancient faces.
The dry and exalted noise of the locusts from all the air at once enchants my eardrums.
On the rough wet grass of the back yard my father and mother have spread quilts. We all lie there, my mother, my father, my uncle, my aunt, and I too am lying there.…They are not talking much, and the talk is quiet, of nothing in particular, of nothing at all in particular, of nothing at all. The stars are wide and alive, they seem each like a smile of great sweetness, and they seem very near. All my people are larger bodies than mine,...with voices gentle and meaningless like the voices of sleeping birds. One is an artist, he is living at home. One is a musician, she is living at home. One is my mother who is good to me. One is my father who is good to me. By some chance, here they are, all on this earth; and who shall ever tell the sorrow of being on this earth, lying, on quilts, on the grass, in a summer evening, among the sounds of the night. May God bless my people, my uncle, my aunt, my mother, my good father, oh, remember them kindly in their time of trouble; and in the hour of their taking away.
After a little I am taken in and put to bed. Sleep, soft smiling, draws me unto her: and those receive me, who quietly treat me, as one familiar and well-beloved in that home: but will not, oh, will not, not now, not ever; but will not ever tell me who I am.http://actsofhope.blogspot.com/2008/02/knoxville-summer-1915-james-agee-samuel.html
Evaluation:

                  The learner will be ask to pick up one stanzas in the poem, analize and give their own analysis

     

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