The letters of the writer and groundbreaking neurological investigator Oliver Sacks–now collected in a volume that displays on every page his boundless curiosity and love of the human animal in its myriad ways of perceiving the world–include several to the poet W. H. Auden, among other literary lights. We unfortunately have no record of the Coleridge quote Sacks refers to in this missive to Auden of August 18, 1971, but the line he mentions from the German Romantic poet Novalis was surely a favorite aphorism of Oliver’s: “Every disease is a musical problem; its care a musical solution.” We also share below the typescript of Auden’s poem “Anthem,” which the poet had enclosed in his foregoing letter to Sacks, written on August 2, where he ended by saying: “Overleaf a little poem about the Cosmos. Yours ever, Wystan.”
Letter to W. H. AudenAugust 18,1971 [37 Mapesbury Rd., London]
Dear Wystan,
Your letter was forwarded to me a few days ago, and it (or your poem, or you) was the best of palliatives. Does there come a point (if one is very lucky, or has the right gifts, or grace, or works at it) when style, feeling, content, judgement all flow together and assume the right form? Your “Anthem” seems instinctively and effortlessly lyrical, and absolutely natural, like an organic growth; and yet obviously has the most careful and sophisticated and exquisite choice of words—and no feeling of any “joins” anywhere, of artifice, of manipulation. Marvellous. I will treasure it. Yes, I thought the Coleridge quote was a real find, and so to the point. And I agree (I feel) absolutely with the Novalis one. In some sense, I think, my medical sense is a musical one. I diagnose by the feeling of discordancy, or of some peculiarity of harmony. And it’s immediate, total, and gestalt. My sleeping-sickness patients have innumerable types of strange “crises,” immensely complex, absolutely specific, yet completely indescribable. I recognize them all now as I recognize a bar of Brahms or Mahler. And so do the patients. Such strange physiological harmonies—I hope I can find some way to describe these, because they are unique states, at the edges of being, beyond imaginable being, beneath comprehension, and when the last of the sleeping-sickness patients die (they are very old now) no memory will be left of their extraordinary states. Writing seems more of a struggle now—maybe I’m trying something harder—I find meanings go out of focus, or there is some sort of “slippage” between word and meaning, and the phrase which seemed right, yesterday, is dead today. [. . .] And medical jargon is so awful. It conveys no real picture, no impression whatever, of what—say—it feels like to be Parkinsonian. And yet it’s an absolutely specific, and intolerable feeling. A feeling of confinement, but of an inner constraint and confinement and cramp and crushedness, which is closely analogous to depression (although it is not emotional as such), and, of course, is very depressing. And a painful inner conflict—one patient called it the push-and-pull, another the goad-and-halter. It’s a most hateful condition, although it has a sort of elegant formal structure. But no book that I know of brings home that Parkinsonism feels like this—they just reduce it to an unevocative listing of symptoms. I hope Osbert Sitwell didn’t have it too badly. I’ve been reading some Goethe (for the first time, really) in the last week or two. Starting with his Italian Journey—thank God I did start with that, or I might not have got any further. And then the Pelican Faust—maybe it’s the same with any translation. I must learn German. And Mann’s fabulous essay on Goethe and Tolstoy. And Elective Affinities. And that great, meandering, affectionate Lewes biography. There is one point (I think in his chapter on Goethe’s philanthropy) where Lewes says that he could “eat Goethe for love”—and I think these are beginning to be my sentiments too. I hope I can join Orlan on a lightning visit to Vienna. There is nothing I would like more, but I am awfully fretted with my current book, and may not be at liberty (or feel myself at liberty) until I have finished it. I would love to see you in your own Kirchstetten, but if I cannot come I will surely see you in New York a few weeks later.
Yours ever, [Oliver]
More on this book and author:
Learn more about Letters by Oliver Sacks.
Read “Anthem” and more of W. H. Auden’s poems in Collected Poems.
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