Wednesday, March 31, 2021

Dewey D. Wallace (January 8, 1936 - February 4, 2021)


(This piece announcing the death of my father first appeared as a Facebook post on February 5, 2021. I'm posting it here so that it is more readily available.)

Now that immediate family has been notified, I just wanted to let people know that my father, Dewey Diaz Wallace, Jr. passed away late morning on Thursday February 4 from a variety of physical ailments not related to COVID. He was 85 years old.

I have many things to say about him, but one it occurred to me to share now: when he was visiting his own father at the time he was passing, in 1987, several days before my grandfather died he recited to my father “the whole of William Cullen Bryant’s ‘Thanatopsis,’” as my father said, a poem about the meaning and implications of death first published in 1817. It may have been written as early as 1811, when Bryant was only seventeen years old.

My grandfather had been required as a boy in school to memorize the poem, when he was somewhere between 6 and 10 years old, and at the age of 89 he could apparently recall the poem from memory.

I don’t think that in American public schools we ask young children anymore to memorize poems about the meaning of death, and that’s a good thing, but the family story has remained with me as an example of the power of memory even and perhaps especially at the point of death. On my final visit to my father, I have no idea what was going through his mind, but I think it’s safe to say that memory and dying are experiences more powerful than the living can comprehend. One of the few public lectures I heard my father give was on the subject of the power of mystery, and I learned from him, and from my grandfather, and from many others too, that death is a powerful and mysterious part of what it means to have lived at all. Curiously, although Bryant’s poem belongs to a world view that has faded, the message of his poem is close to that exact same one.

Bryant's poem can be found here:

Tuesday, March 30, 2021

My Father's College and Graduate School Papers

Pictured: Oliver Hall at Whitworth University, which was Whitworth College when my father attended.

I continue to find interesting things among my parents’ remaining property, which I have spent part of most weekends sifting through since my father passed away. Finding things of interest makes the process more bearable.

This time, it’s a set of my father’s papers he wrote as an undergraduate and a graduate student, all of them typewritten, mostly on onion skin paper, and each placed into individual three-hole folders. The list of them may not be interesting to most people, but I find it useful to see something of what my father studied in school. Here they are.

Dad’s college and grad school papers, from Whitworth College, Princeton Divinity School, and/or the Princeton Ph.D. program in religious studies:

Dated Papers:

“The Origin and Development of Greek Tragedy,” Dec 14, 1953, English Composition, Mrs. Eacker.

“The Symbolist School of French Poetry, “ May 1956 in the course Twentieth Century Poetry. Professor’s comment: “First-rate analysis which illuminates without oversimplifying!”

“A Psychological Study of Conversion,” April 10, 1957 in the course Psychology of Religion.

“An Exegesis of Ezekiel 33:12-20” with An Introduction to Ezekiel and An Essay on Ezekiel’s Eschatological Views, Dec 2, 1958, in the course Hebrew Prophets with Exegesis, Dr. Armstrong.

“The Doctrine of God’s Incomprehensibility According to Clement of Alexandria, The Cappaducian Fathers, and Chrysostom,” May 26, 1959, in the course Greek Patristics, Dr. Barrios

Undated papers:

“The Epistle of James and Wisdom Literature: Evidence of Relationship” (no date). Instructor’s comment: “Excellent. This is what I mean by a research paper.”

“Milton’s God” (no date).

“John Keats and Religion” (no date)

“The ‘Improvement’ of Baptism and The Meaning of History Lies Always in the Present”.

“Book Reviews” (no date). Reviews of Irrational Man by William Barrett and Kierkegaard’s Philosophy of Religion by Reidar Thomte,

“An Exegesis of Titus 2:11-14” (no date).

“Hebrews 13-8 With Reference to Christological Controversies” (no date).

“Tertullian’s Concept of Apostolic Tradition” (no date).

“The Use of Scripture in Gregory of Nazianus” (no date).

“The Understanding of Christian Salvation in the Post-Reformation Era” in the course Post-Reformation Doctrine taught by Dr. Hope (no date).

“William Jennings Bryan and His Part in Political Liberalism” (no date).

Thursday, March 25, 2021

Jefferson Hansen Thinks Along With The End of America, Book 15


Jefferson Hansen, a poet, fiction writer, and essayist, as well as my longtime friend and frequent collaborator, has written a brief essay in which he thinks through some of the issues raised in reading The End of America, Book 15. I hope you'll take a few minutes to read it and think along with him too:

Wednesday, March 10, 2021

Now available: The End of America, Book 15, by Mark Wallace


My new little book, The End of America, Book Fifteen, is now available.

The End of America, Book Fifteen is a long poem exploring the cityscape of San Diego, California as it appeared between September 2015 and May 2016. Apartment complexes, streets, yards, cranes, boats, bicycles, windows, coffee shops: the poem moves through these and other constructions of the landscape and encounters the creatures, human and other, who live among them. The poem's meditative tone creates a calm into which deceptive or dangerous realities are always threatening to break. The observer is both separated from and entangled in the strangeness of place. "Every image falls short of a description of what's there, dusty green towel in the dirt, hawk overhead."

Price: $9.99

Publisher: Glovebox Poems

Pages: 46

Dimensions: 5.5 X 8.5 X 0.11 inches | 0.0 pounds

Language: English

Type: Paperback

EAN/UPC: 9781943899135

Please support independent booksellers and order this book from Bookshop:

The book can also be found on Amazon:

Or through my Amazon Author Page:

Thursday, August 27, 2020

It Takes a Culture to Create A 17-Year Old White Supremacist Killer Loose In The Streets With An Assault Rifle

A 17-year old white supremacist killer loose in the streets with an assault rifle isn’t just born; he has to be made. It’s not nature, it’s nurture.

Some or all of the following features also have to be in place:

Parents and other family members and caregivers who are racist and who encourage the use of weapons OR who are in the dark about their child’s activities OR are unable to do anything about it or get any help regarding it.

Media groups and social media groups promoting white racism and who directly or indirectly in various degrees advocate that it’s okay and even good for white people to take up weapons against non-white people. Decades of such media groups have helped raise new generations of violent white supremacists.

Racist neighbors who often share around the neighborhood their attitudes and the information they have heard on media supporting those attitudes.

Easy availability and access to high-powered weaponry for private citizens.

A peer group of others who encourage each other and share behaviors and attitudes. It never hurts to have a few good pals egging you on to kill people! One of the great things about social media is that it helps people find like-minded others.

People in positions of prominence in business and government and news who passively or actively encourage racist hate. It never hurts to have power on your side, and if that includes the President of the U.S. and a prominent political party, how cool is that?!

Police forces on the streets who see a young white man on the streets with a rifle and immediately identify him as someone on their side.

Higher ups in law enforcement who themselves might be actively involved in white supremacy or who encourage it through their actions or speak up in ways that seem to support it.

A minor who is just twisted and abandoned or coddled enough to actually follow through on what many people around him have encouraged him to do and try to make himself a hero by killing people who have done nothing to him or to anyone he knows.

Monday, August 17, 2020

The French Face of Edgar Poe


I sometimes enjoy reading outdated books of literary criticism because I find myself learning more from them, sometimes in unexpected ways, than I do from contemporary literary criticism, whose concerns I find more predictable. It’s not that older books of criticism were more freewheeling in their approaches; it’s just that the expectations of my own time period are more apparent to me. The jolt of strangeness that comes from historically bypassed points-of-view often allows me to think about a topic in (for me) an unexpected way.

The French Face of Edgar Poe by Patrick F. Quinn was published in 1953 and has been republished a number of times since, with the last version appearing in 1975 as far as I know. Quinn wrote at least one other book on Poe and edited a number of additions of Poe’s writing. My version contains acknowledgements that he wrote from Wellesley College in 1956.

Quinn is writing in a context in which he takes it for granted that American literary critics and scholars don’t consider Poe a serious writer of literature. In fact Quinn himself admits he started his research for this book with much the same perspective. How could it be that so many excellent French writers, Charles Baudelaire above all, have taken Poe to be a serious writer when all smart American critics know that he’s just a creator of cheap illusions and manipulative thrills? Quinn writes that over the course of his research he learned to his surprise that the reason so many French writers have lauded Poe is because Poe actually is a great writer. Who knew?! Not American literary critics as late as the 1950s, obviously.

The book tells the interesting story of the self-identification with Poe made by Baudelaire (who, Quinn assumes, all American critics think of as a great writer), followed by Baudelaire’s work translating Poe and his attempt to make Poe a well-known name in France. Sometimes Baudelaire’s promotion of Poe worked and sometimes it didn’t, but eventually it led to a greater acceptance of Poe’s greatness by the French.

According to Quinn, Baudelaire was never able to articulate in worthwhile critical terms what he so admired in Poe. His comments remained mostly on the level of identifying himself and his writing with Poe and asserting Poe’s greatness to others. In fact, according to Quinn, it wasn’t until Marie Bonaparte’s two-volume study Edgar Poe was published in Paris in 1933 that some worthwhile critical reasons were finally established in France to define Poe’s greatness.

And those reasons were ? Wait for it. Bonaparte seems to have recognized that Poe had fascinating insights into… human psychology! Only they might not have been insights exactly, Quinn writes, since Bonaparte treats Poe and his writing mostly as a psychological example and thinks of Poe’s writing as more or less autobiographical. Poe’s writing according to Bonparte might be considered largely a symptom of his problems in life.

The idea that literature presented psychological interest, especially any interest having to do with the field of psychoanalysis, was not something that American critics were apparently prepared to admit in the 50s. Quinn’s ironic comment describing this becomes filled, in the present, with ironies that Quinn never anticipated:

“In his review of the (Bonaparte) book, Edmond Jaloux called it the most important critical study of Poe ever written in France. And he added the interesting qualification that this holds true quite apart from the veracity of the particular psychological theory which Mme Bonaparte employs.

“Thus he forestalled a common objection; for the theory employed is psychoanalysis, and when that word comes up in a literary context it is usually considered good form to knit one’s brow and show signs of impatience. Often enough, perhaps, this stock response is the right one” (20).

In other words, in the eyes of American critics, if Poe only becomes of interest through a psychoanalytic approach, and psychoanalysis is really more or less a joke, then Poe can hardly have written interesting literature. But that argument fails if Bonaparte has still made important points about Poe even though her theoretical perspective can’t be taken seriously.

Psychoanalysis is ludicrous and yet, somehow, something interesting about Poe still results from using it.

Thus, according to Quinn, because the French were able to see the value in psychoanalytical readings of literature, they realized the importance of Poe before Americans, who rejected psychoanalytical readings. But, he reminds readers, let’s not take this point so far that we actually start finding psychoanalysis useful except in rare cases.

75 years after the publication of The French Face of Edgar Poe, American literary scholars are still often skeptical of anything that seems too psychological. The American way highlights the movements of exteriors.

Quinn’s book goes on to explore the effect of Poe in France through several methods. He looks at the ongoing history of French critical response to Poe, with an eye out for the ways that the criticism might have falsely inflated Poe’s reputation. He details the history of Baudelaire’s translations of Poe and examines in minute detail the ways in which he thinks Baudelaire’s translations might have altered Poe and made the French translations superior to Poe in English. As it turns out, Flinn thinks some of Baudelaire’s word choices were improvements on Poe’s originals but others were less effective. Thus, he concludes that Poe in Baudelaire’s translations is on the whole no better than Poe in English. Quinn also looks for the reasons that Baudelaire strongly identified with Poe and finds some key biographical similarities, primarily struggles against a wealthy foster father and a feeling of being betrayed or abandoned by their mothers. Both also faced terrible financial struggles and died young (Poe at 40, Baudelaire at 46).

Quinn tries his best to be scrupulously honest in examining the possible arguments that the French have been wrong about Poe, but he comes to the opposite conclusion. The French, he writes, actually had good reasons often for admiring Poe. And therefore the reasons that American critics have often dismissed the greatness of this American writer turn out to be not defensible.

Defining and defending Poe’s greatness to American critics on the grounds defined by French writers is really the heart of the book. Quinn wants Americans to know that Edgar Allan Poe did in fact write some great works.

Poe’s poems aren’t very good, Quinn says, and many of his tales aren’t very good either, but the best ones are fantastic and create a whole new approach to characterization, one that focuses on obsession and doubleness (doppelgangers). It’s fascinating, Quinn thinks, that Baudelaire essentially considered himself something of a doppelganger of Poe. Baudelaire thus played out, in his life, one of Poe’s key themes.

The later chapters of the book, in which Quinn does a close analysis of some Poe works, are not that interesting, or at least not to me. He provides a precise look at details in Poe’s stories through what now seem either obvious or outdated (take your pick in many cases) assumptions. Still, Quinn seems to have been one of the first American scholars to analyze Poe’s novel The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym in much detail. He places the work aside Melville’s Moby Dick and comes to the conclusion that there are many similar approaches and themes, or at least ones that can be juxtaposed fruitfully. His underlying point: if Poe and Melville have worthwhile similarities, and American critics love Melville and hate Poe, then they must be wrong about Poe.

One insight that I did find quite useful even now is Quinn’s idea that Poe’s works are poised often on the boundary between dream and reality, living in neither one fully but veering from one to the other without ever quite occupying either. It is Poe’s exploration of dream life, Quinn says, that makes Poe an important precursor to French Surrealism (254-55).

What I learned most from this book was more about history, including the history of literary criticism, than anything about how one might do literary criticism now. The book shows how Poe became considered the way he was in France and why American critics and scholars dismissed him. Quinn’s book is part of that history: he positions himself to be the American scholar defining the greatness of Poe in a way that American scholars will have to accept.

I wanted to write this piece partly because the old paperback version of this book I had fell apart while I was reading it. In a house that has too many books, this one isn’t such a classic that I need to keep it. But I did learn enough from it that I wanted to write about it. That alone proves to me the value of the book, however much its assumptions belong to a critical environment that has vanished.

Thursday, July 16, 2020

Marion Wallace (May 30, 1935 - July 15, 2020)

Goodbye, Mom. I love you. That’s what I always said to her in later years when I left where my parents were living or hung up the phone after a call.

I wanted to let people know who didn’t already that my mother passed away peacefully this week due to a variety of health complications connected mostly to her longtime respiratory difficulties (not related to COVID-19). She was living at Sunrise of Sabre Springs in Poway, California, the assisted living facility where she and my father moved in the summer of 2018 to be in the San Diego area nearer to me and other family. My father was with her at the end and she received helpful care from many at the facility and also from my wonderful aunt, Joan Comer, my father’s sister, who lives at Sunrise also. With careful precautions I was able to visit her for one long afternoon in her final week, and my brother and I spoke to her every day on the phone. We told her how much we loved her.

Born Marion Allen in Elizabeth, New Jersey, she was the daughter of an engineer who worked for General Electric. Because of his job they moved a great deal and she lived in a number of places, most notably Cincinnati, Ohio and Richland, Washington. Her parents later lived in other places including Oklahoma City, Springfield, Massachusetts and the New Jersey Eastern Shore.

She met my father at Whitworth College in Spokane, Washington, a Christian college associated with the Presbyterian Church. They were married in 1957, a marriage that lasted for 63 years in which they both remained devoted to each other. She and my father soon moved to Princeton New Jersey when he enrolled in seminary school there and, later, in graduate school as a historian of religious history. In Princeton and nearby, my mother worked as a 3rd grade school teacher and in various offices while my father completed his education

When I was a year old my parents moved to Washington, D.C. when my father became a university professor at The George Washington University, where he worked for 50 years. My mother eventually stopped working outside the home and devoted many hours of labor to the care of me and my younger brother Paul. Within a few years my parents had moved to a house in Kensington, Maryland, about seven miles north of D.C.

My mother loved listening to music and playing the piano and for awhile invited other women in the neighborhood who also loved music to play music with her at our house. We had a baby grand piano in the living room that she played for many years.

Unfortunately, the second half of my mother’s life was affected by a series of ailments, especially respiratory ones, that often left her in struggling health and could make it difficult for her to be outside. In her final years she suffered from significant memory loss although even in her last days she still remembered many people from the earlier parts of her life.

She always took a keen interest in the life of the world around her, although she ventured outside less over time. In her later years in Kensington she loved to watch the life of the neighborhood and became particularly attuned to the life of animals who were part of that neighborhood: birds of all kinds, squirrels, and occasional deer who would come leaping through our backyard. Most of all she loved the rabbits that were common in spring and summer.

My mother’s main values were kindness and generosity. Everyone who met her, most often at our house, was struck by the interest she took in them and the friendliness with which she welcomed them even at times when she was not feeling that well.

Sad to say, she was well acquainted with human tragedy. Her beloved younger brother Bobby died under unclear circumstances (unclear at least to me; I don’t know what anybody else knew or knows) when he was 28. Her Aunt Alice took lifelong care of her own son Lee, and when Alice passed away, no one else in the family ever knew what happened to Lee. My mother helped raise her youngest siblings, about 15 years younger than her. She was profoundly affected when one of them, Cynthia, passed away about a decade ago after living with her husband and daughter in western Pennsylvania and working for some years as a trucker.

I always wished that someone would write something from my mother’s perspective on the world. Although I’ve certainly never tried it, her influence is still all over my own writing. I learned a great deal from her about the behavior of many people, and her understanding of human motivation was often striking. She could tell startling and sometimes, I have to admit, harrowing stories that made clear what conflicts people wrestled with and what unexpected things could happen to them.

She is survived by her husband Dewey, by her brother Bruce, and by both of her sons, me and my younger brother Paul. I miss her very much and can hear, and will always continue to hear, her voice.