Auden & JFK

I can't think of Auden without bringing to mind his poem Musee des Beaux Arts, which in turn brings up the Kennedy assassination. This is the poem we were studying in English class at Pasadena City College at 8 a.m. on November 22, 1963. A few hours later, stunned by the tragedy, I ran into the class' professor in the hallway, and we both said, almost in unison, "About suffering they were never wrong, the old masters..." Maybe it helped a little.

Here's a chapter from my recent novel.

The Old Masters, 1963

COMING DOWN THE HALLWAY, CJ ran into Henry, a graduate student in English, whom CJ knew from folk music circles. Henry's face was damp and swollen.

“About suffering they were never wrong, the Old Masters,” said Henry, his voice shaking.

“Is something wrong?”

Henry said, “How well they understood its human position. How it takes place while someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along.”

“Henry, what is it?”

“Auden.”

Suddenly Henry embraced him. He said something that was muffled against CJ's shoulder. CJ pulled back.

“They shot JFK,” said Henry.

The President died before CJ was able to get home to Helen, where they cried together. As painful as it was, they couldn't stop watching television. Helen called her parents. CJ called his mother. They stayed up too late and went to bed too drained and upset to make love.

Apparently a lone nut had killed the President, who in a few days would be killed himself on live television. CJ watched the rerun in horror. First, all the horrific beatings of Negroes in the south, and now this – what was the world coming to? Over a decade would pass before CJ began formulating an answer to the question, one that was far more terrifying than anything that had occurred to him at the time.

The story gets a little mystical as well but I've told it here before and don't have the time or energy to retell it now. Time to get to the university.