Richard Brautigan > All Watched Over by Machines of Loving Grace

Brautigan > All Watched Over by Machines of Loving Grace

This node of the American Dust website (formerly Brautigan Bibliography and Archive) provides comprehensive information about Richard Brautigan's poetry collection All Watched Over by Machines of Loving Grace. Published in 1967, this collection of seventeen poems was Brautigan's fifth published poetry book. Publication and background information is provided, along with reviews, many with full text. Use the menu tabs

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Publication

Publication information regarding the various editions in English of Richard Brautigan's All Watched Over by Machines of Loving Grace is presented below. Corrections and/or additions would be greatly appreciated.
By default all items are presented in ascending order. Use the checkboxes above to present the items in order.

A6.1: 1st USA Edition, The Communication Company, 1967

San Francisco, California: The Communication Company, 1967
Limited Edition of 1,500 copies, all for free distribution
8.75" x 7"; 36 pages; First Printing April 1967
Yellow printed wrappers; Stapled

Covers

Front cover photograph by Bill Brach of Brautigan looking through a basement window of his Geary Street apartment. Brautigan wrote about Brach (misspelling his name as "Brock") on the copyright page (see below).

Reported Variants

Copies with duplicate pages or pages inserted upside down are reported. As are copies with printed cover art, but no printed text on front or back covers. Copies with sewn rather than stapled bindings are also reported.

Copyright Statement

Permission is granted to reprint
any of these poems in magazines,
books and newspapers if they are
given away free.

Bill Brock lived with us for a while
on Pine Street. He took the photograph
in the basement. It was a beautiful
day in San Francisco.

Some of these poems first appeared in
Hollow Orange, Totem, O'er, and Beatitude.
Five poems were published as broadsides
by the Communication Company.

Printed in San Francisco
by the Communication Company

Publication Statement

This book is printed in an edition of 1,500
copies by the Communiation Company. None
of the copies are for sale. They are all free.

"Richard Brautigan"
Caroline J. Bokinsky
Dictionary of Literary Biography. Vol. 5: American Poets Since World War II. Edited by Donald J. Greiner. Gale Research Company, 1980, pp. 96-99.
NOTE: The following material may be protected under copyright. It is used here for archival, educational, and research purposes, not for commercial gain or public distribution. Individuals using this material should respect the author's rights in any use of this material.

Richard Brautigan was born in Tacoma, Washington, the son of Bernard F. and Lula Mary Keho Braurigan. He married Virginia Dionne Adler, from whom he is now divorced, on 8 June 1957, and he has a daughter, Ianthe. He moved to San Francisco in 1958 and there befriended such poets as Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Robert Duncan, Phillip Whalen, and Michael McClure. He is often categorized as one of the San Francisco Poets. Brautigan was poet-in-residence at California Institute of Technology in 1967 and received a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts in 1968-1969. He maintains no single place of residence, claiming San Francisco, Montana, and Tokyo as homes. He lives a secluded life, despite his wide-spread popularity, often retreating to his home in Montana.

He began his writing career as a poet, gained most of his acclaim from his novels, and became a cult hero with Trout Fishing in America (1967). One of his few published comments on writing is recorded in David Meltzer's The San Francisco Poets (1971): "I wrote poetry for seven years to learn how to write a sentence because I really wanted to write novels and I figured that I couldn't write a novel until I could write a sentence. I used poetry as a lover but I never made her my old lady." By experimenting with poetry, he developed his skills with language. Many readers consider him a master of the simile and metaphor because he is able to link seemingly unrelated ideas and concepts.

In precise, lucid words, Brautigan encourages the reader neither to pry deeply nor to overinterpret. As Robert Kern notes, Brautigan's style is like that of William Carlos Williams, with a "Poetics of Primitivism" that "does not look like literature and is not meant to." This primitive, pure form of writing is almost "preliterary," according to Kern, because it is based on no historical traditions but instead is invented "out of the daily events and objects of [the poet's] immediate physical locality." Brautigan's primitivism, according to Kern, lies in the intentional naivete of his poems as the poet draws attention to himself in the act of articulating his emotional responses and observations of the world. Tony Tanner, although focusing more on Brautigan's novels than his poetry, finds Brautigan's achievement in his "magically delicate verbal ephemera."

What appears as nonliterary in Brautigan's work is more an attempt to start anew. Deliberately using poetry as a stimulating "lover," he experiments with his sensations, tests his emotions, and observes external reality, with the ulterior motive of grasping language at its most elementary level and recording his gut responses. His creative imagination is constantly at work as he looks at life in terms of analogies; one form of experience, or one particular observation, is like something else. The poet imposes his unique order on the world's chaos as he sees life in a new way, giving meaning to the meaningless. The reader must strip himself of expectations and conventions in order to approach and accept Brautigan's poetry as a refreshing new version of experience. Despite his concern for the new, Brautigan has been influenced by the Imagists, the Japanese, and the French Symbolists. From the Imagists and the Japanese he inherits a concern for the precision of words, while the Symbolist influence is apparent in his references to Charles Baudelaire and Arthur Rimbaud and in his use of synesthesia, in which one type of sensation stimulates a different sense, or a mental stimulus elicits a physical response, or vice versa.

Brautigan's earliest published poem, The Return of the Rivers (1957), is an observation of the external world as a surreal, romanticized setting in which the cycle of life is exemplified in the river, sea, rain, and ocean. He demonstrates the creative power of the poet's imagination to an even greater degree in The Galilee Hitch-Hiker (1958). The book consists of nine separate poems in which the speaker describes his encounters with Baudelaire, who appears in a different pose in each section. Terence Malley considers the collection "one of Brautigan's finest achievements" and suggests that Baudelaire is a symbol of "the artist who can transform anything into anything else."

With his next book, Lay the Marble Tea (1959), Brautigan's exploration of language extends to similes and metaphors with humorous twists as suggested by such titles as "Feel Free to Marry Emily Dickinson" or "Twenty Eight Cents for My Old Age." His experiments with the simile include strange analogies in which "a dish of ice cream" looks "like Kafka's hat," or in "In a Cafe":

"I watched a man in a cafe fold a slice of
bread as if he were folding a birth certificate
or looking at the photograph of a dead lover."

Brautigan's imaginative reconstructions of reality also include such recollections of his youth as "The Chinese Checkers Players" and "A Childhood Spent in Tacoma."

The Octopus Frontier (1960) continues Brautigan's creation of order and meaning from objects in the literal world by using them to construct a fantasy world within his own imagination. In many of the poems the speaker leads the reader through the maze of Brautigan's imagination, as in "Private Eye Lettuce," an attempt to show how man's imagination makes connections, no matter how extraneous, and gives significance to "objects of this world." While "Private Eye Lettuce" makes logical associations, in "The Wheel" the poet assumes a child's view of the world where the analogies are more fanciful. "The Winos on Potrero Hill," however, relies more on realistic detail and precision. The poet acts as a painter, in a meticulous step-by-step process, putting each object in a specific place to create a painting. "The Postman" creates its effect by allusion because although the poet never says what "The smell / of vegetables / on a cold day" elicits, the accumulation of similes causes a synesthetic response. The sensation of smell suggests the taste of fresh summer vegetables. The taste in turn stimulates the feel of a warm summer day. All sensations merge in the imagination, and even those that are illusions appear real for a moment.

All Watched Over by Machines of Loving Grace (1967) provides a transition to the collection that was to become his most popular and was to establish his position as a poet, The Pill versus the Springhill Mine Disaster (1968). Recalling the romanticism of The Return of the Rivers while looking forward to the humor that characterizes The Pill versus the Springhill Mine Disaster, the long poem, All Watched Over by Machines of Loving Grace, presents a vision of an ideal world where man and nature exist in harmony, "where mammals and computers / live together in mutually / programming harmony," and where the perfect world is "all watched over / by machines of loving grace."

The Pill versus The Springhill Mine Disaster includes most of the poems that appeared in previous volumes and new poems that confirm his magical power of transforming an image into something else. The title poem, most often mentioned by critics, is a Brautigan classic. A sudden revelation, which flashes into the poet's head as an insignificant moment, becomes an analogy with greater proportions. Robert Kern praises "Haiku Ambulance," a brief poem often casually dismissed as pointless, and links it to William Carlos Williams's "The Red Wheelbarrow." In some of the poems Brautigan's extravagant metaphors become farfetched. Such poems as "The Harbor" "The Horse That Had a Flat Tire," or "Death is a Beautiful Parked Car Only" verge on the incomprehensible. Yet in "The Garlic Meat Lady" he is absorbed in the elemental delights of life. He identifies passion with Marcia preparing dinner:

"She takes
each piece of meat like a lover
and rubs it gently with garlic.
I've never seen anything like this
before. Each orifice
of the meat is explored, caressed
relentlessly with garlic."

Brautigan continues his experiments with similes and metaphors in the next volume, Rommel Drives on Deep Into Egypt (1970), but his poetry also begins to move into social commentary. Some pages are blank, with only titles at the top, as if poems were intended to be there but were never created. Along with the humor, he takes a verbal stab at critics, alludes to Robert Kennedy's death, suggests the economic plight of the country, and depicts the lack of communication between husband and wife. In "Jules Verne Zucchini," he hits hard at the discrepancy between scientific progress—man walking on the moon—and people starving on the earth. "Rommel Drives on Deep Into Egypt" suggests the futility of war, the cycle of history, and dead heroes forgotten by the passage of time. A momentous occasion, like Rommel's penetration into Egypt, is meaningless to someone seeing the news account (the title of the poem is an old newspaper headline) years after the event.

A new tone emerges in Loading Mercury with a Pitchfork (1976). Brautigan's terse messages and witty similes are overshadowed by a blacker humor and a darker, more pensive mood. The poems are more personal; the reader even glimpses the poet in the process of writing. The blacker poems include references to Captain Martin who is lost at sea and to "a freshly-dug grave," "a blind lighthouse," or "a poorly-designed angel." An awareness of growing old is a key subject, as in "The Last Surprise":

"The last surprise is when you come
gradually to realize that nothing
surprises you anymore."

A poet who once saw life in pleasant, whimsical analogies is now filled with foreboding and pessimism. His sensations are no longer so acute. In "Fresh Paint" the speaker expresses perplexity over his associations of the sight of funeral parlors, the smell of fresh paint, and the sensation in his stomach. He retreats to a private wilderness in "Montana/1973" to reexperience life in nature, to rediscover his true essence, and to get back in touch with his own sensations, with the world, and with the cosmos. He concludes the volume with an existential pose, convincing himself that retreating to Montana is an action with some value:

"Nobody knows what the experience is worth
but it's better than sitting on your hands,
I keep telling myself."

In June 30th, June 30th (1978) Brautigan comes to terms with an important moment in his youth: the death of his uncle in 1942, which was indirectly caused by a head wound from bomb fragments during the Japanese bombing of Pearl Harbor. He died a year later from a fall that Brautigan felt would have been avoided had he not been injured. In the introduction to the poems, Brautigan states that after going through a period of hatred for the Japanese, "the war slipped back into memory." When he discovered their art and their humanity, he could forgive the Japanese and was eventually drawn to the country, where he confronted his animosity during a visit that lasted from 13 May to 30 June 1976. Leaving Japan on the evening of 30 June, he crossed the international date line in mid-Pacific and landed in the United States at the beginning of a second 30 June, feeling that part of himself was left behind in Japan. The book's title signifies the divided self, while also implying the poet's coming to terms with his other self.

Brautigan calls the poems a diary: critics have referred to them collectively as one poem. June 30th, June 30th is the most unified of Brautigan's volumes not only because the poems pertain to a single experience but because the speaker of all the poems is Brautigan himself examining his reactions to this experience. For the first time, Brautigan is a confessional poet, lost and alone in a strange land, unable to communicate. There is a barrier separating him not only from those who do not speak English, as "The Silence of Language" and "Talking" indicate, but also from those who speak his own language. He effectively conveys to the reader this greater lack of communication in "On the Elevator Going Down." He is just one individual among the millions in Tokyo in "The 12,000,000" and "Japanese Children," and he discovers that Tokyo is no different from any other city. His observations of a sleeping cat, a fly, or dreams could have been made anywhere else in the world. In "A Study in Roads," he comments that with "All the possibilities of life, / all roads led here," expressing the feeling that he has been a sporadic wanderer. Although he is well known, "Ego Orgy on a Rainy Night in Tokyo with Nobody to Make Love to" ends with a despairing tone: "I will sleep alone tonight in Tokyo."

As Brautigan told Meltzer in 1971, "I love writing poetry but it's taken time, like a difficult courtship that leads to a good marriage, for us to get to know each other." June 30th, June 30th is the transition from a lifelong courtship of poetry into a commitment whereby he gives himself to poetry, making her his "old lady."

"All Watched Over by Machines of Loving Grace"
Beth Lock
MyMac.com, 2 Nov. 1999.
NOTE: The following material may be protected under copyright. It is used here for archival, educational, and research purposes, not for commercial gain or public distribution. Individuals using this material should respect the author's rights in any use of this material.

"I like to think (and
the sooner the better!)
of a cybernetic meadow
where mammals and computers
live together in mutually
programming harmony
like pure water
touching clear sky."

Richard Brautigan, 1935-1984, Beat poet of his generation, wrote this poem in 1967, when I was but a freshman in high school. It would be another seven years before I stumbled upon his works. When I finally did, I was living the life of a loose hippie chick in Sandpoint, Idaho, and enjoying it to the fullest. We would gather in groups and read Brautigan out loud, each taking turns with the slim volumes, sometimes staying up all night analyzing what he meant. Home computers were unheard of in 1974. And yet on fireplace-smoky freezing nights, we would read Brautigan and among other things, we wondered what computers would do for our lives. We knew only of giant mainframe computers, and the ones portrayed in science fiction. It would be another two years before Jobs and Wozniak introduced the Apple II. So where, in 1967, did this vision of Richard Brautigan's come from?

"I like to think
(right now, please!)
of a cybernetic forest
filled with pines and electronics
where deer stroll peacefully
past computers
as if they were flowers
with spinning blossoms"

Richard Brautigan, master of words. He was known to walk the streets of Berkeley in the late '60's and early 70's, painting words of people he knew and saw. He would sit in the streetside cafes and watch others as they strolled by. He wrote about love, and life, and heartache, and passion, and... once, about computers. He had a vision of a time when we would live in harmony with our computers. What if we envisioned right now, like Richard Brautigan did in 1967, what computers might be in thirty years? What if we collectively envisioned them as a tool to bring loving grace to our planet? In 1974 it was easy to imagine that computers would change the world for the worse, put us under the control of government, and take away our freedom. It's easy to imagine that now, with such things like loss of privacy through the Internet. But in turning our thought patterns around, it would be just as easy to imagine the opposite.

"I like to think
(it has to be!)
of a cybernetic ecology
where we are free of our labors
and joined back to nature,
returned to our mammal
brothers and sisters,
and all watched over
by machines of loving grace."

"... all watched over by machines of loving grace." Not machines which control our lives, or machines that create discord between platforms, but machines of loving grace. Machines which free us of our labors, and join us back to nature, and return us to our mammal brothers and sisters. What a wonderful age we live in. Our machines of loving grace unite us with the planet. How nice it would be if we could recognize the power which our computers actually give us. How nice it would be if we all would just begin, once again, to look upon our computers with fresh eyes and see the power of the Internet, and how it has the potential to unite us all together in peace and harmony. How nice to know that these marvelous machines really do free us from our labors, so we have the time to join our mammal brothers and sisters in nature.

Shortly after I began writing this piece, Microsoft was ruled by a Federal court to be a monopoly. My mailbox filled with joyous gloating from the Macintosh community. Ah ha! We knew it all along! The evil empire will be struck down! At last, we are vindicated! Patting ourselves on the back, we gloat to one another. And I wonder why this becomes such an important issue in our lives. Although we have lobbied for years for comparable software and a presence in the business world, and other issues which we Macintosh fanatics have so strongly evangelized for, in the long run how has it truly affected our lives in a negative way? After all, aren't you sitting in front of your Macintosh reading this, right now?

I still maintain that as long as Apple continues to lead the way in cutting edge technology, I'll not give up my Macintosh until you pry the keyboard from my cold, dead fingers. I also prefer Macintosh because I do not admire Microsoft's business practices. I think their operating system is clumsy. I think the judge ruled fairly. But when I think about computers in general, I think of the machines of loving grace. Do I evangelize the Macintosh? You bet I do, every chance I get, especially for new users and those who are looking for "something better." But when someone who has grown up using PCs and owns practical and useful software for that platform is looking to buy a new computer, I have to say that I support them in their right to choose their preferred "machine of loving grace."

Richard Brautigan is dead, so you can't email him and tell him how you feel about his poem. It is said that he committed suicide in his Montana cabin sometime in 1986. I guess his time was done. Perhaps, if he had had, at that time, a machine of loving grace...

Be well, world. Live with loving grace in your hearts. Microsoft lost. Be gracious about it, and look to the future. It's coming faster than we can imagine.

bherenow?

American Dust

Brautigan > All Watched Over by Machines of Loving Grace

Publication

A6.1: 1st USA Edition, The Communication Company, 1967

Covers

Reported Variants

Copyright Statement

Publication Statement

Background

Printing History

Feedback from Claude Hayward

Contents

Feedback from Susan Morgan

Reviews

Hirschman, Jack. "Five Poets." Poetry, July 1968, pp. 274-275.

Bokinsky, Caroline J. "Richard Brautigan." Dictionary of Literary Biography. Vol. 5: American Poets Since World War II. Edited by Donald J. Greiner. Gale Research Company, 1980, pp. 96-99.

Lock, Beth. All Watched Over by Machines of Loving Grace. MyMac.com, 2 Nov. 1999.

Nambisan, Vijay. "Pines and Cybernetics." The Hindu, 4 June 2000, p. 1.

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