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One of the major themes throughout all five books of Paterson is the relationship between the natural landscape and the human body. Paterson’s connection to the world around him echoes the lineage of Transcendentalist ideas, from Ralph Waldo Emerson to his poetic heirs, including Walt Whitman. In the essay “Nature,” Emerson describes the narrator’s relationship to the landscape as being similar to an eyeball—all-seeing, absorbing everything around it without putting much back into the landscape or altering it in substantial ways. Similarly, Paterson walks through the landscape—more abstractly in other books, most concretely in Book 2—observing and absorbing what he sees around him. Paterson responds to an inquiry asking what he does for work by saying, “What do I do? I listen, to the water falling. (No sound of it here but with the wind!) This is my entire occupation” (45). He answers this way even though, from other aspects of the narrative, the reader learns that he is a doctor and a poet. He considers this answer to be the most important one.
Additional connections between the body and the landscape recur between the man Paterson and the city Paterson. Early in Book 1, “Paterson lies in the valley under the Passaic Falls / its spent waters forming the outline of his back. He / lies on his right side, head near the thunder / of the waters filling his dreams!” (6). In this passage, Paterson becomes gigantic, with his body literally merging with the waters from Passaic Falls itself. The water not only cradles him as though he were an infant who needed comfort, it forms part of his body through the outline of his back; additionally, the sound of it touches not only his physical form but moves into his sleep to fill his dreams, too.
This water language recurs often in the sections of the book that connect nature and the body, especially as a way to draw a physical connection or to personify nature itself, such as “the stream / that has no language, coursing / beneath the quiet heaven of / your eyes (24). The stream is what courses beneath the level of the eyes, even though the stream itself has no language but its own. In this book, not only nature but the cityscape is intimately connected with the human body and with the process of becoming human. In the liminal space between self and other, between inside and outside, the exact borders and boundaries blur.
There are several narrative techniques which incorporate major aspects of multiple characters in one thread. Like an orchestra, polyvocality blends the voices of many characters to create a single, aesthetically pleasing whole. Williams uses the technique to form a more complete picture of Paterson the place through a multiplicity of speakers and time periods. Rather than a single person’s perspective, which runs the risk of narrowness but offers the allure of greater depth, many perspectives offer a breadth that aligns with the broadness of representing an entire city at once.
In Books 1 and 2, several voices weave in and out in polyvocality. Sections form tonal counterpoints to one another, as in this passage: “Thence Carlos had fled in the 70s... // I was over to see my mother today” (26). The narrative voices switch completely from one character to another, yet the stanzas abut each other. Williams seems unafraid of jarring the reader by a sudden switch: examples abound throughout the text: “A special French maid, / her sole duty to groom / the pet Pomeranians—who sleep. // Cornelius Doremus, who was baptized at Acquackonock...” (34). The French maid and Doremus are wholly unrelated to one another narratively.
Though the voices blend into one another in Book 1, in Book 2 the character of Paterson grounds the polyvocality through providing a single, consistent character perspective for it to return to. As an example, one voice pleads from within a letter: “my having heaped these confidences upon you...was enough in itself to have caused my failure with you”; the section is immediately followed by an exhortation from Paterson’s perspective: “Look, there lies the city!” (64). The consistency of his point-of-view allows for the narrative to meander even as he himself meanders through the park. In Book 3, the common thread of character is replaced by one of plot. In contrast to the earlier sections, the physical space of the town library grounds the rest of the narrative meanderings. Books 4 and 5 meander more than the previous three, but they frequently return to the grounding elements of previous books to provide touchpoints for the reader.
Narratologically speaking, polyvocality allows for access to many different experiences simultaneously. The danger of polyvocality comes from its unsteadiness: Without adequate grounding in the form of a consistent plot thread and/or setting, the sections can appear to the reader as being wholly unrelated. Williams uses the technique by collaging together several literary forms: narrative and lyrical verse, the epistolary in the form of letters, prose blocks for historical interludes, and less frequently, scientific charts and lists, and free indirect narration from Paterson’s perspective. The verse sections often blend multiple perspectives or voices to create a coherent whole; they also connect the town’s history throughout its founding to Williams’s present, and Paterson the man (and thereby Williams) to the many poets and artists referenced.
Throughout the five books of Paterson, Williams connects the past and the future through a sense of simultaneity. Williams especially uses the history of the Revolutionary War and the formation of America to underpin narratives about the flowering of Paterson. Throughout the text, historical interludes involving the Revolution recur, from anecdotes about Native American religious ceremonies to internecine conflict between Founding Fathers about the development of the American banking system. Sections which cover events, characters, and circumstances from historical realities which occurred centuries apart are spliced right next to each other in the text. Their proximity—one right after another—creates the impression that they happen at the same time. This focus on the history of Paterson as a place connects in the text to the history of poetry and artistic practice; Williams overlays on it his thoughts about the place, meaning, and future of poetry.
As one of the main figures in the artistic movement of Imagism, Williams focused on developing a more modern sense of American poetry as compared to what he and other Imagist poets—including famous figures H.D. and Ezra Pound—saw as the staid conservatism of contemporary poetry. In a question-and-answer section in Book 5, Williams answers an imaginary inquirer who wants to know about his definition of poetry, especially as it regards its future: “Q. Well—is it poetry? // A. We poets have to talk in a language which is not English. It is the American idiom. Rhythmically it’s organized as a sample of the American idiom. It has as much originality as jazz” (225). He connects poetry to a deeply American identity, like jazz; however, he does not mention how African American culture influenced both jazz and his own development of poetic voice.
At the end of Book 1, Williams quotes from Studies of the Greek Poets by John Addington Symonds about deformed metrical verse, and he connects this pattern to a sense of deformed morality—ironic and perhaps tongue-in-cheek, considering his own use of an inconsistent line form and pattern. Williams explores the most summative thoughts about the future of poetry in Book 5; there, he frames the smallest unit of regular metrical verse as being composed of the “tragic foot” (239). He describes the language of poetry as idiomatic, which leads into an assertion that poems should be written in nonstandard language. In both a doubling-back and a doubling-down, the very last lines of the text assert that about poetry “We know nothing and can know nothing / but / the dance, to dance to a measure” (239).
Throughout the five books, Williams occasionally returns to direct reference to the structure of poetry. Most of his verse sections are written in his most common meter: variable-foot free verse. This meter disregards perfect consistency in the poetic lines (with regards to length, meter, and rhyme) in favor of a looser structure and flow to the text. This is not to say that he does not use poetic techniques—to the contrary, in the vein of other Imagist and Imagist-adjacent poets like Gertrude Stein, he frequently uses an internal perfect rhyme scheme to repeat specific word-sounds and thereby evoke connections between sections of text which otherwise do not have a set relationship to one another.
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By William Carlos Williams