I once had the incredible opportunity hear Susan Howe read to an intimate group of ten or so. Me and some close friends who were deep appreciators of Howe, were eager to hear her speak about her work. More childishly, we were eager to assess any resemblance she had to Samuel Beckett. Her long rumored status of being Beckett’s daughter, made us simply curious. Looking back, I’m embarrassed– that rumor is the least interesting (but, still interesting) part of Susan Howe’s world, though as one off those friends pointed out, Beckett and Howe do share a tormented and devoted relationship to language. Howe’s brilliance is a synergistic. My Emily Dickinson, Pierce-Arrow– these are books I’ve spent a little (but not enough) time with– and feature writing that is both in rigorous conversation with and totally inventing, a trademark of Howe. How does she do that? I’m always in awe. In the foreword to My Emily Dickinson, Howe write’s “Who’s order is shut inside the structure of a sentence?” Like Dickinson, Howe is on the fringe, building new forms that accommodate any answers that might arise from that question, the diversion of form itself becoming a version of scrutiny on male-dominated scholarship. Simple, but every time I read Susan Howe, I am reminded that as much as language is placed upon me, I can also place it.
-Mick Toma