Hurtin', Leavin', and Longin' (49)—It Would Be You

Click here to read the introduction to the Round and Square series "Hurtin', Leavin', and Longin'..."
One year ago on Round and Square (29 April 2011)—Francis Parkman and the Oregon Trail

[a] Like You RF

It's hard describing stuff—any stuff. This is something that has bothered storytellers throughout the world, and from time immemorial. Yes, even Grog struggled around the campfire to tell just how big the mastodon was, how sharp his tusks were, and how woolly the sky appeared as it loomed over him on the savannah. Years later, Melville struggled with a whale of a narrative challenge. Call him Ishmael (and alliterative).

The world is too big and language is too small. That is the nature of language...and the world. How do we handle it? Maybe we just need to simile and put the best face on a difficult situation. 

Our songwriters (Robbins and Oglesby) put us right into the middle of that problem today. Take a listen to Gary Allen, who is trying to describe a heartache. He doesn't know it, but he has a peculiar condition—indeed, a postmodern condition. Paging Dr. Foucault—the prognosis isn't looking good.

It Would Be You 2:55

      It Would Be You
        Songwriter: Kent M. Robbins and Dana Hunt Oglesby
        Artist: Gary Allen

[b] Like cold RF

It's hard describing a heartache
Because it's a one of a kind thing
A serious injury
And a whole lot of endless pain
If it was a storm
I'd compare to a hurricane
Oh it's even got a name

Chorus
If it was a drink
It would be a strong one
If it was a sad song
It would be a long one
If it was a color
It would be a deep deep blue
But if we're talking about a heartache
It would be you

If it was a full moon
It would be a total eclipse
If it was a tidal wave
It would sink a thousand ships
If it was a blizzard
It would be a record breaking cold
If it was a lie
It would be the biggest story you've ever told

Repeat Chorus

If it was a color
It would be a deep deep blue
But if we're talking about a heartache
It would be you

***  ***

[c] Like winter (almost) RF

There is a big world out there, and language can't render it precisely. We keep trying, though, and usually end up lost somewhere in the semiotic river beds of metaphor. 

A is like B. 

It Would Be You is a little exploration of the country world of metaphor. No, I am not claiming that it is particularly deep. In fact, it doesn't scrape too far down into the lyrical topsoil with its renderings of full moons, tidal waves, and blizzards. Yes, the song pretty much is the title (the "chorus line") and that is the point. If we're talking 'bout a heartache...that would be you.

Much though I would like the lyrics to have braved the icy waters of metonymy and even synecdoche, (with a heartier dash of polysemy for good measure) it steers instead a middle course through the metaphorical Doldrums. Again, if you think my critical response means I don't like the song, think again. Shallow has its merits when it comes to hurtin', you see. Worldly description is one thing; personal pain is another, and highfalutin synecdochal renderings just aren't necessary. It's almost as though Gary Allen wades through knee-deep language all of the way until he has immediacy. And that, quite simply, would be you.

So to speak.

***  ***

Heartache and the imprecision of language (not to mention rhyme, rhythm, and metaphor/metonymy/synecdoche) were well-traveled concepts in East Asia, too. For this week's juxtaposition, I have chosen a snatch of prose from Matsuo Bashō's Narrow Road of the Interior. It describes a scene the poet cannot but render in superlatives. It also shows some of the limits of such description, even when rendered by one of the greatest poets the world has seen and heard.

The Narrow Road of the Interior
Matsuo Bashō (1689)

[d] Shore RF

Noon was already approaching when we engaged a boat for the crossing to Matsushima, a distance of a little more than two leagues. We landed at Ojima Beach.

Trite though it may seem to say so, Matsushima is the most beautiful spot in Japan, by no means inferior to Dongting Lake or West Lake. The sea enters from the southeast into a bay extending for three leagues, its waters as ample as the flow of the Zhejiang Bore. There are more islands than anyone could count. The tall ones rear up as though straining the sky; the flat ones crawl on their bellies over the waves. Some seem made of two layers, others of three folds. To the left, they appear separate; to the right, linked. Here and there, one carries another on its back or cradles it in its arms, as though caring for a beloved child or grandchild. The pines are deep green in color, and their branches, twisted by the salt gales, have assumed natural shapes so dramatic that they seem the work of human hands. The tranquil charm of the scene suggests a beautiful woman who has just completed here toilette. Truly Matsushima might have been made by Ōyamazumi in the ancient age of the might gods! What painter can reproduce, what author can describe the wonder of the creator's divine handiwork?

Ojima Island projects into the sea just offshore from the mainland. It is the site of the Venerable Ungo's dwelling, and of the rock on which that holy many used to practice meditation. There also seemed to be a few recluses living among the pine trees. Upon seeing smoke rising from a fire of twigs and pine cones at one peaceful thatched hut, we could not help approaching the spot, even though we had no way of knowing what kind of man the occupant might be. Meanwhile, the moon began to shine on the water, transforming the scene from its daytime appearance.

We returned to the Matsushima shore to engage lodgings—a second-story room with a window on the sea. What marvelous exhilaration to spend the night so close to the wind and clouds! Sora recited this:
               matsushima ya                                   Ah, Matsushima!
          tsuru ni mi o kare                              Cuckoo, you ought to borrow
               hototogisu                                          the guise of the crane.

I remained silent, trying without success to compose myself for sleep. At the time of my departure from the old hermitage, Sodō and Hara Anteki had given me poems about Matsushima and Matsu-ga-urashima (the one in Chinese and the other in Japanese), and I got them out of my back now to serve as companions for the evening. I also had some hokku, compositions by Sanpū and Jokushi.

[f] Like stuff RF

Notes
[1] Helen Craig McCullough [translator and editor], Classical Japanese Prose: An Anthology (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1990), 535-536. 
Bibliography  
McCullough, Helen Craig [translator and editor]. Classical Japanese Prose: An Anthology (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1990.

NEXT
Sunday, May 13th
Mama Tried
Two weeks from now, we will celebrate Mother's Day (and Beloit College's commencement) with a little downer of a Merle Haggard tune.