Alfred, Lord Tennyson: In Memoriam

In the interest of actually reading all the books I pretended to have read during college--some of which I wrote papers on--I picked up this rather imposing item. It was slow going, and hopelessly obscure in points, but altogether worth reading again. Tennyson seemingly sets out to capture the overwhelming loss of his bosom companion, but realizes in the telling that "words, like Nature, half reveal / half conceal the Soul within" (V). Tennyson consistently acknowledges that he is only drawing from the "topmost froth of thought", but doesn't seem to be bothered by the inescapable inadequacy of his writing (LII). He writes, not to explain or to justify, but because it is impossible for the geyser of sorrow he holds to remain unexpressed.

Tennyson fails, therefore, in successfully conveying his desperation to me. By dwelling meticulously on several key things that point to that which is itself unrecordable, however, he succeeds in conveying something more valuable. In his effort to at least adumbrate his grief, he paints such shiveringly lyrical pictures of Love, Friendship, and God that I find myself caring as little as he does that grief remains unexpressed.

I have coined the term "thoughtgasms" specifically to describe my experience while reading In Memoriam. Some passages are so plangent and alive that I experienced a physical shudder while reading them. For example:

Perplext in faith, but pure in deeds,
At least he beat his music out.
There lives more faith in honest doubt,
Believe me, than in half the creeds (XCVI).

If I were to die at this moment, this is what I would choose for my epitaph.