I went ahead and purchased it. The experience turned out to be truly remarkable. It’s interesting how I sought advice from friends who, just like me, infamously disregard their own book-buying restrictions. It’s reminiscent of when I reach out to my friend about whether to indulge in a trendy pair of shoes.
To summarize, Nox is a memoir crafted by Anne Carson following the passing of her estranged brother. The disconnection between them lasted for years, and she only learned of his demise weeks after it occurred, as it took his widow considerable time to find Anne’s contact information. The foundational theme of the work draws on a poem by Catullus, where he makes his way to his brother’s grave, arriving long after the passing had occurred. The beauty of the poem presents a challenge in translation due to its essential rhythm, although Anne Carson passionately attempts it towards the conclusion of her book.
In her work If Not, Winter, which features translations of Sappho, Anne Carson revealed her affinity for literary fragments. Nox mirrors this quality by presenting a collage of snippets: fragments of letters from her brother, fleeting phrases from their sparse conversations, childhood photographs of them together, and brief references from sources like Herodotus and haiku. As with If Not, Winter, she leaves readers pondering the voids, creating a shared experience of curiosity.
Each page in Nox incorporates a solitary word derived from the Catullus poem, formatted akin to a dictionary entry. At a certain point, Carson explores the duality of “entry” —both as a dictionary term and a metaphorical entrance into deeper understanding of her brother. What initially appears to be a straightforward definition of “mutam” unfolds into something more complex under Carson’s exploration. She shares examples like “mutum dico, I do not say a word; tempus magis mutum a litteris, there was a better reason for not writing,” accompanied by a poignant reflection on their fragmented communication.
During my college years, I attended a rather mundane philosophy of art class, where we pondered a potential definition of art as something intentionally crafted to express emotion. While this may not be the sole definition, it fits Carson’s work; Nox emerges as a meticulously assembled experience rather than merely a written piece. It feels more like an artifact, straddling the line between art and everyday life. I have a fondness for borderline art forms that exist between traditional mediums; Nox encapsulates the essence of a book, a personal journal, and a mixed-media artwork.
As I immersed myself in Nox over several night-long readings, I found myself profoundly grateful to my inspiring Latin professor, who introduced me to numerous Catullus poems in their original language. Her passion for Latin left an indelible mark on me, and her voice resonates in my mind with every Latin text I approach. Nox struck a chord with me because Catullus has occupied my thoughts for years, eternally professing his complex love for Lesbia and traversing lands and seas to bid farewell to his long-lost brother.
It’s worth noting that one doesn’t need prior exposure to Catullus to appreciate Nox. The narrative is inherently beautiful and mournful, enhanced by Carson’s eventual translation of the poem.
In a related note, did you know that Cinderella’s mouse companion is actually named Gus-Gus Octavius? Just a humorous detail! (The connection being Octavius as in Caesar Augustus.) It was a revelation that I wouldn’t have discovered on my own, since I view Cinderella as overly sentimental and have no desire to revisit it. However, learning this Octavius fact gives me a slightly warmer feeling towards the tale.
