audre lorde essay on poetry

A Summary and Analysis of Audre Lorde’s ‘Poetry Is Not a Luxury’

By Dr Oliver Tearle (Loughborough University)

‘Poetry Is Not a Luxury’ is a 1977 essay by the American poet Audre Lorde (1934-92). In the essay, Lorde argues that poetry is a necessity for women, as it puts them in touch with old feelings and ways of knowing which they have long forgotten. Poetry also offers women a way to bring those feelings to light again and to share them with others.

You can read ‘Poetry Is Not a Luxury’ here before proceeding to our summary and analysis of Lorde’s essay below. The essay takes around five minutes to read.

‘Poetry Is Not a Luxury’: summary

Lorde begins by drawing a connection between poetry and life, arguing that poetry is a form of illumination which helps us to make sense of our lives. True poetry, which stems from a distillation of experience, can then give rise to thoughts, much as a dream can give rise to a concept or a feeling can give rise to an idea, or as knowledge precedes, and helps us to develop, an understanding of something.

Poetry can thus help us to conquer our fears, since it allows us to understand and take control of those fears. Quoting lines from her 1973 poem ‘Black Mother Woman’, Lorde addresses other women, pointing out that their true spirits lie ‘hidden’ within them, out of sight. However, it is within the darkness that these secret ‘places of possibility’ within women have grown and survived.

These dark places within women contain great potential for creativity and power. The problem with European culture is that it privileges ideas over these dark, secret places inside. Connecting with the ancient ways of knowing encourages women to value their feelings over ‘ideas’.

However, Lorde believes that women can combine these two modes of knowing – feelings and ideas – in their poetry. This is why, for women, poetry is not a luxury, but a vital necessity. Poetry is one of the ways women can give a name to those nameless feelings they experience, so those feelings can be transformed into thought.

Poetry, Lorde argues, is the framework for women’s whole lives. It provides women with a way to make acceptable those ideas which would otherwise have been baffling or frightening. By respecting their own feelings, women can turn them into language and share them with other women. Indeed, poetry can even help to create a language for things, a language which does not already exist.

Lorde then discusses the difficult nature of ‘possibility’, or potential for change. It can easily be extinguished or diminished, especially when women are accused (by men) of being immature or overly reliant on their feelings. Lorde counters the ‘white fathers’, who said ‘ I think, therefore I am ’, with her own mantra from ‘the Black mother’: ‘I feel, therefore I can be free.’

But action is also needed. Rather than seeking new ideas to bring about the change that’s needed, Lorde urges women to turn to the ‘old and forgotten’ ideas which will give them courage. Poetry is a way of rediscovering these ideas and, more importantly, the authentic feelings women have. To give up poetry or dismiss it as a luxury is to deprive oneself of a better future for women.

‘Poetry Is Not a Luxury’: analysis

It was W. H. Auden who famously said, in his poem ‘In Memory of W. B. Yeats’, that ‘ poetry makes nothing happen ’. He went on to remark that poetry’s value was as a ‘way of happening’: an act in and of itself which keeps the poet’s voice alive, or their ‘mouth’ from falling silent.

In ‘Poetry Is Not a Luxury’, Lorde goes further and seems to suggest that poetry can make things happen, although she shares with Auden a distrust of viewing ‘poetry’ and ‘action’ as two separate and distinguishable modes.

Words like ‘vital’ and ‘necessity’ make it clear to us that Lorde views poetry as an essential component of women’s struggle to liberate themselves from patriarchal oppression and control.

But she also suggests that, in particular, she has Black women in mind: words and phrases like ‘noneuropean’ (which appear to call back to the African heritage of African-American women in the modern United States) and ‘Black mother’ indicate that, for Lorde, poetry is especially valuable to women of colour who are facing racial as well as patriarchal oppression.

At one memorable moment in ‘Poetry Is Not a Luxury’, Audre Lorde quotes the line, ‘I think, therefore I am’, attributing it to ‘white fathers’. Specifically, this line is from the work of the seventeenth-century French philosopher René Descartes, who argued that he could be sure of his own existence because he was capable of rational thought.

Lorde’s recasting of this formula into ‘I feel, therefore I can be free’ reveals that the freedom that white men like Descartes could take for granted has always been unknowable to Black women, at least as lived experience. And ‘experience’ is another key term in ‘Poetry Is Not a Luxury’: poetry is both a reflection of experience and a way of experiencing the world.

Because poetry does not rely on cold fact or reason, but instead fuses feelings, thoughts, ideas, and experience together in a heady mixture of intuition and knowledge, it can lead to a deeper kind of enlightenment or wisdom which acknowledges that how we feel about the world is as important as what the world ‘is’.

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The legacy of audre lorde, arts & culture.

The art and life of Mark di Suvero

Audre Lorde. Photo: Elsa Dorfman. CC BY-SA (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/).

There is this thing that happens, all too often, when a Black woman is being introduced in a professional setting. Her accomplishments tend to be diminished. The introducer might laugh awkwardly, rushing through whatever impoverished remarks they have prepared. Rarely do they do the necessary research to offer any sense of whom they are introducing. The Black woman is spoken of in terms of anecdote rather than accomplishment. She is referred to as sassy on Twitter, maybe, or as a lover of bacon, random tidbits bearing no relation to the reasons she is in that professional setting. Whenever this happens to me or I witness it happening to another Black woman, I turn to Audre Lorde. I wonder how Lorde would respond to such a microaggression because in her prescient writings she demonstrated, time and again, a remarkable and necessary ability to stand up for herself, her intellectual prowess and that of all Black women, with power and grace. She recognized the importance of speaking up because silence would not protect her or anyone. She recognized that there would never be a perfect time to speak up because “while we wait in silence for that final luxury of fearlessness, the weight of that silence will choke us.”

In 1979, for example, Audre Lorde wrote a letter to Mary Daly, and when Daly did not respond, Lorde made her entreaty an open letter. Lorde was primarily concerned with the erasure of Black women in Daly’s Gyn/Ecology , a manifesto urging women toward a more radical feminism. In her open letter, Lorde wrote: “So the question arises in my mind, Mary, do you ever really read the work of Black women? Did you ever read my words, or did you merely finger through them for quotations which you thought might valuably support an already conceived idea concerning some old and distorted connection between us? This is not a rhetorical question.” The letter is both gracious and incisive. What Lorde is really demanding of Daly and white feminists more broadly is for them to seriously engage with and acknowledge Black women’s intellectual labor.

In the thirty years since Lorde wrote that open letter, Black women have continued to implore white women to recognize and engage with their intellectual contributions and the material realities of their lives. They have asked white women to acknowledge that, as Lorde also wrote in her open letter to Daly, “the oppression of women knows no ethnic nor racial boundaries, true, but that does not mean it is identical within those differences.” One of the hallmarks of Lorde’s prose and poetry is her willingness to recognize, acknowledge, and honor the lived realities of women—not only those who share her subject position but also those who do not. Her thinking always embodied what we now know as intersectionality and did so long before intersectionality became a defining feature of contemporary feminism in word if not in deed.

Lorde never grappled with only one aspect of identity. She was as concerned with class, gender, and sexuality as she was with race. She held these concerns and did so with care because she valued community and the diversity of the people who were part of any given community. She valued the differences between us as strengths rather than weaknesses. Doing this was of particular urgency, because to her mind, “the future of our earth may depend upon the ability of all women to identify and develop new definitions of power and new patterns of relating across difference.”

But how do you best represent a significant, in all senses of the word, body of work? This is the question that has consumed me as I assembled The Selected Works of Audre Lorde . Lorde is a towering figure in the world of letters, at least for me. I first encountered her writing in my early twenties, as a young Black queer woman. She was the first writer I ever read who lived and loved the way I did and also looked like me. She was a beacon, a guiding light. And she was far more than that because her prose and poetry astonished me—intelligent, fierce, powerful, sensual, provocative, indelible.

When I read her books, I underlined and annotated avidly. I whispered her intimately crafted turns of phrase, enjoying the sound and feel of them in my mouth, on my tongue. Lorde was the first person who actively demonstrated for me that a writer could be intensely concerned with the inner and outer lives of Black queer women, that our experiences could be the center instead of relegated to the periphery. She wrote beyond the white gaze and imagined a Black reality that did not subvert itself to the cultural norms dictated by whiteness. She valorized the body as much as she valorized the mind. She valorized nurturing as much as she valorized holding people accountable for their actions, calling out people and practices that decentered the Black queer woman’s experience and knowledge. Most important, she prioritized the collective because “without community there is no liberation, only the most vulnerable and temporary armistice between an individual and her oppression.” As a reader, it is gratifying to see the legacy Lorde has created and to see the genealogy of her work in the writing of the women who have followed in her footsteps. Without Lorde’s essay “The Uses of Anger,” we might never have known Claudia Rankine’s manifesto of poetic prose, Citizen .

In one of her most fiery essays, “The Master’s Tools Will Never Dismantle the Master’s House,” Lorde asks, “What does it mean when tools of a racist patriarchy are used to examine the fruits of that same patriarchy?” She quickly answers her own question: “It means that only the most narrow perimeters of change are possible and allowable.” Lorde gave these remarks in 1979 after being invited to an academic conference where there was only one panel with a Black feminist or lesbian perspective and only two Black women presenters. Forty years later, such meager representation is still an issue in many supposedly feminist and inclusive spaces. The essay is pointed, identifying pernicious issues marginalized people face in certain oppressive spaces—having to be the sole representative of their subject position, having to use their intellectual and emotional labor to address oppression instead of any of their other intellectual interests as if the marginalized are equipped to talk about only their marginalization.

This is a reality we often lose sight of when we surrender to assimilationist ideas about social change. There is, for example, a strain of feminism that believes if only women act like men, we will achieve the equality we seek. Lorde asks us to do the more difficult and radical work of imagining what our realities might look like if masculinity were not the ideal to which we aspire, if heterosexuality were not the ideal to which we aspire, if whiteness were not the ideal to which we aspire.

In Lorde’s body of work, we see her defying this idea of the dominant culture as the default, this idea that she should write about only her oppression, but while doing so she never abandons her subject position. She is empathetic, curious, critical, intuitive. She is as open about her weaknesses as she is about her strengths. She is an exemplar of public intellectualism who is as relevant in this century as she was in the last.

We are rather attached to the notion of truth as singular, but the best writing reminds us that truth is complex and subjective. The best writing reminds us that we need not relegate the truth to the narrow perimeters of right and wrong, black and white, good and evil. I have thought about how narrow the perimeters of change really are when we insist on using the master’s tools to dismantle the master’s house. This narrow brand of thinking has only intensified since the 2016 presidential election, when Donald Trump was elected. Whatever progress it seemed like we were making during the Obama era has retracted sharply, painfully. We live in a very fractured time, one where difference has become weaponized, demonized, and where discourse demands allegiance to extremes instead of nuanced points of view. We live in a time where the president of the United States flouts all conventions of the office, decorum, and decency. Police brutality persists, unabated. Women share their experiences with sexual harassment or violence but rarely receive any kind of justice.

It seems like things have gotten only worse since the height of Lorde’s career, when she was writing about the very things we continue to deal with—the place of women and, more specifically, Black women in the world, what it means to raise Black girls and boys in a world that will not welcome them, what it means to live in a world so harshly stratified by class, what it means to live in a vulnerable body, what it means to live. There are very few voices for women and even fewer voices for Black women, speaking from the center of consciousness, from the I am out to the we are , but Lorde was, throughout her storied career, one such voice. In her poem “Power,” Lorde wrote about a white police officer who murdered a ten-year-old Black boy and was acquitted by a jury of eleven of his peers and one Black woman who succumbed to the will of those peers. She captured the rage of such injustice and how futile it feels to try to fight such injustice, but she also demonstrated that even in the face of futility, silence is never an option.

A great deal of Lorde’s writing was committed to articulating her worldview in service of the greater good. She crafted lyrical manifestos. The essay “Poetry Is Not a Luxury” made the case for the importance of poetry, arguing that poetry “is a vital necessity of our existence. It forms the quality of light within which we predicate our hopes and dreams toward survival and change, first made into language, then into idea, then into more tangible action.” In “Uses of the Erotic: The Erotic as Power,” Lorde examines women using their erotic power to benefit themselves instead of benefiting men. She notes that women are often vilified for their erotic power and treated as inferior. She suggests that we can rethink and reframe this paradigm. This is what is so remarkable about Lorde’s writing—how she encourages women to understand weaknesses as strengths. She writes: “As women, we need to examine the ways in which our world can be truly different. I am speaking here of the necessity for reassessing the quality of all aspects of our lives and our work, and how we move toward and through them.” In this, she offers an expansive definition of the erotic, one that goes well beyond the carnal to encompass a wide range of sensate experiences.

Rethinking and reframing paradigms is a recurring theme in Lorde’s writing. As the child of immigrants who came to the United States for their American dream only to have that dream shattered by the Great Depression, Lorde understood the nuances of oppression from an early age. It was poetry that gave her the language to make sense of that oppression and to resist it, and she was a prolific poet with several collections to her name, including The First Cities , Cables to Rage , From a Land Where Other People Live , Coal , and The Black Unicorn .

Her work took other forms—teaching; cofounding Kitchen Table: Women of Color Press; public speaking; and a range of advocacy efforts for women, lesbians, and Black people. During her time in Germany, she gave rise to the Afro-German movement—helping Black German women use their voices to join the sisterhood she valued so dearly. She also demanded that white German women confront their whiteness, even when it made them defensive or uncomfortable. In an essay about Lorde’s time in Germany, Dagmar Schultz wrote that “many white women learned to be more conscious of their privileges and more responsible in the use of their power.”

Lorde was not constrained by boundaries. She combined the personal and the political, the spiritual and the secular. As an academic she fearlessly wrote about the sensual and the sexual even though the academy has long disdained such interests. Her erotic life was as valuable as her intellectual life and she was unabashed in making this known. This refusal to be constrained was notably apparent in Zami: A New Spelling of My Name , which she called a “biomythography.” In her definitive biography of Lorde, Warrior Poet: A Biography of Audre Lorde , Alexis De Veaux describes Zami  as a book that “recovers from existing male-dominated literary genres (history, mythology, autobiography, and fiction) whatever was inextricably female, female-centered.” In Zami and much of her other work, Lorde expressed the radical idea that Black women could hold the center, be the center, and she was unwavering in this belief.

At her most vulnerable, Lorde gave the world some of her most powerful writing with her work in The Cancer Journals , which chronicled her life with breast cancer and having a double mastectomy. “But it is that very difference which I wish to affirm, because I have lived it, and survived it, and wish to share that strength with other women. If we are to translate the silence surrounding breast cancer into language and action against this scourge, then the first step is that women with mastectomies must become visible to each other.” With these words, she assumed as much control as she could over a body succumbing to disease and a public narrative that, until then, allowed a singular narrative about what it meant to live with illness. She made herself visible and gave other women permission to make themselves visible in a world that would prefer that they disappear, stay silent.

In all of her writing, Audre Lorde offers us language to articulate how we might heal our fractured sociopolitical climate. She gives us instructions for making tools with which we can dismantle the houses of our oppressors. She remakes language with which we can revel in our sensual and sexual selves. She forges a space within which we can hold ourselves and each other accountable to both our needs and the greater good.

All too often, people misappropriate the words and ideas of Black women. They do so selectively, using the parts that serve their aims, and abandoning those parts that don’t. People will, for example, parrot Lorde’s ideas about dismantling the master’s house without taking into account the context from which Lorde crafted those ideas. Lorde is such a brilliant and eloquent writer; she has such a way of shaping language that of course people want to repeat her words to their own ends. But her work is far more than something pretty to parrot. In The Selected Works of Audre Lorde , you will be able to appreciate the grace, power, and fierce intelligence of her writing, to understand where she was writing from and why, and to bear witness to all the unforgettable ways she made herself, and all Black women, gloriously visible.

Roxane Gay’s writing appears in Best American Mystery Stories 2014 , Best American Short Stories 2012 , Best Sex Writing 2012 , Harper’s Bazaar , A Public Space , McSweeney’s , Tin House , Oxford American , American Short Fiction , Virginia Quarterly Review , and many other publications. She is a contributing opinion writer for the New York Times . She is the author of the books Ayiti , An Untamed State , the New York Times best-selling Bad Feminist , the nationally best-selling Difficult Women , and New York Times best-selling Hunger: A Memoir of My Body . She is also the author of World of Wakanda for Marvel and the editor of Best American Short Stories 2018 . She is currently at work on film and television projects, a book of writing advice, an essay collection about television and culture, and a YA novel entitled The Year I Learned Everything .

Reprinted from The Selected Works of Audre Lorde . Copyright © 2020 by Roxane Gay. Used with permission of the publisher, W. W. Norton & Company, Inc. All rights reserved.

A Burst of Light: Audre Lorde on Turning Fear Into Fire

By maria popova.

“There is no time for despair, no place for self-pity, no need for silence, no room for fear,” Toni Morrison exhorted in considering the artist’s task in troubled times . In our interior experience as individuals, as in the public forum of our shared experience as a culture, our courage lives in the same room as our fear — it is in troubled times, in despairing times, that we find out who we are and what we are capable of.

That is what the great poet, essayist, feminist, and civil rights champion Audre Lorde (February 18, 1934–November 17, 1992) explores with exquisite self-possession and might of character in a series of diary entries included in A Burst of Light: and Other Essays ( public library ).

Seventeen days before she turned fifty, and six years after she underwent a mastectomy for breast cancer, Lorde was told she had liver cancer. She declined surgery and even a biopsy, choosing instead to go on living her life and her purpose, exploring alternative treatments as she proceeded with her planned teaching trip to Europe. In a diary entry penned on her fiftieth birthday, Lorde reckons with the sudden call to confront the ultimate fear:

I want to write down everything I know about being afraid, but I’d probably never have enough time to write anything else. Afraid is a country where they issue us passports at birth and hope we never seek citizenship in any other country. The face of afraid keeps changing constantly, and I can count on that change. I need to travel light and fast, and there’s a lot of baggage I’m going to have to leave behind me. Jettison cargo.

“Not every man knows what he shall sing at the end,” the poet Mark Strand, born within weeks of Lorde, wrote in his stunning ode to mortality . Exactly a month after her diagnosis, with the medical establishment providing more confusion than clarity as she confronts her mortality, Lorde resolves in her journal:

Dear goddess! Face-up again against the renewal of vows. Do not let me die a coward, mother. Nor forget how to sing. Nor forget song is a part of mourning as light is a part of sun.

By the spring, she had lost nearly fifty pounds. But she was brimming with a crystalline determination to do the work of visibility and kinship across difference. She taught in Germany, immersed herself in the international communities of the African Diaspora, and traveled to the world’s first Feminist Book Fair in London. “I may be too thin, but I can still dance!” she exults in her diary on the first day of June. She dances with her fear in an entry penned six days later:

I am listening to what fear teaches. I will never be gone. I am a scar, a report from the frontlines, a talisman, a resurrection. A rough place on the chin of complacency.

Echoing Dr. King’s abiding observation that “we are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality [and] whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly,” she adds:

I am saving my life by using my life in the service of what must be done. Tonight as I listened to the ANC speakers from South Africa at the Third World People’s Center here, I was filled with a sense of self-answering necessity, of commitment as a survival weapon. Our battles are inseparable. Every person I have ever been must be actively enlisted in those battles, as well as in the battle to save my life.

Two days later, as the opaqueness of her prospects thrusts her once again into maddening uncertainty, she redoubles her resolve to let fear be her teacher of courage:

Survival isn’t some theory operating in a vacuum. It’s a matter of my everyday living and making decisions. How do I hold faith with sun in a sunless place? It is so hard not to counter this despair with a refusal to see. But I have to stay open and filtering no matter what’s coming at me, because that arms me in a particularly Black woman’s way.

In a sentiment that parallels Rosanne Cash’s courageous navigation of uncertainty in the wake of her brain tumor diagnosis, Lorde adds:

When I’m open, I’m also less despairing. The more clearly I see what I’m up against, the more able I am to fight this process going on in my body that they’re calling liver cancer. And I am determined to fight it even when I am not sure of the terms of the battle nor the face of victory. I just know I must not surrender my body to others unless I completely understand and agree with what they think should be done to it. I’ve got to look at all of my options carefully, even the ones I find distasteful. I know I can broaden the definition of winning to the point where I can’t lose.

Echoing French philosopher Simone Weil’s bold ideas on how to make use of our suffering , Lorde writes three days later:

We all have to die at least once. Making that death useful would be winning for me. I wasn’t supposed to exist anyway, not in any meaningful way in this fucked-up whiteboys’ world. I want desperately to live, and I’m ready to fight for that living even if I die shortly. Just writing those words down snaps every thing I want to do into a neon clarity… For the first time I really feel that my writing has a substance and stature that will survive me.

Beholding the overwhelming response to her just-released nonfiction collection, Sister Outsider — the source of her now-iconic indictment against silence — Lorde reflects:

I have done good work. I see it in the letters that come to me about Sister Outsider , I see it in the use the women here give the poetry and the prose. But first and last I am a poet. I’ve worked very hard for that approach to living inside myself, and everything I do, I hope, reflects that view of life, even the ways I must move now in order to save my life. I have done good work. There is a hell of a lot more I have to do. And sitting here tonight in this lovely green park in Berlin, dusk approaching and the walking willows leaning over the edge of the pool caressing each other’s fingers, birds birds birds singing under and over the frogs, and the smell of new-mown grass enveloping my sad pen, I feel I still have enough moxie to do it all, on whatever terms I’m dealt, timely or not. Enough moxie to chew the whole world up and spit it out in bite-sized pieces, useful and warm and wet and delectable because they came out of my mouth.

Over the following year, Lorde continued asking herself the difficult, beautiful questions that allowed her to concentrate the laser beam of her determination and her purpose as an artist and cultural leader into a focal point of absolute clarity. In a diary entry from October of 1985, several months after her daughter’s hard-earned graduation from Harvard, she wonders:

Where does our power lie and how do we school ourselves to use it in the service of what we believe? […] How can we use each other’s differences in our common battles for a livable future? All of our children are prey. How do we raise them not to prey upon themselves and each other? And this is why we cannot be silent, because our silences will come to testify against us out of the mouths of our children.

In early December, she resolves with magmatic determination:

No matter how sick I feel, I’m still afire with a need to do something for my living. […] I want to live the rest of my life, however long or short, with as much sweetness as I can decently manage, loving all the people I love, and doing as much as I can of the work I still have to do. I am going to write fire until it comes out my ears, my eyes, my noseholes — everywhere. Until it’s every breath I breathe. I’m going to go out like a fucking meteor!

Lorde lived nearly another decade after her diagnosis, during which she was elected Poet Laureate of New York State. In an African naming ceremony performed in the Virgin Islands shortly before her death at the age of fifty-eight, she took the name Gamda Adisa — “Warrior: She Who Makes Her Meaning Known.”

Complement this particular portion of A Burst of Light , an explosive read in its totality, with Alice James on how to live fully while dying , Descartes on the vital relationship between fear and hope , and Seneca on overcoming fear , then revisit Lorde on the indivisibility of identity and the courage to break silence .

— Published March 1, 2018 — https://www.themarginalian.org/2018/03/01/audre-lorde-a-burst-of-light/ —

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Audre Lorde

Audre Lorde (/ˈɔːdri lɔːrd/; born Audrey Geraldine Lorde, February 18, 1934– November 17, 1992) was an African American writer, feminist, womanist, lesbian, and civil rights activist. As a poet, she is best known for technical mastery and emotional expression, particularly in her poems expressing anger and outrage at civil and social injustices she observed throughout her life. Her poems and prose largely dealt with issues related to civil rights, feminism, and the exploration of black female identity. In relation to non-intersectional feminism in the United States, Lorde famously said, “Those of us who stand outside the circle of this society’s definition of acceptable women; those of us who have been forged in the crucibles of difference—those of us who are poor, who are lesbians, who are Black, who are older—know that survival is not an academic skill. It is learning how to take our differences and make them strengths. For the master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house. They may allow us temporarily to beat him at his own game, but they will never enable us to bring about genuine change. And this fact is only threatening to those women who still define the master’s house as their only source of support.”

Life and work

Lorde was born in New York City to Caribbean immigrants from Barbados and Carriacou, Frederick Byron Lorde (called Byron) and Linda Gertrude Belmar Lorde, who settled in Harlem. Lorde’s mother was of mixed ancestry but could pass for white, a source of pride for her family. Lorde’s father was darker than the Belmar family liked, and they only allowed the couple to marry because of Byron Lorde’s charm, ambition, and persistence. Nearsighted to the point of being legally blind, and the youngest of three daughters (two older sisters, Phyllis and Helen), Audre Lorde grew up hearing her mother’s stories about the West Indies. She learned to talk while she learned to read, at the age of four, and her mother taught her to write at around the same time. She wrote her first poem when she was in eighth grade.

Born Audrey Geraldine Lorde, she chose to drop the “y” from her first name while still a child, explaining in Zami: A New Spelling of My Name that she was more interested in the artistic symmetry of the “e”-endings in the two side-by-side names “Audre Lorde” than in spelling her name the way her parents had intended.

Lorde’s relationship with her parents was difficult from a young age. She was able to spend very little time with her father and mother, who were busy maintaining their real estate business in the tumultuous economy after the Great Depression, and when she did see them, they were often cold or emotionally distant. In particular, Lorde’s relationship with her mother, who was deeply suspicious of people with darker skin than hers (which Lorde’s was) and the outside world in general, was characterized by “tough love” and strict adherence to family rules. Lorde’s difficult relationship with her mother would figure prominently in later poems, such as Coal’s “Story Books on a Kitchen Table.”

As a child, Lorde, who struggled with communication, came to appreciate the power of poetry as a form of expression. She memorized a great deal of poetry, and would use it to communicate, to the extent that, “If asked how she was feeling, Audre would reply by reciting a poem.” Around the age of twelve, she began writing her own poetry and connecting with others at her school who were considered “outcasts” as she felt she was.

She attended Hunter College High School, a secondary school for intellectually gifted students, and graduated in 1951.

In 1954, she spent a pivotal year as a student at the National University of Mexico, a period she described as a time of affirmation and renewal, during which she confirmed her identity on personal and artistic levels as a lesbian and poet. On her return to New York, she attended Hunter College, graduating class of 1959. There, she worked as a librarian, continued writing and became an active participant in the gay culture of Greenwich Village. She furthered her education at Columbia University, earning a master’s degree in Library Science in 1961. She also worked during this time as a librarian at Mount Vernon Public Library and married attorney Edwin Rollins; they divorced in 1970 after having two children, Elizabeth and Jonathan. In 1966, Lorde became head librarian at Town School Library in New York City, where she remained until 1968.

In 1968 Lorde was writer-in-residence at Tougaloo College in Mississippi, where she met Frances Clayton, a white professor of psychology, who was to be her romantic partner until 1989.

Lorde’s time at Tougaloo College, like her year at the National University of Mexico, was a formative experience for Lorde as an artist. She led workshops with her young, black undergraduate students, many of whom were eager to discuss the civil rights issues of that time. Through her interactions with her students, she reaffirmed her desire not only to live out her “crazy and queer” identity, but devoted new attention to the formal aspects of her craft as a poet. Her book of poems Cables to Rage came out of her time and experiences at Tougaloo.

From 1977 to 1978 Lorde had a brief affair with the sculptor and painter Mildred Thompson. The two met in Nigeria in 1977 at the Second World Black and African Festival of Arts and Culture (FESTAC 77). Their affair ran its course during the time that Thompson lived in Washington, D.C.

The Berlin Years

In 1984 Audre Lorde started a visiting professorship in Berlin Germany at the Free University of Berlin. She was invited by Dagmar Schultz who met her at the UN “World Women’s Conference” in Copenhagen in 1980. While Lorde was in Germany she made a significant impact on the women there and was a big part of the start of the Afro-German movement. The term Afro-German was created by Lorde and some Black German women as a nod to African-American. During her many trips to Germany, she touched many women’s lives including May Ayim, Ika Hugel-Marshell, and Hegal Emde. All of these women decided to start writing after they met Audre Lorde. She encouraged the women of Germany to speak up and have a voice. Instead of fighting through violence, Lorde thought that language was a powerful form of resistance. Her impact on Germany reached more than just Afro-German women. Many white women and men found Lorde’s work to be very beneficial to their own lives. They started to put their privilege and power into question and became more conscious.

Because of her impact on the Afro-German movement, Dagmar Schultz put together a documentary to highlight the chapter of her life that was not known to many. Audre Lorde - The Berlin Years was accepted by the Berlinale in 2012 and from then was showed at many different film festivals around the world and received five awards. The film showed the lack of recognition that Lorde received for her contributions towards the theories of intersectionality.

Audre Lorde battled cancer for fourteen years. She was first diagnosed with breast cancer in 1978 and underwent a mastectomy. Six years later, she was diagnosed with liver cancer. After her diagnosis, she chose to become more focused on both her life and her writing. She wrote The Cancer Journals, which won the American Library Association Gay Caucus Book of the Year Award in 1981. She featured as the subject of a documentary called A Litany for Survival: The Life and Work of Audre Lorde, which shows her as an author, poet, human rights activist, feminist, lesbian, a teacher, a survivor, and a crusader against bigotry. She is quoted in the film as saying: “What I leave behind has a life of its own. I’ve said this about poetry; I’ve said it about children. Well, in a sense I’m saying it about the very artifact of who I have been.”

From 1991 until her death, she was the New York State Poet Laureate. In 1992, she received the Bill Whitehead Award for Lifetime Achievement from Publishing Triangle. In 2001, Publishing Triangle instituted the Audre Lorde Award to honour works of lesbian poetry.

Lorde died of liver cancer on November 17, 1992, in St. Croix, where she had been living with Gloria I. Joseph. She was 58. In an African naming ceremony before her death, she took the name Gamba Adisa, which means “Warrior: She Who Makes Her Meaning Known”.

Lorde focused her discussion of difference not only on differences between groups of women but between conflicting differences within the individual. “I am defined as other in every group I’m part of,” she declared. “The outsider, both strength and weakness. Yet without community there is certainly no liberation, no future, only the most vulnerable and temporary armistice between me and my oppression”. She described herself both as a part of a “continuum of women” and a “concert of voices” within herself.

Her conception of her many layers of selfhood is replicated in the multi-genres of her work. Critic Carmen Birkle wrote: “Her multicultural self is thus reflected in a multicultural text, in multi-genres, in which the individual cultures are no longer separate and autonomous entities but melt into a larger whole without losing their individual importance.” Her refusal to be placed in a particular category, whether social or literary, was characteristic of her determination to come across as an individual rather than a stereotype. Lorde considered herself a “lesbian, mother, warrior, poet” and used poetry to get this message across.

Lorde’s poetry was published very regularly during the 1960s—in Langston Hughes’ 1962 New Negro Poets, USA; in several foreign anthologies; and in black literary magazines. During this time, she was also politically active in civil rights, anti-war, and feminist movements.

In 1968, Lorde published The First Cities, her first volume of poems. It was edited by Diane di Prima, a former classmate and friend from Hunter College High School. The First Cities has been described as a “quiet, introspective book,”  and Dudley Randall, a poet and critic, asserted in his review of the book that Lorde “does not wave a black flag, but her blackness is there, implicit, in the bone”.

Her second volume, Cables to Rage (1970), which was mainly written during her tenure as poet-in-residence at Tougaloo College in Mississippi, addressed themes of love, betrayal, childbirth, and the complexities of raising children. It is particularly noteworthy for the poem “Martha,” in which Lorde openly confirms her homosexuality for the first time in her writing: "[W]e shall love each other here if ever at all.”

Nominated for the National Book Award for poetry in 1973, From a Land Where Other People Live (Broadside Press) shows Lorde’s personal struggles with identity and anger at social injustice. The volume deals with themes of anger, loneliness, and injustice, as well as what it means to be an African-American woman, mother, friend, and lover.

1974 saw the release of New York Head Shop and Museum, which gives a picture of Lorde’s New York through the lenses of both the civil rights movement and her own restricted childhood: stricken with poverty and neglect and, in Lorde’s opinion, in need of political action.

Despite the success of these volumes, it was the release of Coal in 1976 that established Lorde as an influential voice in the Black Arts Movement (Norton), as well as introducing her to a wider audience. The volume includes poems from both The First Cities and Cables to Rage, and it unties many of the themes Lorde would become known for throughout her career: her rage at racial injustice, her celebration of her black identity, and her call for an intersectional consideration of women’s experiences. Lorde followed Coal up with Between Our Selves (also in 1976) and Hanging Fire (1978).

In Lorde’s volume The Black Unicorn (1978), she describes her identity within the mythos of African female deities of creation, fertility, and warrior strength. This reclamation of African female identity both builds and challenges existing Black Arts ideas about pan-Africanism. While writers like Amiri Baraka and Ishmael Reed utilized African cosmology in a way that “furnished a repertoire of bold male gods capable of forging and defending an aboriginal black universe,” in Lorde’s writing “that warrior ethos is transferred to a female vanguard capable equally of force and fertility.”

Lorde’s poetry became more open and personal as she grew older and became more confident in her sexuality. In Sister Outsider: Essays and Speeches, Lorde states, "Poetry is the way we help give name to the nameless so it can be thought…As they become known to and accepted by us, our feelings and the honest exploration of them become sanctuaries and spawning grounds for the most radical and daring ideas." Sister Outsider also elaborates Lorde’s challenge to European-American traditions.

The Cancer Journals (1980), derived in part from personal journals written in the late seventies, and A Burst of Light (1988) both use non-fiction prose to preserve, explore, and reflect on Lorde’s diagnosis, treatment, and recovery from breast cancer. In both works, Lorde deals with Western notions of illness, treatment, and physical beauty and prosthesis, as well as themes of death, fear of mortality, victimization versus survival, and inner power.

Lorde’s deeply personal novel Zami: A New Spelling of My Name (1982), described as a “biomythography,” chronicles her childhood and adulthood. The narrative deals with the evolution of Lorde’s sexuality and self-awareness.

In Sister Outsider: Essays and Speeches (1984), Lorde asserts the necessity of communicating the experience of marginalized groups in order to make their struggles visible in a repressive society. She emphasizes the need for different groups of people (particularly white women and African-American women) to find common ground in their lived experience.

One of her works in Sister Outsider: Essays and Speeches is “The Master’s Tools Will Never Dismantle the Master’s House.” Lorde questions the scope and ability for change to be instigated when examining problems through a racist, patriarchal lens. She insists that women see differences between other women not as something to be tolerated, but something that is necessary to generate power and to actively “be” in the world. This will create a community that embraces differences, which will ultimately lead to liberation. Lorde elucidates, “Divide and conquer, in our world, must become define and empower."  Also, one must educate themselves about the oppression of others because expecting a marginalized group to educate the oppressors is the continuation of racist, patriarchal thought. She explains that this is a major tool utilized by oppressors to keep the oppressed occupied with the master’s concerns. She concludes that in order to bring about real change, we cannot work within the racist, patriarchal framework because change brought about in that will not remain.

Another work in Sister Outsider: Essays and Speeches is “The Transformation of Silence into Language and Action.*” Lorde discusses the importance of speaking, even when afraid because one’s silence will not protect them from being marginalized and oppressed. Many people fear to speak the truth because of how it may cause pain, however, one ought to put fear into perspective when deliberating whether to speak or not. Lorde emphasizes that “the transformation of silence into language and action is a self-revelation, and that always seems fraught with danger."  People are afraid of others’ reactions for speaking, but mostly for demanding visibility, which is essential to live. Lorde adds, “We can sit in our corners mute forever while our sisters and ourselves are wasted, while our children are distorted and destroyed, while our earth is poisoned; we can sit in our safe corners mute as bottles, and we will still be no less afraid."  People are taught to respect their fear of speaking more than silence, but ultimately, the silence will choke us anyway, so we might as well speak the truth.

In 1980, together with Barbara Smith and Cherríe Moraga, she co-founded Kitchen Table: Women of Color Press, the first U.S. publisher for women of color. Lorde was State Poet of New York from 1991 to 1992.

Her writings are based on the “theory of difference,” the idea that the binary opposition between men and women is overly simplistic; although feminists have found it necessary to present the illusion of a solid, unified whole, the category of women itself is full of subdivisions.

Lorde identified issues of class, race, age, gender, and even health– this last was added as she battled cancer in her later years– as being fundamental to the female experience. She argued that, although differences in gender have received all the focus, it is essential that these other differences are also recognized and addressed. “Lorde,” writes the critic Carmen Birkle, “puts her emphasis on the authenticity of experience. She wants her difference acknowledged but not judged; she does not want to be subsumed into the one general category of ‘woman.’” This theory is today known as intersectionality.

While acknowledging that the differences between women are wide and varied, most of Lorde’s works are concerned with two subsets that concerned her primarily—race and sexuality. In Ada Gay Griffin and Michelle Parkerson’s documentary A Litany for Survival: The Life and Work of Audre Lorde, Lorde says, "Let me tell you first about what it was like being a Black woman poet in the ‘60s, from jump. It meant being invisible. It meant being really invisible. It meant being doubly invisible as a Black feminist woman and it meant being triply invisible as a Black lesbian and feminist".

In her essay “The Erotic as Power,” written in 1978 and collected in Sister Outsider, Lorde theorizes the Erotic as a site of power for women only when they learn to release it from its suppression and embrace it. She proposes that the Erotic needs to be explored and experienced wholeheartedly, because it exists not only in reference to sexuality and the sexual, but also as a feeling of enjoyment, love, and thrill that is felt towards any task or experience that satisfies women in their lives, be it reading a book or loving one’s job. She dismisses “the false belief that only by the suppression of the erotic within our lives and consciousness can women be truly strong. But that strength is illusory, for it is fashioned within the context of male models of power.”  She explains how patriarchal society has misnamed it used it against women, causing women to fear it. Women also fear it because the erotic is powerful and a deep feeling. Women must share each others’ power rather than use it without consent, which is abuse. They should do it as a method to connect everyone in their differences and similarities. Utilizing, the erotic as power allows women to use their knowledge and power to face the issues of racism, patriarchy, and our anti-erotic society.

Contemporary feminist thought

Lorde set out to confront issues of racism in feminist thought. She maintained that a great deal of the scholarship of white feminists served to augment the oppression of black women, a conviction that led to angry confrontation, most notably in a blunt open letter addressed to the fellow radical lesbian feminist Mary Daly, to which Lorde claimed she received no reply. Daly’s reply letter to Lorde, dated 4½ months later, was found in 2003 in Lorde’s files after she died.

This fervent disagreement with notable white feminists furthered Lorde’s persona as an outsider: "In the institutional milieu of black feminist and black lesbian feminist scholars [...] and within the context of conferences sponsored by white feminist academics, Lorde stood out as an angry, accusatory, isolated black feminist lesbian voice".

The criticism was not one-sided: many white feminists were angered by Lorde’s brand of feminism. In her 1984 essay “The Master’s Tools Will Never Dismantle the Master’s House,” Lorde attacked underlying racism within feminism, describing it as unrecognized dependence on the patriarchy. She argued that, by denying difference in the category of women, white feminists merely furthered old systems of oppression and that, in so doing, they were preventing any real, lasting change. Her argument aligned white feminists who did not recognize race as a feminist issue with white male slave-masters, describing both as “agents of oppression.”

Lorde’s comments on feminism

In Audre Lorde’s “Age, Race, Class, and Sex: Women Redefining Difference,” she writes: “Certainly there are very real differences between us of race, age, and sex. But it is not those differences between us that are separating us. It is rather our refusal to recognize those differences, and to examine the distortions which result from our misnaming them and their effects upon human behavior and expectation.” More specifically she states: “As white women ignore their built-in privilege of whiteness and define woman in terms of their own experience alone, then women of color become ‘other’.”  Self-identified as “a forty-nine-year-old Black lesbian feminist socialist mother of two,”  Lorde is considered as “other, deviant, inferior, or just plain wrong”  in the eyes of the normative “white male heterosexual capitalist” social hierarchy. “We speak not of human difference, but of human deviance,”  she writes. In this respect, Lorde’s ideology coincides with womanism, which “allows black women to affirm and celebrate their color and culture in a way that feminism does not.”

Influences on Black Feminism

Lorde’s work on black feminism continues to be examined by scholars today. Jennifer C. Nash examines how black feminists acknowledge their identities and find love for themselves through those differences. Nash cites Lorde, who writes, “I urge each one of us here to reach down into that deep place of knowledge inside herself and touch that terror and loathing of any difference that lives there. See whose face it wears. Then the personal as the political can begin to illuminate all our choices." Nash explains that Lorde is urging black feminists to embrace politics rather than fear it, which will lead to an improvement in society for them. Lorde adds, “Black women sharing close ties with each other, politically or emotionally, are not the enemies of Black men. Too frequently, however, some Black men attempt to rule by fear those Black women who are more ally than enemy.”  Lorde insists that the fight between black women and men must end in order to end racist politics.

Personal Identity

Throughout Lorde’s career she included the idea of a collective identity in many of her poems and books. Audre Lorde did not just identify with one category but she wanted to celebrate all parts of herself equally. She was known to describe herself as African-American, black, feminist, poet, mother, etc. In her novel Zami: A New Spelling of My Name Lorde focuses on how her many different identities shape her life and the different experiences she has because of them. She shows us that personal identity is found within the connections between seemingly different parts of life. Personal identity is often associated with the visual aspect of a person, but as Lies Xhonneux theorizes when identity is singled down to just to what you see, some people, even within minority groups, can become invisible. In her late book The Cancer Journals she said “If I didn’t define myself for myself, I would be crunched into other people’s fantasies for me and eaten alive.” This is important because an identity is more than just what people see or think of a person, it is something that must be defined by the individual. “The House of Difference” is a phrase that has stuck with Lorde’s identity theories. Her idea was that everyone is different from each other and it is the collective differences that make us who we are, instead of one little thing. Focusing on all of the aspects of identity brings people together more than choosing one piece of an identity.

Audre Lorde and womanism

Audre Lorde’s criticism of feminists of the 1960s identified issues of race, class, age, gender and sexuality. Similarly, author and poet Alice Walker coined the term “womanist” in an attempt to distinguish black female and minority female experience from “feminism”. While “feminism” is defined as “a collection of movements and ideologies that share a common goal: to define, establish, and achieve equal political, economic, cultural, personal, and social rights for women” by imposing simplistic opposition between “men” and “women,” the theorists and activists of the 1960s and 1970s usually neglected the experiential difference caused by factors such as race and gender among different social groups.

Womanism and its ambiguity

Womanism’s existence naturally opens various definitions and interpretations. Alice Walker’s comments on womanism, that “womanist is to feminist as purple is to lavender,” suggests that the scope of study of womanism includes and exceeds that of feminism. In its narrowest definition, womanism is the black feminist movement that was formed in response to the growth of racial stereotypes in the feminist movement. In a broad sense, however, womanism is “a social change perspective based upon the everyday problems and experiences of black women and other women of minority demographics,” but also one that “more broadly seeks methods to eradicate inequalities not just for black women, but for all people” by imposing socialist ideology and equality. However, because womanism is open to interpretation, one of the most common criticisms of womanism is its lack of a unified set of tenets. It is also criticized for its lack of discussion of sexuality.

Lorde actively strived for the change of culture within the feminist community by implementing womanist ideology. In the journal "Anger Among Allies: Audre Lorde’s 1981 Keynote Admonishing the National Women’s Studies Association," it is stated that Lorde’s speech contributed to communication with scholars’ understanding of human biases. While “anger, marginalized communities, and US Culture” are the major themes of the speech, Lorde implemented various communication techniques to shift subjectivities of the “white feminist” audience. Lorde further explained that “we are working in a context of oppression and threat, the cause of which is certainly not the angers which lie between us, but rather that virulent hatred leveled against all women, people of color, lesbians and gay men, poor people—against all of us who are seeking to examine the particulars of our lives as we resist our oppressions, moving towards coalition and effective action.”

Audre Lorde and critique of womanism

A major critique of womanism is its failure to explicitly address homosexuality within the female community. Very little womanist literature relates to lesbian or bisexual issues, and many scholars consider the reluctance to accept homosexuality accountable to the gender simplistic model of womanism. According to Lorde’s essay “Age, Race, Class, and Sex: Women Redefining Difference,” “the need for unity is often misnamed as a need for homogeneity.” She writes, “A fear of lesbians, or of being accused of being a lesbian, has led many Black women into testifying against themselves.”

Contrary to this, Audre Lorde was very open to her own sexuality and sexual awakening. In Zami: A New Spelling of My Name, her famous “biomythography” (a term coined by Lorde that combines “biography” and “mythology”) she writes, “Years afterward when I was grown, whenever I thought about the way I smelled that day, I would have a fantasy of my mother, her hands wiped dry from the washing, and her apron untied and laid neatly away, looking down upon me lying on the couch, and then slowly, thoroughly, our touching and caressing each other’s most secret places.”  According to scholar Anh Hua, Lorde turns female abjection—menstruation, female sexuality, and female incest with the mother—into powerful scenes of female relationship and connection, thus subverting patriarchal heterosexist culture.

With such a strong ideology and open-mindedness, Lorde’s impact on lesbian society is also significant. An attendee of a 1978 reading of Lorde’s essay “Uses for the Erotic: the Erotic as Power” says: “She asked if all the lesbians in the room would please stand. Almost the entire audience rose.”

The Callen-Lorde Community Health Center is an organization in New York City named for Michael Callen and Audre Lorde, which is dedicated to providing medical health care to the city’s LGBT population without regard to ability to pay. Callen-Lorde is the only primary care center in New York City created specifically to serve the LGBT community.

The Audre Lorde Project, founded in 1994, is a Brooklyn-based organization for queer people of color. The organization concentrates on community organizing and radical nonviolent activism around progressive issues within New York City, especially relating to queer and transgender communities, AIDS and HIV activism, pro-immigrant activism, prison reform, and organizing among youth of color.

The Audre Lorde Award is an annual literary award presented by Publishing Triangle to honor works of lesbian poetry, first presented in 2001.

In 2014 Lorde was inducted into the Legacy Walk, an outdoor public display in Chicago, Illinois that celebrates LGBT history and people.

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• Audre Lorde: Empowering Feminism Through Poetry

Audre Lorde , a prominent African American poet, writer, and activist, left an indelible mark on the world of feminist literature. Through her powerful and evocative poetry, Lorde explored the complexities of identity, race, sexuality, and gender, making her a pioneer in the feminist movement. Her poems continue to resonate with readers, challenging societal norms and inspiring women to embrace their authentic selves. This article delves into Lorde's poems about feminism, showcasing her unique perspective and unwavering commitment to social justice.

1. "A Litany for Survival"

2. "sister outsider", 3. "power".

One of Audre Lorde's most renowned poems is "A Litany for Survival." In this emotionally charged piece, Lorde emphasizes the importance of strength and resilience in the face of oppression. She speaks directly to marginalized women, calling for unity and empowerment. Here is an excerpt:

For those of us who live at the shoreline , standing upon the constant edges of decision, crucial and alone, for those of us who cannot indulge the passing dreams of choice, who love in doorways coming and going, in the hours between dawns, looking inward and outward, at once before and after, seeking a now that can breed futures like bread in our children's mouths so their dreams will not reflect the death of ours.

In this powerful verse, Lorde emphasizes the experiences of women who are denied agency and forced to navigate life's challenges alone. She highlights the importance of fighting for a better future for oneself and future generations.

In her collection of essays and speeches titled "Sister Outsider," Audre Lorde explores the intersections of race, gender, and sexuality. While not a poem in itself, this collection is an essential read for anyone seeking a deeper understanding of Lorde's feminist perspective. It contains her famous essay, "The Master's Tools Will Never Dismantle the Master's House," which challenges the limitations of mainstream feminism and calls for inclusive activism.

In "Power," Audre Lorde delves into the complexities of power dynamics and the impact they have on marginalized communities. She highlights the necessity of acknowledging one's power and using it to effect positive change. Here is an excerpt:

I have not been able to touch the destruction within me. But unless I learn to use the difference between poetry and rhetoric my power too will run corrupt as poisonous mold or lie limp and useless as an unconnected wire and one day I will take my teenaged plug and connect it to the nearest socket raping an 85 year old white woman who is somebody's mother and as I beat her senseless and set a torch to her bed a greek chorus will be singing in 3/4 time "Poor thing. She never hurt a soul. What beasts they are."

In this poignant poem, Lorde confronts the potential for power to be misused and abused. She calls for individuals to harness their power for justice and equality rather than perpetuating harm.

Audre Lorde's poems about feminism demonstrate her unwavering commitment to challenging societal norms and fighting for equality. Through her evocative words, she empowers marginalized women and encourages them to embrace their identities fully. Lorde's poetry continues to inspire generations of feminists, serving as a reminder that literature can be a powerful tool for social change.

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Audre Lorde

Poet and author Audre Lorde used her writing to shine light on her experience of the world as a Black lesbian woman and later, as a mother and person suffering from cancer. A prominent member of the women’s and LGBTQ rights movements, her writings called attention to the multifaceted nature of identity and the ways in which people from different walks of life could grow stronger together.

Audrey Geraldine Lorde was born on February 18, 1934 to Frederic and Linda Belmar Lorde, immigrants from Grenada. She was the youngest of three sisters and grew up in Manhattan. As a child, Lorde dropped the “y” from her first name to become Audre.

Lorde connected with poetry from a young age. She once commented, “I used to speak in poetry...when I couldn’t find the poems to express the things I was feeling, that’s what started me writing poetry.” She was around 12 or 13 at the time. She graduated from Hunter High School, where she edited the literary magazine. After an English teacher rejected one of her poems, Lorde submitted it to Seventeen magazine – it became her first professional publication.

After working a variety of jobs in New York and Connecticut, Lorde studied for a year at the National University of Mexico in Cuernavaca. It was there that she grew confident in her identity as both a lesbian and a poet. Lorde then earned her bachelor’s degree from Hunter College and a master’s degree in library science from Columbia University. She worked as a librarian in New York City public schools from 1961-1968.

In 1962, Lorde married Edwin Rollins, a white, gay man, and they had two children, Elizabeth and Jonathan. Lorde and Rollins divorced in 1970.

During the 1960s, Lorde began publishing her poetry in magazines and anthologies, and also took part in the civil rights, antiwar, and women’s liberation movements. Lorde published her first volume of poems, The First Cities , in 1968. That same year, she earned a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts and became the writer-in-residence at Tougaloo College, a historically Black college in Mississippi. There, she discovered her love of teaching and met Frances Clayton, a professor of psychology and her partner until 1989.

Lorde’s work was already notable for her strong expressions of African American identity, but her second anthology, Cables to Rage (1970), took on more overtly political themes, such as racism, sexism, and violence. It also included “Martha,” a poem that acknowledged her lesbianism. Her third collection, From a Land Where Other People Live (1973), was a finalist for a National Book Award for Poetry. Lorde’s work is characterized by its emphasis on matters of social and racial justice, as well as its authentic portrayal of queer sexuality and experience.

Lorde continued writing prolifically through the 1970s and 1980s, exploring the intersections of race, gender, and class, as well as examining her own identity within a global context. Her 1978 collection, The Black Unicorn , was inspired by a trip to Benin with her children. In it, she drew strength from a spiritual connection with the goddesses of African mythology. In 1982, Lorde released what she coined a “biomythography”: Zami: A New Spelling of My Name . Combining elements of history, biography, and myth, it told of Lorde’s journey of self-discovery and acceptance as a Black lesbian in her childhood and young adult years. Lorde’s 1984 collection, Sister Outsider: Essays and Speeches , included her canonical essay, “The Master’s Tools Will Never Dismantle the Master’s House,” which called on feminists to acknowledge the many differences among women and to utilize them as a source of power rather than one of division.

Diagnosed with breast cancer in 1977, Lorde found that the ordeals of cancer treatment and mastectomy were shrouded in silence for women, and found them even further isolating as a Black lesbian woman. Lorde felt that the narratives of coping and healing she did encounter were designed solely for white, heterosexual women. In an effort to combat this silence and to foster connection with other lesbians and women of color facing the same struggle, Lorde offered a raw portrait of her own pain, suffering, reflection, and hope in The Cancer Journals (1980). The book won the American Library Association’s Gay Caucus Book of the Year Award for 1981 and became a classic work of illness narrative.

Lorde’s advocacy on behalf of women, people of color, and the LGBTQ community continued outside her literary career as well. In 1979, she was a prominent speaker at the National March on Washington for Lesbian and Gay Rights. In 1981, with Barbara Smith and several other writers, Lorde founded Kitchen Table: Women of Color Press. Kitchen Table was devoted to promoting feminists of color and their writings. Lorde was also a founding member of Sisterhood in Support of Sisters in South Africa, an organization that advocated on behalf of women living under apartheid.

Lorde was a professor of English at John Jay College of Criminal Justice and Hunter College. She received many honors throughout her career including the 1990 Bill Whitehead Memorial Award and the 1991 Walt Whitman Citation of Merit, making her the Poet Laureate of the State of New York for 1991-1992. Her 1988 prose collection A Burst of Light won a Before Columbus Foundation National Book Award. Lorde earned honorary doctorates from Hunter College, Oberlin College, and Haverford College. In 2001, the Publishing Triangle association instituted the Audre Lorde Award for distinguished works of lesbian poetry. Lorde was posthumously elected to the American Poets Corner at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine in New York City in 2020.              

Lorde’s cancer returned and she passed away in 1992. Shortly before her death, she participated in an African naming ceremony in which she took the name Gamba Adisa. Befitting the writer who continually explored and expressed her self-identity, it means “Warrior: She Who Makes Her Meaning Known.”

Published June 2021.

Works Cited:

“Audre Lorde, 58, A Poet, Memoirist And Lecturer, Dies.” The New York Times . November 20, 1992. Accessed May 17, 2021. https://www.nytimes.com/1992/11/20/books/audre-lorde-58-a-poet-memoirist-and-lecturer-dies.html

“Audre Lorde.” Poetry Foundation. Accessed May 17, 2021. https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/audre-lorde

“Audre Lorde.” Poets.org. Accessed May 17, 2021. https://poets.org/poet/audre-lorde

“Audre Lorde, New York State Poet Laureate, Dead at 58.” AP News. November 18, 1992. Accessed May 17, 2021. https://apnews.com/article/a04031e9d7cfbb38fb4af5859d3257d5

Lorde, Audre. 2018. The Master’s Tools Will Never Dismantle the Master’s House . Penguin Modern. London, England: Penguin Classics.

Sullivan, James D. "Lorde, Audre (1934-1992), poet, essayist, and feminist." American National Biography.   Jan. 1, 2003; Accessed May 6, 2021. https://doi.org/10.1093/anb/9780198606697.article.1603482

Photo credit: "Audre Lorde" by K. Kendall is licensed under CC BY 2.0 https://search.creativecommons.org/photos/07aa8e3d-9e7d-490a-b36e-0fc622482670

How to Cite this page:

MLA – Brandman, Mariana. “Audre Lorde.” National Women’s History Museum, 2021. Date accessed.

Chicago – Brandman, Mariana. “Audre Lorde.” National Women’s History Museum. 2021. www.womenshistory.org/education-resources/biographies/audre-lord

Additional Resources:

De Veaux, Alexis. Warrior Poet: A Biography of Audre Lorde . New York: W.W. Norton, 2004.

Audre Lorde Collection, 1950-2002. Spelman College Archives. https://www.spelman.edu/docs/archives-guides/audre-lorde-collection-finding-aid---2020-final.pdf?sfvrsn=61876f51_0

Lorde, Audre., Gay, Roxane. The Selected Works of Audre Lorde . United States: W. W. Norton, 2020.

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Related background, “when we sing, we announce our existence”: bernice johnson reagon and the american spiritual', mary church terrell , belva lockwood and the precedents she set for women’s rights, women’s rights lab: black women’s clubs.

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Audre Lorde

Poet, essayist, and novelist Audre Lorde was born Audrey Geraldine Lorde on February 18, 1934, in New York City. Her parents were immigrants from Grenada. The youngest of three sisters, she was raised in Manhattan and attended Catholic school. While she was still in high school, her first poem appeared in Seventeen magazine. Lorde received her BA from Hunter College and an MLS from Columbia University. She served as a librarian in New York public schools from 1961 through 1968. In 1962, Lorde married Edward Rollins. They had two children, Elizabeth and Jonathon, before divorcing in 1970.

Her first volume of poems, The First Cities  (Poets Press), was published in 1968. In the same year, she became the writer-in-residence at Tougaloo College in Mississippi, where she discovered a love of teaching. At Tougaloo, she also met her long-term partner, Frances Clayton. The First Cities was quickly followed with Cables to Rage (Paul Breman, 1970) and From a Land Where Other People Live (Broadside Press, 1973), which was nominated for a National Book Award. In 1974, she published New York Head Shot and Museum  (Broadside Press). Whereas much of her earlier work focused on the transience of love, this book marked her most political work to date.

In 1976, W. W. Norton released her collection Coal and, shortly thereafter, published The Black Unicorn (1995). Poet Adrienne Rich said of The Black Unicorn that “Lorde writes as a Black woman, a mother, a daughter, a Lesbian, a feminist, a visionary; poems of elemental wildness and healing, nightmare and lucidity.” Her other volumes include Chosen Poems Old and New  (1982) and Our Dead Behind Us (1986), both published by W. W. Norton. Poet Sandra M. Gilbert noted not only Lorde’s ability to express outrage, but also that she was capable of “of rare and, paradoxically, loving jeremiads.” 

Lorde was diagnosed with breast cancer and chronicled her struggles in her first prose collection, The Cancer Journals (Spinsters, Ink, 1980), which won the Gay Caucus Book of the Year award for 1981. Her other prose volumes include Zami: A New Spelling of My Name (Crossing Press, 1982), Sister Outsider: Essays and Speeches (Crossing Press, 1984), and A Burst of Light (Firebrand Press, 1988), which won a National Book Award. She received a fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts in 1981.

In the 1980s, Lorde and writer Barbara Smith founded Kitchen Table: Women of Color Press. She was also a founding member of Sisters in Support of Sisters in South Africa, an organization that worked to raise concerns about women under apartheid.

Audre Lorde was a professor of English at John Jay College of Criminal Justice and Hunter College. She was the poet laureate of New York from 1991–92. She died of breast cancer in 1992. The Collected Poems of Audre Lorde  (W. W. Norton) was published in 1997. In 2021, Lorde was inducted to the American Poets Corner at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine. 

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Home > Poems & Essays > On Poetry > Carl Phillips on Audre Lorde

Carl Phillips on Audre Lorde

In May of 1970, Audre Lorde visited Fassett Studio to record a reading for Harvard’s Woodberry Poetry Room .

The Fonograf Editions  12″ LP of this reading includes a 12-page liner notes booklet with poems by Fred Moten and Pamela Sneed; and essays by Tongo Eisen-Martin, Alexis Pauline Gumbs, and Carl Phillips, whose essay is reprinted here.

Carl Phillips on Audre Lorde Until listening to this recording, I’d never heard Audre Lorde’s speaking voice. I don’t think I had any particular preconceptions of how she’d sound. I just hoped she wouldn’t disappoint me the way so many of my poetry idols have, once I’ve heard them read; it’s amazing how many poets seem unable to read their own work well, by which I mean with a confidence that doesn’t shun humility, and with a persuasiveness that avoids sounding pedantic.

Confident and persuasive from the start, Lorde doesn’t disappoint. What I was most immediately struck by, though, was the exactness of phrasing Lorde gives to each word, something that goes beyond mere enunciation – this reading is like a master class in elocution. And as it turns out, this isn’t just a style that Lorde adopts when reading her poems; she sounds the same when speaking casually in between the poems. I don’t want to make too much of what quite likely was just how Lorde grew up speaking, instinctively. But in the context of this reading, and of Lorde’s body of work, I hear a very deliberate insistence on precision – precision as the main weapon with which to negotiate a world where the stakes – politically, bodily, in love and in war – are always decisively high. Michael Palmer has spoken of words as a sacrament to be handled accordingly with great care. For Lorde, it’s as if great care were necessary, yes, but more because, for her, language is not so much sacred as explosive: I am making something dangerous here, Lorde seems to say, I could do great damage with what I make; I could destroy myself, if careless, in the course of making. Hence, a slowness, a deliberateness to the delivery of the poems aloud. The danger of language, Lorde knows well, is that it can so easily mislead or flat-out deceive. We’re constantly moving through what (in “Song”) she calls a “forest of falsehoods,” and the medium by which those falsehoods get deployed is language itself, words, and what they can be made to stand for. Lorde shows how this works, racially, in her poem “The American Cancer Society Or There Is More Than One Way to Skin a Coon,” in which she sees the “seductive and reluctant admission” that Black people are in fact human as evidence of how the “American cancer” (note how she leaves out “Society,” no longer speaking of the organization specifically but of the more general American condition) destroys by “dump[ing] its symbols onto Black People/Convincing proof that those symbols are now useless/And far more lethal than emphysema.” It seems another point of precision, to follow this poem with “Sewerplant Grows in Harlem Or I’m a Stranger Here Myself When Does the Next Swan Leave,” which Lorde introduces by giving some context: a garbage disposal plant originally to be built in mid-town Manhattan has been relocated to the Harlem neighborhood where Lorde herself lives. The city council, she says, offered no explanation. But even in the withholding of language – of explanation – there’s an implied message. What does it say, without saying?” “How easy it is to take the form for substance,” Lorde says in her remarks just before her reading of “Naturally,” going on to say that “it’s an error Black people can’t afford to make now, today – or ever, I think.” In the context of language, it becomes all the more crucial to distinguish what’s said from what’s meant, and not to confuse silence with emptiness: silence, too, often means a great deal, the silence of the city council being one very loud example. The context isn’t limited, though, to the intersections of marketing, corporate greed and indifference, race, and societal restiveness. Often, for Lorde, the context is human intimacy, where again language often suggests or signifies one thing and can mean another. In “Summer Oracle,” after speaking of a magician’s cloak “covered with signs of destructions and birth,” Lorde addresses an apparent beloved, describes their body as “close, hard, essential, under its cloak of lies.” How to get at what’s essential, at the essence – of ourselves, of those whom we love, of a society that seems reluctant, at best, to include all of us? “I am trying to tell this without art or embellishment,” Lorde says in “Blood Birth.” The poems display great artistry, of course. But it’s also the case that, as with how she reads, what for Lorde defines artistry is a spareness, an exactness, an avoidance of overcrowding a poem with images; Lorde knows the single right image is much more powerful than several less carefully chosen ones. She also understands the potential (the tendency?) of images, when brought together, to work in unison as camouflage – form that can distract from the substance behind it. It’s an odd conundrum. The work of a poet is to gather words and imagery together to convey a particular meaning or set of meanings. But the imperative that goes with that is to recognize how words, like imagery, when brought together can deceive us. And Lorde suggests, even in how she’s arranged her set of poems for this recording, that this deception has the potential to occur in contexts that straddle public and private. It seems very purposeful how, right after a sequence of overtly ‘political’ poems – “The American Cancer Society…,” “Sewerplant Grows in Harlem…,” and “A Ballad of Black Childhood” – Lorde casually announces that the next three poems “are love poems,” which are then followed by “Conversations in Crisis,” where she could as easily be addressing a lover or a corporation when she distinguishes her addressee’s words from “the false heat in the voice,” a distinction that alerts her to the power of words to deceive: this is what marketing knows, this is what those whom we trust most intimately also know – what we ourselves know. Who of us hasn’t betrayed someone, even if incidentally, even if it’s ourselves we betrayed? “Take my word for jewel” – that’s how Lorde, aloud and on the page, delivers each word, with a consciousness of any word’s value, and of its powers both to destroy and to illuminate. “Some words/Bedevil me.” Love is a word, too: Love is a word another kind of open – As a diamond comes into a knot of flame I am black because I come from the earth’s inside Take my word for jewel in your open light. For me, these lines say everything about Lorde’s gift to American letters, namely, her commitment to the poet’s responsibility to look honestly, truthfully, at the worlds around and within us, to find the essence of human interiority – “the total black, being spoken/From the earth’s inside” – and to understand it through the clarity of open light, “another kind of open.” We have everything to lose – and, being mortal, we must inevitably eventually lose it. All the more reason to take the full measure and value of what we have – this life – and to honor it by giving voice to each flashing aspect of it, word by word, jewel by jewel. Precision in this context becomes more than strategy. It’s an act of rescue – a choice. It’s an act of love.

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Audre Lorde’s Berlin: Honoring Black Transnational Feminisms

By nwsa staff posted 3 days ago.

Dr. Heidi R. Lewis and the Late Erika “Ika” Hügel-Marshall (1947-2022) in Berlin Photo Credit: Dr. Heidi R. Lewis (2021)

“Many years have now passed, and Heidi is still interested in the further development of the Black Diasporic movement in Germany and in transnational exchange. She remains committed to ensuring students broaden their view of Germany with its still too obscure Black history, especially because many in the U.S. who are familiar with the work of Audre Lorde often do not know her impact and the significance of her Berlin years. It is precisely these lessons that Heidi makes possible for her students through direct experiences and encounters. It is a great tribute to Audre, but also to us activists of the Black German movement, that Heidi continues to cross the Atlantic and follow in Audre’s footsteps, ensuring we remain both visible and tangible.” —Ika Hügel-Marshall, Ria Cheatom, Jasmin Eding, and Judy Gummich “Foreword,”   In Audre’s Footsteps: Transnational Kitchen Table Talk   (2021)

It's Juneteenth month! It's Pride month! So, buckle up, because I bet you'll love this ride!

I’ve written and spoken at length about my work in Berlin, which is anchored in the  course  I’ve been teaching there since 2014. I’ve also written and spoken at length about the ways my work is inspired by Dr. W.E.B. Du Bois, Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Dr. Angela Y. Davis, and especially Audre Lorde, all who were significantly impacted by their time in Berlin. Here, I’ll note my students and I take walking tours at least twice weekly that are focused on German colonialism (led by my dear friend Dr.  Josephine Apraku ), the Holocaust (led by my friend  Adam Schonfeld ), the Berlin Wall, graffiti and street art, Queer history (led by my friend  Mal Pool ), and other critical topics. I point that out, because for the first time this year, we’ll be taking a two-day walking tour focused on Audre Lorde’s time in Berlin. This, however, isn’t the only first worth pointing out. The other is I’ll be conducting the tour—my first ever. For the remainder of this blog, allow me to give you an abbreviated “walk” through the sites we’ll visit and discuss. 1

Day One 

Initiative Schwarzer Menschen in Deutschland   (Initiative for Black People in Germany or ISD)

Frauenzentrum Schokofabrik

Ika and Audre met during one of Audre’s visits to Berlin in 1987. During breakfast at Café April one Sunday morning, Audre encouraged Ika to write a book about her life. In 1998, Ika published her autobiography,  Daheim unterwegs: Ein deutsches Leben , which was translated to English three years later as  Invisible Woman: Growing Up Black in Germany . The book has won the Audre Lorde Literary Award and has been read by Ika at events across Germany, Austria, and the U.S.

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Summer 2024 Reading Preview Bad On Paper

  Summer is pretty much here, so we’re gathering bookish friends to talk about the books they’re excited to read this season!   Olivia’s books I Shouldn't Be Telling You This by Chelsea Devantez. (June 4) Youthjuice by EK Sathue (June 4)    Becca’s Books Blue Sisters by Coco Mellors (September 3) When the World Tips Over by Jandy Nelsonv (September 24)   Lyndsay Rush’s books Sandwich by Catherine Newman (Out June 18) Should We Go Extinct? By Todd May (Out August 6) Her poetry collection, A Bit Much, is out September 17   Alisha Ramos’s books Margo's Got Money Troubles by Rufi Thorpe (June 11) The God of the Woods by Liz Moore (Out July 2)   Grace Atwood’s books One-Star Romance by Laura Hankin (Out June 18) The Next Mrs. Parrish by Liv Constantine (Out June 18)   Caroline Chambers’ books Summer Romance by Annabel Monaghan Big Fan by Alexandra Romanoff Her book, What to Cook When You Don't Feel Like Cooking, is out August 13   Tembe Denton-Hurst’s books Survival Is a Promise: The Eternal Life of Audre Lorde by Alexis Pauline Gumbs Godwin by Joseph O'Neill Housemates by Emma Copley Eisenberg Her book Homebodies is out now!   Obsessions Becca: Hamptons Hotel Lobby Candle + Tiny Tates Olivia: Jocie B ASMR   What we read this week Becca: The Age of Magical Overthinking by Amanda Montell and The Paris Novel by Ruth Reichl   This Month’s Book Club Pick - Such a Bad Influence by Olivia Muenter (have thoughts about this book you want to share? Call in at 843-405-3157 or email us a voice memo at [email protected])   Sponsors Earth Breeze - go to earthbreeze.com/bop to cut out single-use plastic in your laundry room and claim forty percent off your subscription.   Join our Facebook group for amazing book recs & more!  Buy our Merch! Join our Geneva! Order Olivia’s Book, Such a Bad Influence and see her on her book tour! Find dates and details here. Subscribe to Olivia’s Newsletter! Order Becca’s Book, The Christmas Orphans Club! Subscribe to Becca’s Newsletter!  Follow us on Instagram @badonpaperpodcast. Follow Olivia on Instagram @oliviamuenter and Becca @beccamfreeman.  

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Your Mind Is Being Fracked

The historian of science d. graham burnett on what’s at stake in the rise of an extractive attention economy and how we can reclaim our attention..

[MUSIC PLAYING]

From New York Times Opinion, this is “The Ezra Klein Show.”

I think a lot about the way we talk about attention. Because the way we talk about something is the way we think about it. What do you always hear about attention when you’re in school? Pay attention, as if we have a certain amount of attention in our mental wallet, and we have to spend it wisely. We need to use it to buy algebra, rather than buying gossip or jokes or daydreams.

I wish that was how my attention worked. It certainly did not work that way then. I graduated high school with a 2.2 because I cannot pay attention. I just can’t, to information delivered in the form of long lectures. I wish I could. I try. My attention, it just doesn’t feel to me like something I get to spend.

It feels — I don’t know. It feels more like taking my dogs on a walk. Sometimes they walk where I want them to. Sometimes I’m in control, and sometimes I am not in control. They walk where they want to. They get scared by thunder, and they try to run away.

Sometimes a dog side-eyes them from across the street, and they turn from mild-mannered terriers into killing machines. Sometimes they are obsessively trying to get a chicken bone. And even when I hurry them past it, they spend the whole rest of the walk clearly thinking about that chicken bone and scheming about how to get back there.

My attention feels like that to me. And this is what I don’t like about the way we talk about attention. We are not always in control of it. We may not even usually be in control of it. The context in which our attention plays out, what kinds of things are around us, it really matters. And it’s supposed to. Attention is supposed to be open to the world around us.

But that openness, it makes us subject to manipulation. You really see that now when you open your computer or your phone. It’s like the whole digital street is covered in chicken bones. There’s lightning cracking overhead. There are always dogs barking.

And I worry about this for my own mental habits, for my kids, for everybody’s kids. I don’t think we’re creating an intentionally healthy world here. And so I keep looking for episodes we can do on this, and I keep feeling like we’re getting near it, but not quite there. Because the way we talk about attention, it just doesn’t feel rigorous enough to me. It doesn’t feel like it is getting at the experience of it well.

And so I keep looking for episodes we can do on this, people who have found a better way to study attention or talk about it or teach it. Then I was reading this piece on attention in “The New Yorker” by Nathan Heller, and I came across D. Graham Burnett, who’s doing all three.

He’s a historian of science at Princeton University. He’s working on a book about the laboratory study of attention. And he’s a co-founder of the Strother School of Radical Attention, which is a kind of grassroots, artistic effort to create a curriculum around attention. And yeah, that got my attention. As always, my email, [email protected].

D. Graham Burnett, welcome to the show.

Oh, it’s such a pleasure to be here. Thanks.

So you’ve written that our attention is getting fracked. What do you mean by that?

Fracking. I suspect most of your listeners have heard that term. Fracking is mostly associated with this idea of getting petroleum resources out of the earth. But it’s a new technology for doing that. In the old days, pre major exploitation of petroleum resources, there were these big, juicy zits of high-value crude oil just sitting there in the earth, waiting to geyser up if you tapped them. Drill a hole — whew, gusher.

We’ve tapped all that out. The only way you can get the remaining petroleum and natural gas resources out of the deep earth is to pump down in there high pressure, high volume detergent, which forces up to the surface this kind of slurry, mixture of natural gas, crude oil, leftover detergent, and juice and nasty stuff, which you then separate out, and you get your monetizable crude.

This is a precise analogy to what’s happening to us in our contemporary attention economy. We have a, depending on who you ask, $500 billion, $3 trillion, $7 trillion industry, which, to get the money value of our attention out of us, is continuously pumping into our faces high-pressure, high-value detergent in the form of social media and non-stop content that holds us on our devices. And that pumping brings to the surface that spume, that foam of our attention, which can be aggregated and sold off to the highest bidder.

How do you define what attention is?

I would love for us to use this whole conversation to roll up on the shores of that deepest question again and again. So let me go at it one way. I’m in the process of finishing a history of science book about the laboratory study of this thing called attention since about 1880. In laboratories, using experiments, scientists have, since the late 19th century, sliced and diced a human capacity that they’ve called attention.

And it is that work that they did that has made it possible, I would argue, to price the thing called attention that we’re invoking when we use that fracking metaphor. It’s entangled with the idea of stimulus and response. The earliest experimental work on attention is about sitting folks in laboratory chairs and showing them certain kinds of displays, a cursor, a flash.

That triggering or targeting conception of attention has been the primary way that scientists, experimental psychologists, engineers, have conceptualized and placed in evidence a thing called attention. When they started doing early eye tracking experiments to follow where people’s gaze went, how much information they could take in at a glance, and figuring out how to quantify that — largely, it should be said, financed by friends in the emerging advertising industry — there was a kind of unholy symbiotic relationship that emerged between certain forms of experimental psychology and those who were trying to study how to sell mouthwash and cigarettes.

When those folks were doing that kind of work, they were certainly talking about a thing that was attention. They could call it attention. And it’s very similar to the thing that, right now, the most powerful computational technologies, the most sophisticated programmers and the most intricate algorithms are madly working to aggregate and auction continuously.

In your research, what’s been the holiest or most unholy attention experiment you’ve come across?

Oh, I love that question. Well, let’s do unholy. And maybe you’ll give me two. In the interwar period, a set of experiments called pursuit tests were used to train and assess the capability of military aviators. Pursuit tests were attention experiments, a little like forerunners of video games. Imagine a cursor that moves around on a non-computer screen. This is manual, like a clockwork cursor that’s traveling back and forth in front of you.

And you have a little envelope, a mechanical envelope that you have to move, manipulate kind of with a joystick, to keep bracketing that cursor as it moves around in front of you. And then we hook you up to a rebreather so that you’re gradually deprived of oxygen.

That’s a big twist. [LAUGHS] I didn’t see that one coming.

Yeah, we might also hook you up with headphones and run a lot of really loud and distracting noise through them. And we could also ask you to pedal or do other exhausting things with your body. There are a whole set of ways we could complicate this ecology. And then, as you gradually lose consciousness, you’re asked to continue for as long as you can, manipulating this envelope around the cursor.

This was understood to be an attentional test. It’s cybernetic, as you can see. It’s a way of integrating humans with machines. It uses attentionality as a way of measuring the kind of mechanization of the human subject in relation to a machine. Some people are better at it than others.

And let me assure you, if you’re going to put somebody in the cockpit of one of these very expensive fighter planes, you want somebody who’s really good at that. So I would call that one kind of an unholy — I mean, let’s be clear. I’m —

Yeah, fixating fighter pilots to see what happens to their attention. Yeah, I’ll categorize that in the unholy.

Yeah, I don’t want to sound paranoiac either. I’m in favor of fighter pilots who are able to pay attention —

Yes, I understand why they were doing it.

OK, yeah. Nevertheless, you can get a little shiver when you think about the way now, we’ve been, if you like, cybernetically integrated into our devices. And you can see aspects of that reality prefigured in the genealogy of experimental work on attention that I’m describing.

I’ll give you another one. The development during the Second World War of radar created unprecedented opportunities for defense capabilities in relation particularly to German U-Boats. Nevertheless, no matter how good your radar is, if the person looking at the radar screen isn’t paying attention to it, you’re totally screwed.

A really intense set of classified experiments took place during the Second World War to assess a very new problem — how long could people pay attention to screens? And what could you do to optimize their ability to keep paying attention to screens for long periods of time? That work gives rise to an understanding of the way people cease to pay attention, what comes to be called the vigilance decrement, the drop-off in vigilance to a statistically low frequency phenomenon.

And that work, too, can give you a little shiver to come to understand that there is, again, this deep, technoscientific story of studying a thing that we recognize as attention, but studying it in this highly instrumentalized way that is entirely bound to questions of stimulus and response, to triggering and targeting.

And we see the legacy of that kind of work, to this day, in the way we think about attention. That attention was sliced and diced in laboratories. And that very same thing is what’s now being priced with these calamitous effects in the way we experience ourselves.

I’m so interested by that form of attention. And it gets at something that has bothered me about a lot of the writing on attention and some of the conversations I’ve had on the show about attention, which is, it’s so wound up in this idea of attention as being something we should always have agency over.

I think that implicitly, in a lot of discussion of attention and a lot of research around attention, the attentional goal seems to emerge as a worker who never breaks focus on their task across the entire day. And so the enemy of attention in this telling is distraction. And I do feel that as a worker, right? I come in and I open my computer, and I immediately feel distracted by messages coming and Slacks and a million things.

And then, at the same time, that discourse, it points somewhere I’d like to go, but not the only place I’d like to go, right? I don’t imagine the good life as being a life where I have the attentional capacity of the perfect worker. Right? A lot of what I’m interested in theory with attention is, a sort of more open form of awareness, an ability to see other people more deeply.

And I’m a meditator. And so one thing I notice a lot, over time, is that what I think I should be paying attention to, and then what appears to come up with great value to me are not the same thing. Right? Too much agency over my attention, too much control is a way of not hearing other things in the world, too.

You put your finger on, really, the heart of the matter. So I want to suggest that part of what makes the conversation around attention right now, both so difficult and so important, is that secreted within that term are, in fact, two very different projects bumping up against each other.

In a laboratory, you use instruments. As it turns out, if you use instruments to get at a thing called attention, you end up finding an instrumentalized form of attention. Is that form of attention real? Absolutely. In fact, the technologies for making it real are powerful. You can quantify it. You can place it in evidence experimentally. Is it part of what’s in that sort of worker conception of attention that you invoked? Yes, as it happens, it is.

But that other thing that you’re kind of calling in when you talk about meditation, when you talk about awareness, when we invoke the sort of experience of being, the kind of ecstasy that can come with a certain durational flow of immersion in a person, a conversation, a book, the experience of reading, an object, that comes from a different place. It’s also in the language of attention, and it has its own separate history.

If you want to see both those operating now, let me give you two recent theorists of attention, both very prominent, whose accounts of what attention is are absolutely contradictory, perfectly paradoxical, but sort of both, interestingly, true. Two biz school theorists, Davenport and Beck, do a book called “The Attention Economy.” I think it’s 2001. They don’t actually coin the phrase, but they’re responsible for it sort of exploding into the collective conversation.

How do they define attention in that book? They say attention is what triggers, catalyzes, awareness into action. Attention is what catalyzes awareness into action. Definition that couldn’t be more different — the recently deceased French philosopher Bernard Stiegler, in a beautiful and difficult book called “Taking Care of the Youth and the Generations,” centers that book on attention.

What does he say attention is? He says, attention, playing with the “attendre” in French, is waiting, the exact opposite of catalytic triggering. It’s waiting. It’s, in fact, for him, infinite waiting. And what are you waiting on when you attend to an object? Wait on it. He says you’re waiting on the disclosure of the long webs of connectedness that are in the object. Which long webs of connectedness are a mirroring of the rich, long webs of connectedness that are in you?

So let’s imagine for a second that there was a painting on the wall of this studio, and you and I were looking at it together. We might look at that painting. It might be, let’s say, a religious icon or something. And you and I would bring to the experience of looking at it what we have. We would notice colors. We would think about other images like it we might have seen. We would think about the other images that might not be here, but that could be or the symbolic things that are in it.

And as we experience that kind of web of things that are in the image, we’d really be sort of seeing a long web of connectedness that’s in ourselves. And so, for Stiegler, attention is waiting on the disclosure of those long webs of connectedness, which are a mirroring of our own infinitude in the world. Attention, infinite waiting. Attention, triggering. Sharp contrast.

And let me try to bring in a third thing that I think is kind of exquisitely poised over and outside of that contestation between those two. In the early 20th century novel “Wings of the Dove,” the American novelist Henry James describes a really beautiful and intense scene in which a very, very ill woman, terminally ill woman, has a fleeting encounter with the doctor she desperately needs. She believes this doctor kind of knows what she needs to survive. She hopes that this doctor can kind of get her past her anguish.

The doctor’s very busy, and James depicts the scene where the two of them sit for a moment. And he describes the doctor as placing on the table between them a clear, clean crystal cup, empty of attention, an empty crystal cup of attention that the doctor places on the table between them. And that sort of figuration of attention as a kind of an empty cup that we place between ourselves and the object of our attention is like, I think it exquisitely invokes that idea of imminence, that kind of negative capability.

Anything’s possible here, the gesture of generosity. It has a little bit of that sense of waiting, but it also has a sense of a solicitation. Something needs to happen. So it includes elements of that catalytic, and it includes elements of that kind of mirroring, waiting image. And so, when I have to talk about what I think attention is, I’ll often use that image. Like, what’s attention? Attention is that kind of empty cup we can place between ourselves and the things we care about in the world and see what happens.

You’ve talked about how attention is — or at least the way we think about it now, is a modern construct. Can you talk a bit about that?

Let me give you one of the most amazing arguments about attention that’s ever been made by anybody, by my distinguished colleague Jonathan Crary. Jonathan Crary is an art historian at Columbia University. In a book called “Suspensions of Perception,” published around 2000, he made a super challenging argument about where that language of attention comes from and why, in the late 19th century, the same time that the scientists start studying it in laboratories, everybody starts getting worried about it and talking about it in a very particular way.

Crary argues that you don’t see a lot of discussions about attention in the 1780s, 1790s, even 1820. It’s not a thing. He says that worry about attention comes into being across the second half of the 19th century in a very particular way because of a very specific set of transformations in the experience of personhood. Imagine white guys in wigs with knickers on.

Those guys thought of themselves as a little bit like a camera obscura, right? Those boxes that have a little pinhole in them, like a forerunner of the camera. And the mind is like that box. There’s a world out there. There’s a world in here. There’s a nice mapping function between those two worlds. And therefore I, as a propertied white male subject, am good in the world because the world is out there and in me, in a relatively unproblematic way.

Crary argues, I think correctly, that that way of conceptualizing the human, the classical model of human subjectivity, implodes across the second half of the 19th century. What kills it? What does it end? We discover that, in fact, everybody doesn’t have the same picture inside themselves as what’s out there in the world, that we’re these oozy things made of meat, you know? And that actually, our eyes have blind spots. And suddenly the sort of physiological complexity of sensation makes a mincemeat of the classical model.

So then where are you in this kind of blooming, buzzing confusion of modernity now that you’re like an opaque, thick meat creature, instead of this nice camera obscura creature? Well, Crary argues that attention is born in that moment as a way of saying, again, that I hold together as one being, as I confront or encounter the world. Where are you? You are where your attention is.

Your will maybe, that’s that idea that somehow will has something to do with it. That for William James, attention and will were almost inextricable, right? That free will itself, if it existed, its locus was the moment in which I could choose to give my attention here versus there. And while everybody recognized that there was involuntary attention, there was this deep sense that attention was born in the late 19th century as a new language for talking about the coherence of the human subject.

Let me offer two responses that come to mind, and starting here. So obviously, he knows the discourse around attention much better than I ever will. But the first thing that I know where there was a lot of discussion and conversation about attention, going far, far, far back before the 19th century, is within religion.

So in Christianity, you have deep attention to attention among different kinds of monks and monastics. Buddhism has that. There are traditions in Judaism around that. I’m sure there’s much more in other religions that I know less well. Prayer is an attentional question. Meditation is a technology of attention as it gets talked about now. But you can frame it in much more spiritual ways than that. So what should that make us think that there was so much more, perhaps, attention to attention within the monastic religious traditions?

It’s a great question again, and I share your interest in those forms of attention. I do want to say that while it is certainly true that people have been concerned about how to hold before their minds and their senses objects since forever, and that religious spaces have been central zones for that sort of combat of the senses and the will, if one actually digs in on that stuff, the language often isn’t sort of the language we would use.

Contemplation, for instance, was a central preoccupation of monks.

But if you had brought them the kinds of questions that are getting asked by the early 20th century concerning that sort of stimulus response phenomenon or even the ways that William James will talk about attention, that would have been unrecognizable to them. That said, much of my own interest in attention actually comes out of my own meditational life as well. I care deeply about the spiritual traditions that inform our resources, as we begin to think about what to do now.

And there are some 20th century thinkers who have commented in really profound ways on the relationship between prayer and the thing we are now worried about when we talk about attention. The great French mystic Simone Weil comes to mind.

So Simone Weil, who skirted up to the edge of Christianity in different ways, but never crossed over, was a political activist, a labor activist, and ultimately, a kind of social justice martyr across the era of the Second World War, wrote passionately that pure, unmixed attention is prayer.

So for her, if you like apophatic attention, attention that won’t have an easy object or end or purpose. When I say apophatic, I invoke the tradition of negative theology, right? Two theological traditions. One where you try to get at God directly, one where you say, look, God is so beyond us. We’re not going to get to God. We’re finite creatures. God is infinite.

Our best chance to get anything like the God space is to enumerate everything that’s not God to get at God via the via negativa, the negative way. So we will enumerate the cloud of unknowing, rather than getting all puffed up with ourselves that we’re having a conversation with God.

I would argue that Simon Weil’s account of attention as a sort of radical, pure emptying of one’s self, an openness to immanence, is apophatic. It’s an attention that isn’t triggerable. It won’t target. You can’t bring it out in stimulus and response experimentations because it waits in a kind of ecstatic and infinite openness for that which it knows not.

So that’s the other question that comes up for me. There is an argument that what we are saying about attention now is just another moral panic of the kind we’ve been having since the early 19th century, that people were complaining about how we were losing our attention then. Trains were too fast, life was too fast. Everybody’s reading newspapers.

And it’s the same arguments, and yet, it’s all been fine. We worried about this with the advent of radio, with the advent of television. It just comes up and up and up and up. And then we just kind of move on to the next thing, and we worry about it again. And when people think about the attentional golden age, to the extent they imagine it, they don’t mean the 15 century. They mean right before whatever the thing they’re worried about now is, right?

Blogging was great. Social media was too far. Or if blogging was too much, newspapers were great, but digital news is too far. How do you think about that concern that you and me, we are aging and just part of a perennial moral panic?

I’m sympathetic to that critique of all this. By the same token, people have been deeply right, again and again, that things were changing. And things have changed in ways that were catastrophic, in addition to changing in ways that have been transformative and good. And some measure of what we need out of historical consciousness is the kind of critical discernment to make those judgments.

So, was there a moral panic about advertising in the early 20th century? There sure was. Why? Because people started experimenting with projecting advertisements using very bright lights, arc lamps on the underside of clouds. And everyone was like, this is horrible. I don’t want to read soap ads like on the night sky. And then people began to think it would be amazing to have amplified screaming ads floating in the air over cities so that you would have continuous barrages of sound advertisements in space. Also, horrible.

New technologies do really make possible new forms of human exploitation. This is real. The factory system certainly improved life in lots of ways. It made available much less expensive textiles, for instance. But you’d have to be out of your mind not to recognize that the aggregation of labor in the satanic mills of Lancashire created monstrous new labor conditions, against which people had to gather together and mount resistance.

I would argue that we are in a moment now in which this human fracking and the essentially unregulated commodification of this precious stuff out of which we make ourselves the instrument of our being, this is creating conditions that are at odds with human flourishing. We know this. And we need to mount new forms of resistance.

We don’t know yet what the forms of resistance will be, just like those early resistors in the factory system didn’t yet understand the way that labor politics and trade unionism would emerge as meaningful technologies of collective action. We don’t yet know what forms of resistance are going to emerge. That is what we need, is like all hands on deck for a kind of attention activism that raises our awareness. And this work is happening in lots of different places already. And we need to see what happens with it in the years ahead.

Maybe this is a digression, maybe it’s not, because you’re a historian who has dealt with this question, I think, a bunch. I’m fascinated by the way we think about past moral panics. Call them moral panics, right? The very term assumes just a hysteria that then went away. Often, when I go back and I read critics of a previous technological moment, it’s true on one level that, obviously, the world did not come to an end. We’re sitting here talking. And it is also often true that they were right.

You go back and read Neil Postman’s “Amusing Ourselves to Death,” and the thing he is predicting roughly will eventually happen is that we will think everything must be entertainment. And so even things that should not be entertainment will become driven by and assessed on the values of entertainment. And it is just like a direct line to Donald Trump. And you could say, oh, we had a previous moral panic about television, or you could say, all these people were right. The world didn’t end, but a lot of bad things actually did happen.

I think about this with advertising. Mid-century, there is a tremendous amount of critique and interest in the rise of advertising. You can read “The Affluent Society” by John Kenneth Galbraith, and he’s very interested in this question. And my sense is, among economists and others, that’s looked back on as a little bit embarrassing, right? Like, look, there’s advertising, and it’s fine.

And I don’t know. I’m actually amazed. I moved to New York about a year ago. I’m amazed at how much advertising is permitted on the subway. Public space, right? The subway I would go into for a long time, it had a grayscale image advertising “The Exorcist” reboot — horrifying image, like two girls, black [INAUDIBLE] dripping from their mouth. I mean, just grotesque. Every morning, I would see it.

And it seems a little bit dystopic. This is public space. Why am I being — why every morning, when I bring my five-year-old onto the subways, he’s seeing an ad for a horror movie? But we’ve just gotten used to it.

I’m curious how you think about this discourse, this sense that the things we worried about in the past, we were obviously wrong to worry about. And as such, worrying about things in the present is probably going to be wrong, too. Because eventually, we’ll simply make our peace with it, and the world will move on. And if it does that, then, clearly, it was fine.

Yeah. Where even to begin? Oh, my heavens. I mean, those who have worried that things were getting worse have been essential to our being clear-eyed about our condition again and again. The process by which money value has displaced other languages of value, big picture, that’s one of the enormous secular trends one can discern over the last 150, 200 years. And I would say many of the things you just invoked are, in effect, explicable out of that dynamic.

Now, I don’t want to sound reactionary when I say that, and I also don’t wish to kind of invoke some fantasy utopia of the past, but we are more severed from each other now than at any time in human history, even as we have this kind of ersatz experience of our being aggregated in new and powerful ways.

We’ve seen dynamics that simultaneously severed us from each other and created new aggregations, for instance, the rise of nationalism across the 19th century, which was a kind of harrowing ideology that created new forms of collective identity and displaced experiences of intimacy at the same time with monstrous consequences. So it’s totally reasonable, I believe, to be extremely uneasy about the dynamics that we’re seeing.

One thing that has, again, bothered me about a lot of the discourse on attention is, I think, because we don’t have a good definition of it itself, we don’t, I think, think about it very clearly. We know what we often don’t want. A lot of us don’t want the feeling, the fractured, irritated, outraged feeling we have on social media or online. We don’t like learning and noticing in ourselves that the amount of time we spend on any single task on the computer has dropped and dropped and dropped.

A lot of us have this experience of fracture. So we know what we don’t want — this. I don’t think we have a very good, positive vision. How do you think about the creation of a positive vision of attention, given the extraordinary diversity of human experience and wants?

Yeah, it’s a very hard question. In a sense, you’re asking both a question about authority and also asking a question about prescription. Are we going to prescribe for people this versus that, and who will prescribe? I think of the extraordinary definition of education that Gayatri Spivak offers, which is the non-coercive rearranging of desire. What’s education? The non-coercive rearranging of desire.

And that rings for you?

I have to say it does.

That’s not how my education felt to me.

Well, I don’t think a lot of our educations work that way. So I would say that that’s a richly humanistic and, at the same time, critical account of education. It’s not especially an account of education that conduces to making optimized workers in the labor force.

But let’s just sort of unpack it for a second. We organize our lives around desire in some basic sense. You say, we just tell people that they shouldn’t want, enjoy, receive that little dopamine hit, feel good when they’re scrolling through TikTok. Well, OK. Our desires can go lots of different places. It’s also possible for us to put our desires in places that ultimately lead to our being unhappy and lonely, not flourishing.

The question of how to organize our desires, how to know what it is we want that is what we really want, or what, in wanting, most dignifies and extends our experience of being, as opposed to, again, severing and impoverishing us. That’s the hard work of education. And people have to work that stuff out for themselves, but also, they have to work that stuff out with other people.

That’s, in a sense, why the humanistic tradition brings with it tradition, stuff, the kind of best that’s been thought and said — texts, objects. Here, here, look at this. It’s not, “look at this, I’m going to force you.” It’s, “I want you non-coercively to discover that in being with this in these ways, something good will happen.”

Yeah, let me hold on to this idea of non-coercion. So first, for me, education was coercive. I did not want to spend eight hours a day sitting in these small classrooms being lectured at. Just didn’t. I had to — which I don’t think is a bad thing. I am not really one of these people who thinks that childhood should be up to the whims of the child. I don’t think I would have made good decisions as a kid. I’m not sure the decisions made for me were great decisions either — but nevertheless.

And something that has been on my mind has been how bad, I think, parents, at least of certain classes right now, have gotten at coercion. And it worries me because my kids are young. So it’s kind of easy right now, but I know it’s going to get harder. And I see all these parents who know that they don’t think their kids should have a smartphone when they’re 11. And they fall because, eh, the other kids do.

And I see in this debate that we’re having right now about smartphones and kids, what I would describe as a real discomfort with how to be paternalistic when paternalism is actually needed. So Jon Haidt writes his book, “The Anxious Generation.” Part of the book’s thesis is that smartphones and social media have kicked off a mental health crisis in our children. Then there’s a huge back and forth on these exact studies.

And one thing I really noticed in this whole debate, where I think the research is very complicated and you can fairly come to a view on either end of it, is that if you convinced me that my kids scroll on their phones for four hours a day, had no outcome on their mental health at all — it did not make them more anxious — it did not make them more depressed — it would change my view on this not at all. I just think, as a way of living a good life, you shouldn’t be staring at your phone for four hours a day.

And yet, I also realize the language of society right now and parenting doesn’t have that much room for that. And I think we have a lot of trouble talking about just what we think a good life would be. Not a life that leads to a good job, not a life that leads to a high income, but just the idea, which I think we were more comfortable talking in terms of at other points in history, that it is better to read books than to not read books, no matter if you can measure that on somebody’s income statement or not.

And so I wonder not just about the non-coercive rearranging of desire, but I also wonder about — I mean, I don’t love calling it the coercive rearranging of desire, but the ability to talk about what we think we should desire or socially approve of, and then particularly for younger kids, for whom their attentional resources are being formed, actually insist upon that.

So I want to ask you back a question in response to that, which is, just, where do you anchor your intuition that it is, say, better to read a book than it is to scroll on TikTok for four hours?

If I’m being honest as a parent, right — and I’m not saying I would legislate this — I anchor it in my own experience of attention. I think books are remarkable and specific in their ability to simultaneously allow for a deep immersion in somebody else, right? Another human being’s story or thoughts or mind, and also create a lot of space for your own mind wandering. And I will say — and it’s one of the reasons I wanted to invite you on the show. We’ll talk about the School of Attention that you’re part of in a bit. I will say that my biggest concern and the concern that nobody really has an answer to for me, because I do want to send my kids to public school, is that I care less about how they are taught subjects than how they are taught attention, what kind of attention they’re able to bring to the things they will want to know. But again, the thing that worries me is that I see so little discourse like that.

I’m enormously moved by what you’re saying. The dynamics that you’re describing are not unfolding in empty space. They’re unfolding in relation to a basically unbridled dynamic of financial optimization. Like, we just can’t leave capitalism out of this. The system in which we operate is centrally driven by return on investment, not by human flourishing.

And there may be no other way to organize large, modern, complex societies. But we would be insane not continuously to hold before us the essential adversary here. The corporations are not on our sides. And the fact that a major split of our contemporary economy has figured out how to monetize not just our labor, but our actual ability to give ourselves to what we care about, is extremely bad for our ability to continue to be non-inhuman beings.

I think I’m getting at something similar when I talk about my discomfort with how hard we find it to criticize choice. People mean a lot of things when they talk about neoliberalism, and I don’t love the term, one, because I think it annoys people and shuts them down. But the other is because it’s imprecise. But the thing I mean, when I talk about neoliberalism and the neoliberal age, is a period in which the logic of markets became the logic.

Absolutely.

And I think it has become very difficult to think outside of market logic. And when I read older texts, I see a lot more discussion of the good of virtues of — and a lot of it is very religiously inflected, to be fair. I mean, religion was an alternative structure of logic of meaning that was in contestation with economic ways of thinking about that. I think as religion has weakened not only as an organized force, but as a kind of conceptual way of looking at the world, capitalism market logic has taken over a lot of that space. And the market does not have our interests at heart.

You invoke religion as one of the traditions on which one has been able to draw for a discourse of value that would not reduce to money value. I would invoke to other kinds of institutions that have been really important. There’s the space of education. I mean, I basically believe that a lot of what we do in the humanities is a training of attention.

And partially, that’s like why we have to hold on to and protect spaces for humanistic work in our education, because a lot of the other stuff can be instrumentalized. It’s part of the reason it’s getting increasingly exterminated from universities because you can’t monetize it. And but I say all of that just because interpretation or meaning is so inextricable from the labor of attention.

And there’s a third, which I also think is interesting to consider, which is spaces of art, music, aesthetics. I mean, artists have always made fun of the bourgeois collector who showed up with a giant bag of money and said, show me the most expensive thing, and I’ll take it. And the people in the know and the space of the arts would snicker and say, how callow that he walked out with that. That’s not the good stuff.

So each of those spaces, spaces of religion and institutions of education, study, teaching, and learning, and then museums and spaces of artistic production, symphonies, music, each of those institutions has meaningful traditions of non-instrumentalizable attention.

Is attention the category of the thing we want or a subcategory of the thing that we want? So sometimes I wonder if attention is a word like health. If I told you health is important, you’d nod your head. You’re nodding your head, in fact, right now. If I said, I’m really trying to work on my health, on the one hand, you would get what I meant by that. On some level, I don’t want to die soon and young for a preventable reason. But I also wouldn’t really tell you anything. There’s so many subcategories to health, right? You go to doctors for different parts of the body. And there’s mental health and fitness and different kinds of fitness and cardiovascular and strength. And sometimes when we talk about attention, it feels to me like we are talking about a thing like health, the entire basket of different forms of awareness and experience we use when we are moving through the world.

And sometimes it feels like we are talking about something very specific, right? Cardiovascular fitness, not health, right? And then alongside that, there are all these other things you might want to cultivate and be concerned about. Which one is it for you?

I think you put your finger exactly on that duplex nature of our discourse around attention. Both those notions are in the language of attention that we use. And I would argue that what’s important now is that we have the richest conversation about attention to surface it as our collective concern in the way that this podcast and all the podcasts you’ve done on this and the wide range of authors, like Jenny Odell and James Williams and Tim Wu, all these folks who’ve written on this.

We need more of all of that because — and here’s where your language of health is exactly right — what we need is a kind of almost revolutionary rising of our awareness around the importance of this stuff. I’m old enough to remember a period back when nobody went running. James F. Fixx, right? He wrote the book on running in — what was it — ‘77. Before that, regular people didn’t go jogging. They didn’t go running. People who ran were people who were sort of athletes or people in school because they were doing collective sports.

Also, there weren’t gyms that regular people went to. Right? There were places like Gold’s Gym, where you could go if you were a powerlifter or a boxer. I’m talking 1974 or ‘75. The whole idea that ordinary people would concern themselves with their fitness is something that’s emerged over the last 40 years. It’s staggering to consider the scale of the collective awareness of our physical well-being. Now, does that mean that health itself is a new idea? No, people have been worried about their health since forever. But the specific activation of fitness, that’s a relatively new thing, and it’s really changed in our lifetimes. And I’m proposing to you that that’s going to happen again. Over the next 40 years, a collective recognition that our wellness in our attentional lives, our hygiene and health and our attention, is going to be constitutive of our experience of being. This is what’s going to happen. It’s going to reshape education, which, as you’ve signaled, needs to be for and about attention. That’s what it needs to teach. And it’s going to transform our other ways of being together.

So you’re trying to do some of this. You have, along with others, this School of Attention. What are you trying to teach?

Yeah, I love this stuff. I mean, we think of the school as a little bit Black Mountain College, creative, artistic collaboration; a little bit like something like the Brooklyn Institute for Social Research, continuing education for people who want to read together and think and be together in person in a place; and then a little bit like the kind of radical labor schools of the teens and ‘20s, like the schools created by the International Ladies’ Garment Workers’ Union, which were more like activist projects to promote a certain kind of politics.

So that’s kind of the triangle in which we place the school. The school does not promote some single programmatic theory of attention. On the contrary, we’re interested in all the different traditions that can inform how we take attention forward. We had a senior Zen student do a course on Zen meditation as an intentional form. A class on cinematography as a medium in which attention is choreographed cinematically. A class on perfume where smell as a sensory modality is centered as a sort of attentional form.

We run workshops — and this is separate from the classes. We do free workshops. And the workshops are sort of opportunities to actually do some intentional stuff together, exercises in which people will, for instance, listen four times to the same four-minute piece of music under, again, different sort of mental orientations, but collectively, then take some notes and talk out what happened as they sort of used their attention.

And possibly the coolest thing we do at the school are these things called sidewalk studies, in which between 5 and 10 people will get together, usually a bar or a cafe, and they’ll read a carefully selected paragraph closely together and talk about it seminar style, having a drink. That paragraph is on a card. When you flip the card over, there’s a thing to do together, like a street action, like a kind of situationist style activity.

So an example would be like a great Audre Lorde passage on food in the city. The action is going into a bodega and actually examining the bodega for where surveillance is happening, where nourishment is happening, and then moving to the second bar and talking through what it was like to be in the space of the bodega with the Audre Lorde passage in our heads together.

And there are dozens and dozens of these exercises that are continuously being invented by folks in the school and doing them together. They do it because it’s a way of being together and practicing attention together to generate forms of solidarity.

I’m interested in that idea of practicing attention together. With my kids, when I think about this, one of the things that I wonder is when I ask, what do I mean by I want them taught attention? Some part of it is just I want them to have familiarity, a visceral, somatic familiarity with what different kinds of attention feel like.

I’m not sure I had that for a very long time. I’d, of course, experienced many kinds of attention, but it’s only later in life I become more mindful of what they feel like. And that’s helped me diminish the role of some in my life. The reason I’m not on Twitter or X anymore is that I don’t like the feeling of the attention it furnishes. I don’t like how I feel when I leave it. The reason I’ve sort of moved back to paper books is I do like the feeling of the attention. I notice that it is healthier for me. It sounds to me a little bit like something you all are trying to do is just creating contexts in which you experience different kinds of attention, so you have that internal map you can work with.

Absolutely. It’s a do by doing kind of thing. You actually have to come together with other people and surface the question of attention and then experience what giving one’s attention with others can do to be reminded of how precious that feature of our being is and discover what can be returned from the world to themselves out of opening themselves to it intentionally.

So I thought a good place to end here would be to do the deep listening activity, or at least a truncated version of it that you described earlier. So how do you lead people through this?

OK, so this would be an example of one of the exercises we might do at one of the attention labs at the Strother School. And we always like to make clear that we borrow from lots of different traditions. So this is very much like the kinds of exercises that the wonderful sound artist genius, Pauline Oliveros, would use in her practice.

It’s not exactly like her stuff, but we always kind of talk a bit about Pauline Oliveros, and we set this one up. And there are other sound artists who inform the kind of stuff we care about, Annea Lockwood and others. The exercise is going to have four phases. I understand that you’ve got a sort of sound piece queued up.

We’ve got it.

OK we’re going to actually play it four times. So your listeners have to be ready. You’re going to hear that piece of music, which is about how many minutes would you say?

I think we’ve cut it to 30 seconds or so.

OK, so it’s 30 seconds. We normally do this for a little longer, but all right. So wherever you are, get ready. You’re going to hear this 30-second sound piece four times. And I’m going to give you the mood under which you’ll attend to it. First, just listen. OK? First, listen.

Second listen, recall. What have you heard before?

Third listen, discover. What do you hear for the first time?

And four, finally, don’t listen. What do you find when you don’t listen?

So let’s talk back and forth. An observation about each of the phases. What happened in the first phase for you, Ezra?

The striking thing about listening to it the first time was the way my body’s response kept changing. So initially, it’s like you got these birds. It seems like it’s going to be a kind of nice ambient piece of music.

And then just like the intense, escalating tension, somewhat mounting dread, the noise goes up. The number of sounds happening simultaneously, it feels like it goes up. The volume goes up. So by the end, you’ve begun — or for me, I began as, oh, a nice — like, Jesus Christ, why did my producers choose this piece of music? So, yeah, it was a little bit — the first time, I was just on the ride of the bodily response to it.

For me, in the first attempt through, I was acutely attuned to 1,000 questions sort of pulling me in all directions. Because I’m accustomed to doing these kinds of things over a long time, so longer, more immersive, more people, so a lot of anxiety as to whether this kind of thing can work in this setting. So the truth is, I became aware about midway through that I was effectively not listening to the thing at all on the first time through, trying, but trying, but failing for me on the first one. We go to the second listen where we were trying to hear something that we’d heard before, recall.

The second one I was struck by — so I remembered the birds, right? I noticed they go on a little bit longer than I thought. And the second, I was a little braced because I remembered the feeling I had on the first. I was like, oh, as this keeps going, you feel worse. And so the remembrance was of what was coming in the way that then made me surprised by what was there in the moment.

Super interesting. This is so embarrassing, but I heard the birds for the first time in the second phase. [LAUGHS]

It’s not remembering.

That’s not. So it was a double catastrophe because I was like, how the heck did I not hear the birds in the first phase? My listening was so bad in phase one and two. Wait a second, I’m not supposed to discover new things until phase three.

So I had phase catastrophic disaster and felt bad about myself, but then sort of rounded on that and became aware of that inexorable march time that comes in and the harrowing fatalism that one associates with that musical mode. And so I had gotten to that in the first listen and was able to be like, OK, OK, I’m remembering that. I’m remembering that. Third listen, were you able to discover anything new?

Yeah, I was more attentive to the birds, so I was sort of tracking them. I realized they disappear. The whole piece, then, on the third, the thing I noticed was it feels like you’re clear cutting a forest, right? That felt to me like what that piece of music was, right? You were going through the forest. It’s initially fairly untouched. And then with each rising, I mean, the birds eventually falling silent, that tick, tick, tick, tick. When you talk about the fatalism of it, I mean, this felt like a piece of music that was about the clear cutting of an ecosystem.

Yeah, and I love — discovery for me involved a loop into how this piece came to be. I heard a twang that felt guitar-like, but I’m almost certain that the music was composed electronically. So I had a little moment of your engineer or your creatives, whoever’s back there making this, and were they at a machine? What kind of machine? What kinds of clips or samples were they drawing on?

So my kind of discovery, in a sense, was the sources and being recalled to the question of the sources of these sounds, these acoustic experiences. Final phase, four, you tried not to listen, Ezra. What happened?

It was more comfortable.

That body response to that kind of mounting dread, that anxiety, just was muted. So it was more like the way I listen to music when I work, where my attention is not on the music, and the music is providing a mood and an energy. Right? The music is a kind of stimulant.

What did you —

I’m not deeply immersed in it.

What did you do with the rest of you to not listen? Because, of course, our ears are funny. You can’t close your ears. So the stuff’s going to keep coming in. It’s not like our eyes. We’re —

Well, I moved to the eyes.

More of my attention was on what I was seeing.

Yeah, I did exactly the same thing. Did you close your eyes in the first three phases? Did you keep them open as you were listening? You did?

Kept them open on all.

That’s interesting. I closed them, but I opened my eyes on the final phase and had a little taste. It was quick, but a little taste of that foretaste of the ecstasy of trying to awaken my visual field, and brighten it such that it would displace my acoustic experience.

So I kind of had hyper vision for a second in an effort to blast out of my ears the acoustic experience by overwhelming it with the other sensory modality. And that was a little tremor of the good stuff where you can sort of feel an activation of what you can do with your attention as an aspect of being. I must say I enjoyed that.

So what’s the point of all that for you? If that is a successful lesson when you do it, what are you hoping people will have experienced? What is the meta lesson of that lesson, right? It’s not just what you heard in the music. What did we just do?

Yeah. I want to just admit that I’m not super sure, and that kind of uncertainty is part of it. And what I can assure you is that when seven or eight people get together in Brooklyn and do something like this for half hour or 45 minutes, we all come out of it feeling so good.

It just feels so right to be with ourselves and what our minds and senses can do and with other people in relation to what’s in the world this way. And I think that at this moment, we need to carve out more spaces for these kinds of activated experiences within our teaching and learning environments.

Let me end on this. If you’re somebody who’s not near the Brooklyn Strother School of Radical Attention, but are somebody who kind of senses something is wrong with your attention, wrong the intentional world that you inhabit, and you want it to be better for you, you want to find a space of what will feel like attentional health, where do you start?

Yeah, it’s a great question. And for my answer, I’m going to read one of the “12 Theses on Attention” written by The Friends. Thesis 9 of the 12 theses reads, “Sanctuaries for true attention already exist. They are among us now, but they’re endangered. And many are in hiding, operating in self-sustaining, inclusive, generous, and fugitive forms. These sanctuaries can be found, but it takes an effort of attention to find them. And this seeking is also attention’s effort to heal itself.”

So my answer is, find a sanctuary. It’s there. And your listeners out there, they all have their different sweet spots where they are able to protect themselves from the frackers. It might be gardening. It might be that they actually can weld. And when they’ve got their visor down and they’re in the puddle of the hot metal, that’s when everything is zoned out. They may be knitting, and they may be doing a Zumba class.

I don’t know what it is they’re doing that’s near you and what you would find and make possible, but find your people. And out of finding your people and with a measure of intentionality, insisting upon the sanctuary where you are resistant to being fracked, attention can begin to heal. And that seeking out of the sanctuary space is itself already part of the healing.

So then always our final question, what are three books you would recommend to the audience?

Oh, there are so many great books. And all we need to do is protect the ability to read them, and we’ll be good. Well, let’s start with one that I think is a deep and challenging and important book in this kind of attention space. And it’s by my esteemed colleague Natasha Dow Schüll down at N.Y.U. It’s called “Addiction by Design.”

Natasha Dow Schüll is a science and technology studies scholar, an anthropologist by training, and she did an extraordinary book on video poker machines, gambling machines in Vegas. It’s a kind of a pre-smartphone book about the engineering of addiction by the folks who designed those gambling machines and the environments in which they sit.

And if you want to have a kind of harrowing inwardness with the sophisticated, dark pattern technologies that can be achieved, even in the most primitive technologies, those machines are not fancy in important ways, right? They are a kind of 19th century printing press to a modern, full-color laser printer in relation to what we have now in our pockets. But already to see how sophisticated the design of those systems were to suck people in and hold them, it’s amazing. Natasha Dow Schüll, “Addiction by Design.”

A second book that I love and that also comes out of my field and that I think is a deep and hard but beautiful and important book for thinking about the history of science would be the book “Objectivity” by Peter Galison and Lorraine Daston, both of whom are really great historians of science. That book is a history of something that seems impossible to historicize. I mean, objectivity doesn’t have a history. Objectivity is just being objective. That’s like transhistorical.

And they do an extraordinary and counterintuitive job of showing how radically historical our conceptualization of objectivity itself is, how entangled it is with shifting ideas of subjectivity, for instance, or the way that it plays off of the emergence of mechanical technologies for making inscriptions. So “Objectivity” by Peter Galison and Lorraine Daston.

And then I guess my wild card book would just be a book I love and a book about the imagination, belief, dreams, and about America. It’s by Herman Melville, of course, the author of “Moby Dick,” a book I also love.

But I’m going to invoke his much stranger book, “The Confidence-Man,” which is a book about how belief happens and who the people are who can make us believe and about the sort of entanglement of hope and belief. It’s very much a book about this strange country that I love and believe in, and that has to make us all also very uncomfortable a lot of the time. Herman Melville’s “The Confidence-Man.”

D. Graham Burnett, thank you very much.

Total pleasure. Thanks.

This episode of “The Ezra Klein Show” was produced by Rollin Hu and Kristin Lin. Fact-checking by Michelle Harris with Mary Marge Locker and Kate Sinclair. Our senior engineer is Jeff Geld, with additional mixing by Isaac Jones and Aman Sahota. Our senior editor is Claire Gordon. The show’s production team also includes Annie Galvin and Elias Isquith. Original music by Isaac Jones and Aman Sahota. Audience strategy by Kristina Samulewski and Shannon Busta. The executive producer of New York Times Opinion Audio is Annie-Rose Strasser. And special thanks to Sonia Herrero.

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Produced by ‘The Ezra Klein Show’

The steady dings of notifications. The 40 tabs that greet you when you open your computer in the morning. The hundreds of unread emails, most of them spam, with subject lines pleading or screaming for you to click. Our attention is under assault these days, and most of us are familiar with the feeling that gives us — fractured, irritated, overwhelmed.

D. Graham Burnett calls the attention economy an example of “human fracking”: With our attention in shorter and shorter supply, companies are going to even greater lengths to extract this precious resource from us. And he argues that it’s now reached a point that calls for a kind of revolution. “This is creating conditions that are at odds with human flourishing. We know this,” he tells me. “And we need to mount new forms of resistance.”

[You can listen to this episode of “The Ezra Klein Show” on the NYT Audio app , Apple , Spotify , Amazon Music , YouTube or wherever you get your podcasts .]

Burnett is a professor of the history of science at Princeton University and is working on a book about the laboratory study of attention. He’s also a co-founder of the Strother School of Radical Attention , which is a kind of grass roots, artistic effort to create a curriculum for studying attention.

In this conversation, we talk about how the 20th-century study of attention laid the groundwork for today’s attention economy, the connection between changing ideas of attention and changing ideas of the self, how we even define attention (this episode is worth listening to for Burnett’s collection of beautiful metaphors alone), whether the concern over our shrinking attention spans is simply a moral panic, what it means to teach attention and more.

You can listen to our whole conversation by following “The Ezra Klein Show” on the NYT Audio app , Apple , Spotify , Google or wherever you get your podcasts . View a list of book recommendations from our guests here .

(A full transcript of this episode is available here .)

This episode of “The Ezra Klein Show” was produced by Rollin Hu and Kristin Lin. Fact-checking by Michelle Harris, with Mary Marge Locker and Kate Sinclair. Our senior engineer is Jeff Geld, with additional mixing by Isaac Jones and Aman Sahota. Our senior editor is Claire Gordon. The show’s production team also includes Annie Galvin and Elias Isquith. Original music by Isaac Jones and Aman Sahota. Audience strategy by Kristina Samulewski and Shannon Busta. The executive producer of New York Times Opinion Audio is Annie-Rose Strasser. Special thanks to Sonia Herrero.

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