Friends in slight disagreement

Panos Theodoridis – Presentation at the 10th Thessaloniki International Book Fair, Saturday, 18 May 2013 Ikaros publishes the Forster–Cavafy correspondence. The volume was published in English in 2009 by the American University in Cairo, edited and annotated by Peter Jeffries. This year, it is the turn of the Greek edition.The 86 letters in the book come primarily from the Cavafy archive, whilst some are held at King’s College, Cambridge, and two other sources. Fifty-two are letters and draft letters exchanged between them. Although their correspondence is numerically balanced, it is Forster who speaks and expresses himself, whilst Cavafy is the one who listens and politely rebuffs or comments with gentleness – an image made all the more striking by the surviving form of the poet’s letters: these are drafts, preserved in his archive, with corrections, deletions and a rough, working-draft appearance. His original letters have been lost.The editor is sparing in erasing the boundaries he set so as not to present fewer or more pieces of evidence in the composition of the work, but the heroes of the volume—such as the publishers of the time, Toynbee, T. S. Eliot, Robert Graves, the posthumous custodians of the Cavafy archive and other figures, convincingly convey the context of this correspondence without embellishment or superfluous additions.Only a hasty modern Greek assessment (fortunately avoided thanks to the editor’s evident competence) would conclude that what we have here is a quarrel between noble souls over a manuscript, that is, over the licence to publish Cavafy’s poems as a complete collection in the large and influential English-speaking market. It is clear that Cavafy is not very keen on the idea and, after a while, is not keen at all; just as it is clear that Forster picks up on the implication, yet continues to write to him until the end of the poet’s life, on the one hand because, thanks to Forster, poems are published in well-known magazines, which Cavafy is happy to approve of, and on the other hand because he is a man of different outbursts, as Jack Nicholson says, playing the writer in a film: a ‘last word freak’. A forgivable, I imagine, oversight regarding Cavafy, who, apart from Kazantzakis’s direct, warm verbal cameo regarding his work, did not exactly enjoy the company of many introverted characters in the Poets’ Walk.The edition I am presenting was, a few weeks after its release, well received in the Greek marketplace of ideas (what we used to call the ‘intellectual world’) and is not merely a testament to Ikaros’s choices. Jeffries presents, alongside the epistolary codes, a narrative. Moreover, beyond his persuasive interpretations, the ethos of the letters, the distinct temperaments of the protagonists, and the unspoken elements that are not explicitly stated but implied in the volume, arouse keen reader interest. I apologise in advance to the experts who often regard a laudable literary edition as necessarily carrying within its DNA the indifferent or even hostile audience of the co-pilot, Mr Kouvelis.In our case, everything points to a thoroughly enjoyable read.Peter Jeffries follows a relatively predictable Anglo-Saxon tradition of scholarship that simply conceals the tremendous effort required to distil it into a concise introductory text.Manolis Savvidis prefaces the edition, refusing to regard a preface as a conventional obligation for someone devoted to the Cavafy archive, whilst not forgetting the sharp truths he is accustomed to, rather than offering us the drudgery and tedium of routine.The translation by Katerina Gika, the driving force behind the School of Modern Hellenism, contributes immensely to the text’s sparkling flow, as she playfully reworks even Cavafy’s own tropes, weaving them into her work. Furthermore, she leaves no stone unturned, as her concise explanations for the benefit of the Greek-speaking audience are exactly what is needed.Letters, as a literary genre, have gone through phases of talent being over-exploited or of hasty notes awaiting their moment in the spotlight. It is partly true that Cavafy, for years in the grip of a poorly paid clerical job, ‘scrutinised’ his manuscripts simply because he knew they were being scrutinised. In any case, he adheres to the protocol of letter-writing, knowing to whom he is addressing, in what manner, and what the fate of any enclosed letters will be, in an exemplary fashion. Whereas, after a deluge of trillions of words on so-called social media, we have exhausted all available avenues of meaningful communication. Cavafy knew Forster at a time when he was already a long-established and influential figure. He has mild habits, he archives and manages his existence, he puts on performances, he remains silent with relish, he has a full sense of a social stage on which he sometimes feels the urge to perform.How he ‘plays’ is explained by Manolis Savvidis elsewhere: [ ]we must modify the image we have of ‘Cavafy’ and broaden it. We must, for example, make room for the social Cavafy, who went to parties and was a keen socialiser and a charming dancer, who played tennis until he was 45. We must include the reader of detective novels and folk songs, and the compiler of a dictionary in which he collected unusual words or the unusual use of common words. It must encompass the man who fell on hard times and eked out a living in the civil service but supported himself by gambling in coffeehouses and on the stock exchange. It must encompass the sensitive young man discovering his sexuality and its development. It must accommodate the romantic poet, the follower of Christopoulos and the Phanariots, the lover of music, theatre and painting. It must also accommodate the chain-smoker and the cancer patient. It must accommodate the youngest child of a large family, who is the last bearer of the name, with no descendants. And it must accommodate the Greek who has lived in the capitals of two empires (London and Constantinople) and, exiled to the marginalised city of Alexandria, renounces British citizenship and chooses to retain only his Greek nationality.In the midst of the Great War in Alexandria, Great Britain has taken care to seal off its protected territories, and the Suez Canal is an invaluable maritime thoroughfare. Happening to belong geographically to Egypt, in a khanate that came close to gaining autonomy from a horseman warlord and governor, Suez contributed to the transformation of Egypt into a protectorate, of a slightly more ramshackle sort than the current Greek administration.And in this Alexandria, a not-so-young writer, Edward Morgan Forster, with delicate features and a profile resembling that of a vulpes vulpes, the creature at the top of the canine family,that is, a cunning fox, born in Victorian England, has the courage to express himself as a conscientious objector, serves with the International Red Cross, and has already completed a large part of his creative work by the age of 36.Until then, he struggles, as the history of many of his compatriots teaches, with a devotion to the same sex, caught between heavenly and earthly love. However, in Alexandria, this longing has a happy ending. He falls in love with an Egyptian tram driver, shortly after experiencing his first sexual relationship. His happiness is fulfilled not through the trophies of an authentic colonialist of the welfare state, but through his acquaintance with the imposing, renowned poet Constantine Cavafy.They are brought together by Forster’s superior and the head of all the British in Egypt during the war, R.A. Furness, possibly through the friendly mediation of a young censor, Antonius. It is 7 March 1916, and by mid-1917 it is already evident that we have a relationship that has matured. A word from a letter by Forster dated 12 May 1917, the word ‘resurrection’ , and a letter of 1 July from the same author containing, for the first and last time, reflections on corruption and other grand themes of life, define, I believe, the great void between March 1916 and May 1917, within which the following took place between the two men: Forster meets Cavafy; they converse, exchange pleasantries and, later, confessions; amidst various matters, they analyse the nature of love; Cavafy subsequently elevates their relationship to a socially cordial one, but does not give in; he does not explain to Forster, or perhaps Forster does not realise that he is on a different wavelength.Cavafy is 16 years older, feels experienced and mature, with a composed demeanour, yet he remains an employee of a local chancellery not far removed from an occupation government, which had previously shown respect for the already exiled Khedive, Abbas.Forster may feel similarly fulfilled inwardly, since A Room with a View and Howards End have already been published, whilst the atmospheric Maurice awaits in the ‘drafts’, but in the presence of Cavafy, he senses things that researchers had merely surmised, but documented with provisional exit permits. The meeting between Cavafy and Forster can finally be reconstructed from their correspondence, which continued until the Alexandrian’s death in 1933. However, I do not believe that the 16-year age difference is the decisive, critical factor. Forster, a beacon of light, has a different character and experiences a love that immediately leads him to hold imposing memorials when his beloved, Mohammed el-Adl, dies. ‘The Lighthouse and the Lighthouse Keeper’, one of his Alexandrian works, is dedicated to Hermes Psychopomp. There he would reproduce a few exemplary lines about Cavafy, crafted to win over the many readers and admirers. In his letters, one can easily discern his grasp of the marketing of the time. As a dramatic figure, however, he desperately attempts to restore his lost body through words honed by his literary skill. Forster crafts a Hades where the writer and his lover will have the privilege of living through his work, amongst the living, and returning at night to the chambers adjacent to Persephone’s. However, Cavafy, who I believe went through a similar phase (expanding on an idea by Mimi Soulioti and many other capable researchers) by gathering in his archive a formidable collection of ‘hidden’ poems whose emotional roots lie in the days of 1903, does not intend to wait for his A.M., or to remain in purgatory. When Cavafy connects spiritually with Forster and listens to his confidences, he considers it rather futile to explain to him that he holds a different view on the evolution of the poetic idea.I like to think, taking my cue from a flag of convenience, that some of his poems, which focus on reminiscence and memory, are in essence veiled hints to Forster and reminders that he himself, the potent drinks of the heroes of pleasure, he set them in wax and honey, he transports them and does not embalm them as the enthusiastic and hasty harvesters of experiences do. Forster, understanding but not accepting such grandeur of the Alexandrian, will suffer even as a writer, in a story of the incorporation of erotic experiences into A Passage to India, a matter still unresolved in his literature.I hasten to assure you that my ignorance of basic rules of social behaviour prevents me from attaching great importance to Cavafy’s homoeroticism. For I consider the mamas, the narcissists, the maniacal football chasers, the charmers (certainly the model-chasers) and those with six-packs in gyms across the globe to be homoerotic as well. As a reader, I have never encountered more pleasurable writing or a more masculine pen than that of Constantine P. Cavafy.You know, whilst we modern Greek analysts are dying to ramble on about the differences between the left and progress, sticking labels, signs, fences and fiefdoms, on certain issues we feel single-minded, single-track, that is, narrow-minded: on the formation of the right-wing camp, on homosexuality and on the invention of a moral Nation. We consider it unacceptable to dwell on the minor or major variations of those who do not harmonise their libido with the realities of the child-bearing masses, but rather align it with them.  Relevant to my idea is the reaction of a well-known and flamboyant homosexual, many years ago, who was approached by a young man of letters and the arts to confide that he followed the same habits as the great man. He cut him off: ‘You’re not gay, my boy. You’re a f***er!’ I write this with some embarrassment, because the most talked-about of Forster’s letters, the twentieth in the volume, begins with ‘My dear Cavafy, you are a bad poet’ and concludes as follows: Would you like to see some of the reviews? If you are a good poet, I shall give them to you [ ] In any case, he sold us out like hot cakes. You’ll have to bear with me, but this sudden charm can only be understood in the way I’ve read the excerpts to you: in a brotherly manner. Any other interpretation smacks of hypocrisy. The temperament of these two creators needs no herald to be seen as coming from opposite ends of the spectrum. Jeffries, following meaningful evidence and working hypotheses regarding the fundamental question arising from the Correspondence, as to why the poet ultimately refused to present the public with a collection of his poems in English, he explores the matter by examining a wide range of factors, from Toynbee’s involvement in the publication—a figure unwelcome in the Greek world—to his pro-Kemal articles, the era of Smyrna and Afyon Karahisar, to the disagreements over the fidelity and style of the translators. However, there are even more glaring issues: Cavafy did not publish a collection of his poetry in book form, nor in the Greek version of his poems.The story of the ‘anti-Greek’ Toynbee resonates with the Greek public, who have a penchant for detecting hostility, extending this tradition to Jeremy Clarkson, but the publication was intended to glorify him among the English-speaking public. The victors. Those who dismantled the despotism under which he had lived for decades. The victors who inflicted unacceptable violence on the population of Alexandria, executing and imprisoning activists, with Cavafy deeply affected and stunned.It would have been impossible for him to present his work, drenched in honey and wrapped in wax, to a society that had, above all, contributed to the loss of his world. The world of the Romanians. The one that ceased to exist as geography and cities, as streets and passions, after 1923. The world after the Asia Minor catastrophe, with the population exchange, needed not a Homer, but a poet who translated the body’s memory into tangible words of pain, in imagination and in speech. Naturally, analysts who note Forster’s view of Alexandria—who regards the enduring Greek presence as analogous to the English intervention he detests—will have much to say about the Alexandrian’s proverbial nobility. And Forster was, in turn, gracious towards him, but in his work, characters such as Cavafy were precisely what he most sought to avoid in local communities. Cavafy may have started out like Forster, and may well have experienced similar moments of passion and intensity. But all he asked for, as he painstakingly crafted a magnificent, robust body of work, was to die without the slightest deviation from his Code and his Narrative. ‘Not even the slightest deviation,’ his Muse would say emphatically to Death. Who took him on a fateful day of his life. Forster lived a long life and died crowned with laurels in 1970. His relationship with the now deceased Cavafy will continue, thanks to the System and the Codes of a new student, Giorgos Savvidis, who will inform Mr Morgan about the part of the Cavafy archive relating to him. The new era in the study of Cavafy’s work is marked by the final letter in the volume: 25 July 1958. Forster to Giorgos Savvidis. The same enthusiastic tone, despite the decline of an octogenarian. I watch his movements in an interview on YouTube. An old man now. He was. He appears calm, composed, courteous. And I recall the poet’s sidelong glance—of whom I am merely a reader and admirer—shortly before he died, silent by necessity, yet truly expressive. Yes, they were utterly different. It has been five years since I last visited Alexandria. At the airport there, I happened to find myself among quite a few people imitating the photographs of Cavafy. Shiny hair or wigs with a wavy style, glasses like the poet’s, aged between 50 and 70, impeccably dressed, even dandies. And on the other side of passport control, well-behaved and laughing carefree with all their teeth showing, the mischievous youths of Alexandria. Posing as they thought the Code required. And in the days that followed, the same pseudo-Cavafians, in cafés, on walks and in chic hangouts with tourist-inspired hookahs and shisha, with the same young people. Only I saw, too, couples (boys from among those who had been playing with the so-called Kavafis girls, girls in burqas) in public spaces, early in the morning, schoolchildren before school engaging in the shade of the park and by the low fence, a quick stripping of flesh, completely unsuitable for precautions.George Savvidis is present, albeit in a slightly different guise, at today’s presentation in three forms. As the literary scholar who recognised the importance of a separate edition of Cavafy’s correspondence- Forster and took the necessary steps towards this, as the creator of the title of the book in question and because the shirt I am wearing is his, a kind gift from his son, who kindly thought that the robe does not make the priest, but the people have not expressed an opinion on what a shirt does to a non-philologist… Panos Theodoridis