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Allen is elated by the Emil Nolde paintings and delighted by the Rembrandts. He studies closely a Rembrandt portrait of an old lady and remarks upon the profound sorrow and disillusion expressed in her woebegone face, comparing it to that of the woman depicted in the painting by L.A. Ring. Discovering the museum’s collection of paintings by Peter Bruegel the Elder, Ginsberg gasps with “oh” and “ah.” He is particularly taken by the large Bruegel painting of “Christ Driving the Traders from the Temple,” which he examines closely and at length. He remarks to me that “Bruegel is like Shakespeare in his poetic composition.” Allen points to details in the painting, arguing that not only the money changers but nearly everyone in the crowd around the temple is engaged in some form of grasping greed, including the beggars, a thief, a quack doctor, and the many merchants and farmers who have come to buy or sell animal stock. And in the lower right-hand corner of the painting there is a half-naked child aged about four years, facing out from the canvas with a look of terror in his eyes, innocent witness to this appalling human spectacle. (I think of Peter.)
We view paintings by Mantegna, Lucas Cranach the Elder, Titian, Rubens and others, discussing artists and paintings referred to in Pound’s Cantos , then retire to the basement canteen for coffee. Allen tells me that he is contemplating writing an epic poem based upon a dream he had the previous night. In the dream, Allen recounts, he passes through a tunnel into a magic castle. This is a domain where wishes are fulfilled but where guru-tricks are also played upon those who enter. Here, he encounters a beautiful naked black man who asks him: “do you want me?” “Yes!” Allen replies avidly. “Look here,” the black man says, indicating a diseased portion of his chest. “How are your other parts, your limbs?” Allen asks and is shown other disfigured and unwholesome areas of the man’s otherwise alluring body. Later, a young boy offers himself to Allen but suddenly vanishes. There the dream ended. Allen compares it to Keats’ poem, “Christabel,” which relates the encounter between Christabel and a mysterious, beguiling figure named Geraldine whose body is ultimately revealed as bearing some terrible disfigurement that mars “her bosom and half her side.” Allen also compares the dream to the “Magic Theatre” section in Herman Hesse’s novel, Steppenwolf . The “Magic Theatre” is a realm where fantasies – including erotic fantasies – can be lived out and where spiritual or psychological instruction takes place. The dream, Allen says, has lingered in his mind and absorbed his attention all day. Perhaps he can use it as the basis for a new poem, but he mustn’t strive, he says, striving would create an anxiety that could drive away the meaning and inspiration offered by the dream. He adds that dreams have served him in other ways at other times. He has even composed lyrics in dreams. The first stanza and general outline of “Guru Blues,” for example, were conceived in a dream.
Outside, early winter darkness has fallen. We take a bus through the city to the editorial offices of Politiken , a Danish newspaper that has promised him payment for an interview he gave to a reporter on the night of his arrival in Copenhagen. Unfortunately, it proves that the payment cannot yet be made to him, so Allen leaves a forwarding address where he will be staying while in Sweden. He is clearly disappointed, even becoming testy with the young man at the reception desk. We walk the raw, evening streets of Copenhagen to Teglgaardstr?de where Allen and Peter and Steven will be sleeping one last night before leaving tomorrow morning for Sweden. In the light of the antique street lamps, his face looks drawn and weary. He seems a sad man. I think that the discourses he delivered on the sorrowful, disillusioned faces of the old women in the paintings at the National Gallery were, in part, projections of his own current state of spirit. The preoccupation with his father’s death and with “Father Death” in his recent poems and songs would seem to bear this out. And there would seem to be but little consolation to be drawn from the rather bleak Buddhism he embraces.
We ascend the wooden stairs of the old building where he is staying, walk a dim hallway, and enter an apartment with half-timbered walls. Peter is asleep. I shake hands and say goodbye to Steven and ask him to say goodbye for me to Peter. I shake hands with Allen who thanks me and says: “Well, we saw some Bruegels and Rembrandts together.” We speak our final farewells and I descend the stairs into the dark, windy street. I leave them there to their lives in which this has been but one day, Allen and Peter, two ageing heart-friends whose fates and souls are so interwoven, both seeking salvation, both struggling still with vanity and anger, both alone, both far from home this winter night.
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