William Butler Yeats & Me: "A Postcard from the Beyond"

Fifty years ago, I was a regular book reviewer for the Washington Post's Book World section, a gig that lasted six years. Knowing of my Irish heritage, Book World made me their unofficial reviewer of Irish and Celtic material. Thus---in addition to books by Richard Price, Ann Beattie, W.S. Merwin, Ian McEwan, Kenneth Koch, Russell Banks, and others---I took on works by John McGahern, Benedict Kiely, Flann O'Brien, Seán O'Casey's widow Eileen, William Trevor, Neil Jordan, and a book by and  biography of Dylan Thomas. I even wrote a piece on county Galway, my mother's place of origin, for the Post's Travel section. But it was William Butler Yeats  (1865--1939) and his circle that got the most attention. I reviewed a biography of Maud Gonne, the poet's famous inamorata; the autobiography of Lady Gregory, Yeats's longtime patron; and William M. Murphy's monumental Prodigal Father, a biography of John Butler Yeats, the poet's father. 

Yeats in the U.S. in 1920

One night, in February of 1976, I came into possession of the most treasured book in my library. I got pretty carried away by its acquisition, basically turning it into an occult experience, in emulation of Yeats himself. Below is my slightly edited journal entry from back then about all this. I'm a bit embarrassed by some of the notions of my much younger self, but that's life. Doug Pell, old friend and music partner, was the guitar player in The Fast Flying Vestibule (ca. 1972--1977), the string band we both belonged to in the '70s. Doug Lang (1941--2022) was my very dear friend, and a great poet and person, originally from Wales. Back then, novelist Larry McMurtry (1936--2021) owned a second-hand bookstore in DC called Booked Up.

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February 15th 1976    Sunday night

All around me for weeks--- because of my work on the Lady Gregory review for the Washington Post----I have been involved with Yeats's writing. My desk is piled with books by and about him. I've re-read some of the poems and part of his autobiography; I've thought about Yeats--- his problems with Maud, his interest in the occult and supernatural. I've come to revere him, as a man and poet. Running around crazily---his questionable operation, late marriage, proposal to Maud's daughter. What a great man. Such character and life! Exclamation points are not my style, but that's how I feel about him. I have even prayed to him. As a poet, Irish, full of passion, I feel it is my right.

Today I went to Doug Pell's for practice. I was early, and stoned. To occupy myself, I began to examine Doug's meager library. He's not a man of books. I spotted an attractive item and pulled it off the shelf. It was The Wheel of Rebirth by H.K. Challoner, published by the Theosophical Society. I asked what he was doing with it, since Doug is earth-bound, practical. He said Irene, his erstwhile girlfriend, had left it there. He told me I could have it if I wanted it. I said great.

I continued browsing and was even more surprised to discover an old edition of The Wind Among the Reeds, one of Yeats's early books of poems. It was a first American edition published in 1905. Again I asked him what he was doing with such a book. He was amused by my interest and said once more that Irene had left it and I could have it. I was delighted. I said that in return for the books he could forget about the ounce of dope he owes me. He hadn't expected that and was pleased.

The Yeats book is in very good shape and is quite pretty. Doug Lang came by my apartment as soon as I got back from practice and I showed him the book. Then, looking at it again, I took closer note of the inscription, which I had passed over before. I couldn't believe what I saw, or thought I saw---the signature seemed to be "WB Yeats." The inscription was bland---"Not responsible for this cover either." It is dated "April 5, 1920."

I was amazed. A book of his poems signed by Yeats himself! At first I thought it must be a hoax, a joke. But I was excited. I thought, skeptically, what would Yeats be doing signing a book of his that was over 20 years old at the time? It is doubtful he had old copies of his early books around to give away. Then I did some quick detective work. I checked a chronology of his life and it turns out he was on an American tour in 1920

With Doug Lang thinking along with me, we theorized that some fan of Yeats's (maybe Irene's grandmother?), at an American lecture, asked him to sign a copy of one of his old books that he or she had on hand. Yeats, not liking the looks perhaps of this early American edition, apologized for the book. This would explain the inscription, as well as its impersonal nature.

The inscription seems too authentic, too off the cuff, to be a hoax. 

Tomorrow I will take it to Larry McMurtry and see if he can determine if it's genuine. And I'll probably have to settle some more with Doug Pell if it is.

I am very excited by this find. It is like getting a postcard from the Beyond. It's magic (I've had Yeats's essay on magic next to my bed for weeks, reading little bits and pieces of it). I see all kinds of connections The main nouns in both books start with W and R. It is maybe Yeats contacting me and advising me to read the book on rebirth (and rebirth is a crucial part of the Saul Bellow novel, which I'm currently absorbed in). That's crazy, but so is this whole thing, so is life. It has been the influence of Yeats that has made me feel more drawn to the occult and supernatural. This book seems to me a message out of the blue that confirms the validity of that interest.

Doug Pell and Terence Winch at the Village Vanguard, NYC, Sept. 1987; right--Doug Lang and TW, June 2019, Silver Spring, MD.

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POSTSCRIPT:

I did take the book to McMurtry the next day. He authenticated Yeats's signature and made me an offer I could refuse: $60. Nice try, Larry. Doug Pell has gone on to become a voracious reader, and I threw in the gift of a tenor guitar back then to supplement the oz. of weed as recompense for the book. Meanwhile, Yeats and I have drifted apart over the years, and he has completely stopped trying to contact me. 

 

©Terence Winch  
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