Hello from the past. I’m writing this entry at Day’s Coffee on April 12, a few hours before I’ll be playing at Holsopple with Scott. This will be my sixth or seventh time playing there, and fourth as a duo. Holsopple is one of my favorite places to play—it’s a friendly and comfortable stage to try new things and not take ourselves too seriously. If you came to see us play today, thank you!
I’m writing in advance of Sunday May 5, when I intend this to be published, because I don’t know exactly what my life will look like later this month. Kailyn and I are expecting our daughter to be born mid-May, though we’ve been preparing for her to be early—because if we didn’t, she would be.
I’ve never been particularly good at navigating huge changes in my life; things like this feel like staring at a brick wall and trying to guess what’s on the other side. That’s not to say I’m not looking forward to being a parent—I am; but without being able to visualize the “new normal”, it’s hard to know what exactly I’m excited (or worried) about.
It’s like an amplification of the anxiety I feel at New Years. Hanging a blank calendar on the wall simultaneously fills me with dread of all the unknown possible futures, and melancholy for all the expectations of the previous year—I’m a sentimental person. It takes a while to settle in and acclimate to the movements of a new year, even if they are ostensibly the same as the last. Sometimes something as simple as turning a calendar page can take a psychological toll.
In researching the pieces of Rubáiyát history I wanted to cover in this post, I came across a book called Century’s End, by historian Hillel Schwartz. First published in 1996, Century’s End is billed as “an orientation manual for the year 2000”. Schwartz wrote that the Y2K fervor that engulfed the world in the 20th century was nothing but the latest in a long line of manias coinciding with the ends of centuries. He details events throughout history occurring in the final decades of a century, which led to the distress and collective insanity of civilization.
“[N]othing would be so foolish as to claim that all events of import occur at century’s end. Natural disasters do not cluster naturally around the ‘90s. Nor do wars. Economies do not crash because it is the fin de siècle, nor do empires have the presence of mind to collapse in ’99. […] What does happen must be anticlimactic—[…] when they are passed, we look back upon them with sadness and relief: sadness for moments unseized as well as for dreams momentarily unbounded; relief that the apocalypses were, if any, minor and manageable. Then, generations down the road, we come upon another century’s end, and such is the might of the numbers looming on the horizon that we seem to have learned nothing from the last fin de siècle except to enlarge the troublesome problem of when, exactly, the hundred years will be over.”
Anno Domini, the Year of Our Lord, was first recorded in the 6th century by an Eastern Roman monk, Dionysius Exiguus. One accepted reason for its creation was to assuage fears of the end of the world, which many believed would occur in the 500th year after Jesus’s birth, and was imminent according to the previous measure of time. Over the next centuries, A.D. was adopted by different kingdoms scattered across Christendom (with notable recent converts being Portugal in the 15th century, and the Russian Empire in the 18th).
As the use of Anno Domini expanded, synchronicity gave apocalyptic forecasts a wider audience. Gone were prophecies of 6000 Anno Mundi, or 5000 in the Hebrew calendar—dates observed by a minority; now fears mounted over 1095 AD, 1688 AD, 1900 AD, 2000 AD.
Sure, the English-speaking world in the Victorian Era may not have been waiting around for the end of the world, but they were waiting around for the end of the world as they knew it. After the seismic shifts of the Napoleonic Wars and early Industrial Revolution, Victorians were presented with massive swaths of uncharted cultural territory, which they navigated delicately and self-consciously. While change was inevitable, the rate of change in the 19th century was astounding, and posed a real threat to the hierarchies that had created and hitherto governed Victorian society. The Western world over was brimming with anxiety for the future and longing for the past, unified in its disinterest in the present.
And now for the Rubáiyát.
Edward FitzGerald first published his poetic translation of The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám in 1859 to little fanfare. As the story goes, the book sold exactly zero copies in its first edition until 1861 when a copy was gifted to Dante Gabriel Rosetti, a founding member of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. Rosetti passed the book along to his contemporaries, among whom it became a sensation.
The Pre-Raphaelites were artists and poets, deeply influenced by the ideals of early Romanticism, which had its origins in the apparent rejection of modernity—especially as it pertained to industrialization and urbanization. As such, they fostered infatuation with fantastical, pastoral, and courtly imagery which recalled an idyllic past that never was. In part, their rejection of English modernity also fed into excitement about the exotic. Orientalism played a major part in many fin de siècle movements, ironically helped along by the fact that modern technology made travel to far-flung regions of the British Empire easier than ever. Thus, Edward FitzGerald’s Rubáiyát—a medieval Near Eastern poem written with a Victorian English audience in mind—enjoyed incredible success once Rosetti sounded the alarm.
The Rubáyát teems with imagery of renewal—spring (and springtime celebrations like Nowruz and Easter), blooming roses, and the sunrise are a few symbols prominently employed to evoke the newness of life. But the text minces no words about death either: that slow but certain march of time will eventually come to an end for us all. A virtuous life led in the hopes of a heavenly reward will end just the same as one led in sin; and a life spent pondering the afterlife will yield no more answers than one spent in ignorance. Why waste the life we know we have striving for something which is not guaranteed? And should this life be the only one, why should we want anything from it but to be satisfied? Though Omar Khayyám himself would likely not have signed off on it, the lesson many Victorians took from the Rubáiyát was one of urgency, but also indifferent agnosticism, resulting in an endorsement of hedonism which resounded through the Western world.
Ah, my beloved, fill the Cup that clears
To-day of past Regrets and future Fears—
To-morrow? Why, To-morrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday’s Sev’n Thousand Years.
Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss’d
Of the Two Worlds so learnedly, are thrust
Like foolish Prophets forth, their Words to Scorn
Are scatter’d, and their Mouths are stopt with Dust.
Dreaming when Dawn’s Left Hand was in the Sky
I heard a Voice within the Tavern cry,
“Awake, my Little ones, and fill the Cup
Before Life’s Liquor in its Cup be dry.”
By the turn of the century, the Rubáiyát had leapt outside of hedonistic salons and university campuses and into the mainstream. And as with any prominent cultural moment, parodies abounded. Some were satire, commentary, or advertising; but some were just good-natured fun, lacking the depth that drew so many to the original poem while offering the same reprieve from the troubled outside world. One of my favorite examples of the latter is Oliver Herford’s 1904 Rubáiyát of a Persian Kitten. (For more examples, click here.)
Herford, 1904:
‘Twas that reviving Herb, that Spicy Weed,
The Cat-Nip. Tho’s ‘tis good in time of need,
Ah, feed upon it lightly, for who knows
To what unlovely antics it may lead.
Some for the Glories of the Sole, and Some
Mew for the proper Bowl of Milk to come.
Ah, take the fish and let your Credit go,
And plead the rumble of an empty Tum
FitzGerald, 1859:
And this reviving Herb whose tender Green
Fledges the River-Lip on which we lean—
Ah, lean upon it lightly! For who knows
From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!
Some for the Glories of This World; and some
Sigh for the Prophet’s Paradise to come;
Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go,
Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!
It’s hard to overstate the impact the Rubáiyát had on Western (but primarily English, French, and American) culture at the end of the 19th century. Pocket copies of the poem were printed en masse, and disciples carried them everywhere, quoting the work like scripture. Omar Khayyám clubs, dedicated to living out the ideals set forth in the Rubáiyát appeared in London, Boston, Paris, then numerous other cities in the West.
Of course, like everything else, these ideals quickly got swept up in the political arena, fueling moral panics in the conservative spheres of the day. Artists and other bohemians living the Rubáiyát were often the mouthpiece of fledgling socialist ideologies while opponents of their lifestyle found solace in reactionary philosophies.
The theory of social degeneration was first outlined in the 18th century but was expanded extensively in the 19th. Proponents of degeneration theory claimed that advancements in science and increased urbanization caused mental illness; that that mental illness could then be inherited by further generations; and that within just a few lifetimes, entire populations could be rendered lousy with idiocy. German psychiatrist Max Nordau, in his 1892 Degeneracy, sought to outline the exact symptoms of this neuropathy and called out many artists and authors by name for their apparent anti-social behavior. Degeneracy was a bestseller—the theory became a popular talking point and set off a widespread moral outrage.
But degeneration theorists and degenerates alike didn’t need to look as far as future generations to find cause for alarm. With the rapid and increasing pace of progress, even the not-so-distant turn of the 20th century threatened to unleash social chaos. As Hillel Schwartz points out in Century’s End, the popular conscience has rarely given us positive visions of the future.
The 19th century was not an exception, as advancements in technology—and their consequences—captured the imagination of early science fiction writers like Verne, Wells, Laßwitz, and Doyle (it’s worth noting that Wells invoked degeneration theory in his works, while Doyle was a founding member of London’s Khayyám club). Apprehension about the “unknown unknowns” (if using the Rumsfeld matrix) created a feedback loop which widened the gulf between the extremes of the day. Decadence begat reactionary politics, and those politics in action begat further desire for escapism.
And that’s the thing about fin de siècle movements—they tend to continue after the fin of the siècle. Yes, per Schwartz, the collective insanity may subside as the new century takes shape, but the theories are not untheorized, books not unpublished, art not uncreated; culture pushes forward—into the brick wall. So while the fire may have in part been lit to resist the interminable march of time, the philosophies of the 19th century reverberated well into the following century. Social degeneration was a founding tenet of fascism; the young utopian creatives grew into card-carrying Communists; the demands of serial hedonism helped to usher in a new era of manufacturing and consumerism.
By the time the Great War erupted, fin de siécle fever had waned, and the new world order began to coalesce. Anxieties about the future quickly turned to resignation to the realities of the present—but the Victorian carefree outlook inspired by the Rubáiyát lived on in the blasé attitudes of a generation whetted by global conflict. In the trenches, soldiers still carried pocket copies of the poem, reciting verses from memory. In one POW internment camp at Ruhleben, prisoners circulated their own parody verses, making light of their situation:
Ruhleben, 1915:
Hark how the cock crows welcoming in the day!
Arise my Little Ones to work or play;
And cheat the ultimate Design of Fate;
And pass the all too slothful Hours away!
FitzGerald, 1859:
And as the cock crew, those who stood before
The Tavern shouted—”Open the Door,
You know how little while we have to stay,
And once departed, may return no more.”
Through the 20th century, the popularity of the Rubáiyát waned. But while it didn’t enjoy the universal cultural relevance it had in the 1890s, it remained an influence on artists, writers, and other ne’er-do-wells, as a manual on resisting the constraints of the modern world. Sal Paradise, from Jack Kerouac’s On the Road, is loosely based on Omar Khayyám—not the real one, of course, but the version that emanated from FitzGerald’s beloved translation. Maybe the most recognizable Rubáiyát reference from the latter 20th century is Edward J. Sullivan’s “Skeleton and Roses”, taken from a 1913 edition for the Grateful Dead’s 1971 live album.
In recent years, FitzGerald’s translation has come under more scrutiny, especially as the poem has enjoyed a resurgence in its native Iran. Recent translators, more interested in preserving the intent of the text than its poetic virtue, hope to put to rest the long-standing debate of Sufism versus skepticism, debunk its association with hedonism, and demonstrate its relevance to a modern audience.
From Juan Cole’s New Translation from the Persian (2020):
I browsed a crafts exhibit yesterday
and saw a potter pummeling fresh clay,
That lump, as in a vision, said to him,
“Please lighten up! For I was once like you.”
Or Siamak Akhavan’s Modern Translation (2021):
In passing a potter’s market quay,
saw him pounding a piece of clay.
The clay pleaded with him then,
“have respect… I was you one day.”
Compared with FitzGerald, 1859:
For in the Market-place, one Dusk of Day,
I watch’d the Potter thumping his wet Clay:
And with its all obliterated Tongue,
It murmur’d—“Gently, Brother, gently, pray!”
Not all of the stanzas are as closely related as these; in fact, most of them are unrecognizable from FitzGerald’s interpretations. But in a few (like this one), it’s obvious that FitzGerald did make some effort to preserve Khayyám’s intent—but ultimately, being a Victorian poet (that is, an inherent aestheticist), the cadence of the English language took precedent. In either case, FitzGerald’s poem has certainly earned its place in the English literary canon as a work of art in its own right.
Most likely this will be the last post (exclusively and extensively) about the Rubáiyát. I can’t describe how much fun it was to set this piece to music, to explore the prog-rock sonic palette, and to dust off a piece of literary history. Progressive rock is notoriously playlist/radio-unfriendly, so it has been especially exciting to see the reaction to the record in its first month. Very sincerely, I want to thank everyone who has supported this effort, shown an interest in the music, and is reading this now.
And for my own fears about the future—I’m hopeful they’ll amount to about as much as Y2K or fin de siècle (which by the way means end of the century, and usually the 19th). After all, the new normal won’t be new forever.
Images: Selfie at Holsopple May 2023; The Sack of Dinant, Albert Robida (between 1914 and 1926?); The Lady of Shalott, John William Waterhouse (1888); Illustration from Rubaiyat of a Persian Kitten, Oliver Herford (1904); Engraving, Omar Khayyam Club dinner flyer (1900); Surely the World is Growing Better, William Crawford (1913); Skeleton and Roses, Illustration from the Rubaiyat, Edward J. Sullivan (1913); Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam album cover, Meg Wicke (2024).
Stuart Wicke 