One Evil That Concerns Literature

There is one evil that concerns literature which should never be passed over in silence but be continually publicly attacked, and that is corruption of the language, for writers cannot invent their own language and are dependent upon the language they inherit so that, if it be corrupt, they must be corrupted. But the critic who concerns himself with this evil must attack it at its source, which is not in works of literature but in the misuse of language by the man-in-the-street, journalists, politicians, etc. Furthermore, he must be able to practice what he preaches.

W.H. Auden. The Dyer’s Hand and Other Essays. Vintage International, 1988. P. 11.

The Magic Christian

In 1959, Terry Southern wrote The Magic Christian in which the billionaire protagonist Guy Grand enjoys finding how far people will go for a buck (or usually thousands of bucks). Peter Carlson, writing for the Washington Post in 2004, spotted the similarities between Grand and Trump way before the billionaire became president. After seeing the president hoist a Bible in front of St. John’s Church last week, I wouldn’t be surprised if Trump has The Magic Christian as an unholy playbook in his breast pocket.

The whole book is a series of practical jokes in which Grand sinks absurd amounts of money into making fools of people. It works because Grand is light-hearted and generous in his foolmaking, and reading it in 2020 for levity unfortunately makes Trump much darker.

Here’s an excerpt. Grand has purchased a newspaper in Boston and begins randomly inserting foreign words and misspellings into the war reports. The frustrated readership begins to plummet, and this is where the excerpt picks up.

At this point a major policy change was announced. Henceforth the newspaper would not carry comics, editorials, feature stories, reviews, or advertising, and would present only the factual news in a straightforward manner. It was called The Facts, and Grand spent the ransom of a dozen queens in getting at the facts of the news, or at least a great many of them, which he had printed then in simple sentences. The issues of the first two days or so enjoyed a fair sale, but the contents on the whole appeared to be so incredible or so irrelevant that by the end of the week demand was lower than at any previous phase of the paper’s existence. During the third week the paper had no sale at all to speak of, and was imply given away; or, refused by the distributors, it was left in stacks on the street corners each morning, about two million copies a day. In the beginning people were amused by the sight of so many newspapers lying around unread; but when it continued, they became annoyed. Something funny was going on– Communist? Atheist? Homosexual? Catholic? Monopoly? Corruption? Protestant? Insane? Negro? Jewish? Puerto Rican? POETRY? The city was filthy. It was easy for people to talk about The Facts in terms of litter and debris. Speeches were made, letters written, yet the issue was vague. The editor of The Facts received insulting letters by the bagful. Grand sat tight for a week, then he gave the paper over exclusively to printing these letters; and its name was changed again–Opinions.

These printed letters reflected such angry divergence of thought and belief that what resulted was sharp dissension throughout the city. Group antagonism ran high. The paper was widely read and there were incidents of violence. Movements began.

The Magic Christian. Terry Southern, 1959.

The whole “joke”– as Grand thinks of these wild projects– ends in a riot that begins on June 7 and lasts 36 hours.

Ha, ha?

Day Unto Day Pours Forth Speech

1 Vulgar. Going back to Latin, vulgar means “of the mob or common people.” One can imagine an aristocrat, peering down his powdered nose at the smelly plebeians, blowing that word out like a bubble, “Vul….gar.”


In middle school, we had a Jersey dairy cow, and I dutifully milked her in the evenings. One Friday, I had a friend over to spend the night. We went to the barn, and he watched me squirt streams of milk into the pail until it frothed. He stood at the edge of the stall, eyes shifting between his clean sneakers and the mounds of cowshit. The next morning, he hesitated to pour that milk into the cereal. He’d seen it in the pail. Come Monday, I overheard him telling our friends about what a gross experience it was to drink fresh cow’s milk. Everyone laughed as they wolfed cafeteria pizza, strings of cheese stuck in their braces.

I became less dutiful in my milking. We sold the cow. I asked dad for $1.25 every day to buy a slice of pizza.


Shit is a word that I learned had two uses. The shit in the stall, which smelled bad and you didn’t want to track into mom’s house, but which also had a valuable function. At the end of growing seasons, dad would take the front-end loader, scrape the stalls clean, and dump piles of shit in the garden to compost over the winter. This use of the word was earthy, outdoors. Like cow is a word for the field, and beef is a word for the table.

Not that middle school Seth knew this, but cow and beef bear connotations of the vulgar. The Norman aristocratic occupiers of England demanded beef at the table (a word impressed on Anglos and Normans alike by their common Roman occupiers). The Anglo cooks, servants in their own land, heard beef and compelled the Anglo butchers to order cow from the Anglo animal husband (housebond), who had shit on his shoes. This final man, invariably tracked shit into the huswif‘s kitchen and received a scolding. Again I imagine the aristocrat chortling, sibilating, elongating the syllable: “Sshhit.”

The other use of the word shit showed up for me around middle school, and was suddenly lewd and because it had a new moral quality, spoken with a glance over the shoulder for policing adults. Usually it was meaningless — punctuation and cadence — more akin to a dog barking than a person conveying ideas. But more often than I care to admit, we employed it in that adolescent posturing that also looks like dogs establishing dominance. In the right context, for the kid sitting on the edge, having the word “shit” cast on you, could be devastating. From the head of the lunch table, the boy in Brandname® jeans barks, “You are a vul…gar piece of sshhit. You don’t belong here.”

One defense against that judgment is to bark back. Another is to bark down the line at the next kid on the edge. We are all capable of justifying ourselves in awful ways.


…people are accustomed to regard anything as vulgar that overreaches their own attempts at self-justification.

Robert Penn Warren, Band of Angels

I keep circling back around to that quote in my thoughts. Amantha Starr, the character in Band of Angels who says those words is describing gaudy decorations in her antebellum Kentucky mansion. Baubles like a silver teapot and gold-framed portraits seemed grand in her youth, but after she becomes an adult, she recognizes those objects as mere pretense and posture. An attempt to justify her family’s presence in plantation society.

As a child, Amantha had been the heiress to the plantation. She moved freely about the property, seeing each of the objects, including the slaves, as her possession. Each piece inherited, full of history and lineage that defined her identity. She expected to take some of them with her when she grew up and was married.

Then her father died, and it’s determined that her mother had actually been a slave, and her history and future disappeared as she was auctioned into slavery. Eventually she is freed after the Civil War while the Starr plantation of her youth is plundered. An adult former slave, Amantha now sees those objects by which her family had justified themselves as glaringly vulgar. Yet, she still feels the need to justify herself in some way, to some group of people. To answer the question, “Who am I?”


Vulgar can also mean profane. The vulgar definition of profane is that something is morally dirty, not to be discussed in polite company. Shit is a profanity.

But for these purposes, let’s use profane in its first meaning: not sacred. Bread is profane; the sacramental host is sacred. They’re both made from the same wheat; baked in the same ovens; eaten by the same mouths, digested, and mingled in the same steaming pile of morning excrement. The difference is in how we imagine one crumb from the other as it passes our lips.

Upending 1300 years of practice, Jesus told a bunch of strictly dieting Jews that food didn’t make them profane –ceremonially unclean– but words coming out of their mouths did. “Evil thoughts,” he said, “proceed from the heart” defiling the body as they pass the tongue. Murder is spoken before it is committed. Jesus went so far as to say calling someone a fool is murder. Fool, or vulgar piece of shit.


2 It’s a fair miracle that we carry this inherited network of meanings in our language. Now that I’ve become the policing adult, I assign after school detentions when my students use profanity in class. There’s even a tick box in the disciplinary form to discern whether a student used a word “inappropriately” or as “verbal assault.” Same word; different imagination.

By the benevolence of the English teacher gods, I inherited a full set of the Oxford English Dictionary in my classroom. When my students arrive for after school detention, I have them look up the recorded history and usage of the word they used. Not as punishment, but as the ongoing work of education. If you’re going to use a word, it will serve you well to understand what it means. The carpenter understands the intent of a hammer better than does the monkey.

There’s slippage in meaning, of course. Groups of people develop shibboleths as identity markers and gatekeepers, in order to justify themselves as a group. A few years ago, my students began to use the word “goat” in inexplicable ways. Their tone gave them away, and the waves of giggles when someone said the word out loud in class. After some investigation, we parsed out that their use of goat referred to a penis. It interfered with the work of education, so we formed the ridiculous policy of banning goat from the classroom. When a boy leans over to a girl in class and brazenly asks her to “pet his goat,” I have to tick the box that says Verbal Assault.


My least favorite role in teaching is the policeman, especially when it comes to language. To the kid, I’m an aggressor, exercising an authority he barely recognizes, and only under compulsion. “Who are you,” he might ask, “to trample my first right?” And he wouldn’t be referring to the constitutional provision, but the simple human fact that our first breath drawn is exhaled in speech. His first attempt to answer “Who am I?”

It is natural that teenagers want to set themselves apart from adults; girls from boys; brother from brother. Each human being justified as a self. Yet evil thoughts proceed from the heart; some of those words of justification will in fact be an injustice, not merely a prude’s snobbish regard. An innocent word like goat becomes a weapon to purloin power.

The role of the teacher-as-police is to tell the kid who– in the same word, exploits the girl and tests out the question, “Who am I?”– that “No, in fact, this is not who you are!” Unfortunately, creating a policy that bans a word does not ban the evil thought. It will find a word in which to express itself.

The trick-of-all-tricks is to say words which sink down into the heart that become thoughts of peace, a future, and a hope, and proceed into the world on the tongues of the vulgar.

The Beauty of the Weapons

Occasionally, I come across poems that have similar themes. I like to keep a record of them, or respond to them as if I were part of their conversation.

Fleet Visit

The sailors come ashore
Out of their hollow ships,
Mild-looking middle-class boys
Who read the comic strips;
One baseball game is more
To them than fifty Troys.

They look a bit lost, set down
In this unamerican place
Where natives pass with laws
And futures of their own;
They are not here because
But only just-in-case.

The whore and the ne’er-do-well
Who pester them with junk
In their grubby ways at least
Are serving the Social Beast;
They neither make nor sell–
No wonder they are drunk.

But their ships on the vehement blue
Of this harbor actually gain
From having nothing to do;
Without a human will
To tell them whom to kill
Their structures are humane

And, far from looking lost,
Look as if they were meant
To be pure abstract design
By some master of pattern and line,
Certainly worth every cent
Of the billions they must have cost.

W.H. Auden, 1951

The Beauty of the Weapons
El-Arish, 1967

A long-armed man can
carry the nine-millimeter
automatic gun slung
backward over the right shoulder.

With the truncated butt
caught in the cocked
elbow, the trigger
falls exactly to hand.

These things I remember,
and a fuel-pump gasket cut
from one of the innumerable
gas masks in the roadside dump.

I bring back manuscript picked
up around incinerated trucks
and notes tacked next
to automatic track controls.

Fruits of the excavation.
This is our archaeology.
A dig in the debris
of a civilization six weeks old.

The paper is crisp and brittle
with the dry rock and the weather.
The Arabic is brittle
with the students’ first exposure

to air-war technology and speed.
Ridiculous to say so, but
the thought occurs,
that Descartes would be pleased:

the calculus is the language
of the latest Palestinian
disputations
in the field of theology.

The satisfying feel
of the fast traverse
on the anti-aircraft guns
is not in the notes.

It lies latent and cool
in the steel, like the intricate
mathematics
incarnate in the radar:

the antennae folded and rolled
like a soldier’s tent,
sweeping the empty
sky and the barren horizon,

the azimuth and the elevation,
sweeping the empty air
into naked abstraction,
leading the guns.

The signal is swirled until it
flies over the lip like
white, weightless
wine from a canteen cup.

Invisibly, the mechanism sings.
It sings. It sings like a six-ton flute:
east, west, always the same
note stuck in the rivetless throat.

And yet, a song as intricate
as any composition by Varese,
and seeming, for the moment, still
more beautiful, because,

to us, more deadly.
Therefore purer, more
private, more familiar,
more readily feared, or desired:

a dark beauty with a steel sheen,
caught in the cocked
mind’s eye and brought
down with an extension of the hand.

Robert Bringhurst, 1967

A Prison Psalter

I’ve begun a slow project of poems in the voices of various inmates reading the Psalms. Millions of King James Bibles are regularly distributed to inmates each year, and I’ve heard that all 150 Psalms cover the range of human emotion. I’d like to believe it.

My hometown of Amarillo has two state prisons. One named the William Clements Unit is strictly high security. The names of inmates and their transgressions are public record, so I’m pairing a psalm with a convict currently housed at the Clements Unit. Each will likely be a different style or form, as each convict’s crimes will be illuminated with a psalm. Here’s an example:

TDCJ ID: 02290142
Aggravated Assault of a Child.
7000 years.
Age 41
Psalm 8

When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars, and the hum and the buzz and the blue flicker of the fluorescent tubes that wink and exasperate for decades like an overhead highway stripe, flashing the marked path with a tease of reflected light to burn without ceasing night and non-night, projecting on my closed eyes a map of blinking veins, so that, if my eyes would focus, I could consider the vision of my own pulse, kept steady by my unsleeping lizard brain, yet the what-is-man-that-thou-art-mindful-of-him part of me is up, which means I lean on the cell door attempting to name each noise on the block: wall taps, snoring, roaches clicking under my feet, bosses ascending and descending the metal grate stairs, pacing the catwalk where I can see the soles of their boots as they pass over me, and beyond them the impenetrable ceiling, and below me the inviolable floor, and if somehow I could break free, past these guards, through these walls, I’d be standing in the concrete yard under the sealed vault of floodlights, the mouth of a babe testifying against me.

In Defense of the Writer In Residence

Chera Hammons. Photo Credit: Daniel Miller

West Texas A&M University employs a writer in residence. As a WT alum, this is a source of pride when I speak about my education, but admittedly, I’m a little wistful. This position didn’t exist when I was a student there. I wish it had. Despite studying great works of literature by writers from all ages and all over the world; despite pursuing a course of study focused on writing, there wasn’t anybody from our area with whom I could have had a conversation. There were simply writers I read who lived elsewhere or in some other time. As one writer I know said as he expressed his frustration with this area: “Writers around here either languish or leave.”

Currently, the office of writer in residence is ably filled by Chera Hammons, award-winning poet, novelist, educator, and advocate for our area in the larger literary world. Recently, that position has been under scrutiny from a new administration who has to make tough budget decisions. This has me wondering about the value this position holds.

WT was founded in 1910 to train and supply teachers for the burgeoning Panhandle population. In the subsequent century, WT has increased the local human resource by training young people to specifically address the needs of our area in business, agriculture, engineering, nursing, and technology. WT also has the Sybil B. Harrington College of Fine Arts producing, among other things, writers.

Good writers, or writers of a beneficial imagination, flourish on the same resources as writers of bad imagination. For every credentialed, large-hearted Chera, there are also a hundred online commentators producing noxious reactions. Our local university should subsidize a writer, especially of Chera’s talent, to indicate that certain types of stories should be valued above others.

Ag producers are subsidized to produce five specific crops because they feed and clothe the world. One-fifth of these crops produced in America are grown in our High Plains region. The subsidies provide stability for producers to weather fluctuating markets and fickle circumstances. Surely, we believe our stories, our view of the world, would also benefit the imagination of America. The Texas Panhandle could produce a Twain, a Dickinson, and a Hawthorne if they had the margin to write without being harried by the market. Subsidizing a single writer to produce, as well as supplement the instruction of a team of professors, is a minimal investment that has far-reaching benefits for our region, and ultimately the university who made the investment.

If you’re interested in writing on Chera’s behalf, you can email Dr. Neil Terry (Provost of WTAMU), or Jessica Mallard (Dean of the Humanities).