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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/78380-0.txt b/78380-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d55ed5c --- /dev/null +++ b/78380-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4830 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78380 *** + + + + + _ANARCHISM_ + is not enough + + + Laura Riding + + + JONATHAN CAPE + London + + + FIRST PUBLISHED MCMXXVIII + + + PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY + BUTLER & TANNER LTD + FROME + + + + + CONTENTS + + + THE MYTH Page 9 + + LANGUAGE AND LAZINESS 13 + + THIS PHILOSOPHY 15 + + WHAT IS A POEM? 16 + + A COMPLICATED PROBLEM 19 + + ALL LITERATURE 20 + + MR. DOODLE-DOODLE-DOO 22 + + AN IMPORTANT DISTINCTION 25 + + THE CORPUS 27 + + POETRY AND MUSIC 32 + + POETRY AND PAINTING 37 + + POETRY AND DREAMS 39 + + JOCASTA 41 + + HOW CAME IT ABOUT? 133 + + HUNGRY TO HEAR 136 + + IN A CAFÉ 138 + + FRAGMENT OF AN UNFINISHED NOVEL 142 + + WILLIAM AND DAISY: FRAGMENT OF A FINISHED NOVEL 150 + + AN ANONYMOUS BOOK 152 + + THE DAMNED THING 187 + + LETTER OF ABDICATION 209 + + + + + ANARCHISM IS NOT ENOUGH + + + + +THE MYTH + + +When the baby is born there is no place to put it: it is born, it will +in time die, therefore there is no sense in enlarging the world by so +many miles and minutes for its accommodation. A temporary scaffolding +is set up for it, an altar to ephemerality--a permanent altar to +ephemerality. This altar is the Myth. The object of the Myth is to +give happiness: to help the baby pretend that what is ephemeral is +permanent. It does not matter if in the course of time he discovers +that all is ephemeral: so long as he can go on pretending that it is +permanent he is happy. + +As it is not one baby but all babies which are laid upon this altar, it +becomes the religious duty of each to keep on pretending for the sake +of all the others, not for himself. Gradually, when the baby grows and +learns why he has been placed on the altar, he finds that he is not +particularly interested in carrying on the pretence, that happiness and +unhappiness are merely an irregular succession and grouping of moments +in him between his birth and his death. Yet he continues to support +the Myth for others’ sake, and others continue to support it for his. +The stronger grows the inward conviction of the futility of the Myth, +the stronger grows the outward unity and form of the Myth. It becomes +the universal sense of duty, the ethics of abstract neighbourliness. +It is the repository for whatever one does without knowing why; it +makes itself the why. Once given this function through universal +misunderstanding, it persists in its reality with the perseverance of a +ghost and continues to demand sacrifices. It is indifferent what form +or system is given to it from this period to that, so long as it be +given _a_ form and _a_ system by which it may absorb and digest every +possible activity; and the grown-up babies satisfy it by presenting +their offerings as systematized parts of a systematized whole. + +The Myth may collapse as a social whole; yet it continues by its own +memory of itself to impose itself as an æsthetic whole. Even in this +day, when the social and historical collapse of the Myth is commonly +recognised, we find poets and critics with an acute sense of time +devoting pious ceremonies to the æsthetic vitality of the Myth, from a +haunting sense of duty which they call classicism. So this antiquated +belief in truth goes on, and we continue to live. The Myth is the art +of living. Plato’s censorship of poets in the interests of the young +sprang from a realization of the fact that poetry is in opposition to +the truth of the Myth: I do not think he objected to poetry for the +old, since they were nearly through with living. + +Painting, sculpture, music, architecture, religion, philosophy, history +and science--these are essentially of the Myth. They have technique, +growth, tradition, universal significance (truth); and there is also +a poetry of the Myth, made by analogy into a mythological activity. +Mythological activities glorify the sense of duty, force on the +individual a mathematical exaggeration of his responsibilities. + +Poetry (praise be to babyhood) is essentially not of the Myth. It is +all the truth it knows, that is, it knows nothing. It is the art of not +living. It has no system, harmony, form, public significance or sense +of duty. It is what happens when the baby crawls off the altar and +is ‘Resolv’d to be a very contrary fellow’--resolved not to pretend, +learn to talk or versify. Whatever language it uses it makes up as it +goes and immediately forgets. Every time it opens its mouth it has to +start all over again. This is why it remains a baby and dies (praise be +to babyhood) a baby. In the art of not living one is not ephemerally +permanent but permanently ephemeral. + + * * * * * + +Because most people are not sufficiently employed in themselves, they +run about loose, hungering for employment, and satisfy themselves in +various supererogatory occupations. The easiest of these occupations, +which have all to do with making things already made, is the +making of people: it is called the art of friendship. So one finds +oneself surrounded with numbers of artificial selves contesting +the authenticity of the original self; which, forced to become a +competitive self, ceases to be the original self, is, like all the +others, a creation. The person, too, becomes a friend of himself. _He_ +no longer exists. + + * * * * * + +Words have three historical levels. They may be true words, that is, of +an intrinsic sense; they may be logical words, that is, of an applied +sense; or they may be poetical words, of a misapplied sense, untrue and +illogical in themselves, but of supposed suggestive power. The most the +poet can now do is to take every word he uses through each of these +levels, giving it the combined depth of all three, forcing it beyond +itself to a death of sense where it is at least safe from the perjuries +either of society or poetry. + + + + +LANGUAGE AND LAZINESS + + +Language is a form of laziness; the word is a compromise between what +it is possible to express and what it is not possible to express. +That is, expression itself is a form of laziness. The cause of +expression is incomplete powers of understanding and communication: +unevenly distributed intelligence. Language does not attempt to affect +this distribution; it accepts the inequality and makes possible a +mathematical intercourse between the degrees of intelligence occurring +in an average range. The degrees of intelligence at each extreme are +thus naturally neglected: and yet they are obviously the most important. + +Prose is the mathematics of expression. The word is a numerical +convenience in which the known and the unknown are brought together to +act as the meeting-place of the one who knows and the one who does not +know. The prose word accomplishes no redistribution of intelligence; +it merely declares the inequality, and so even as expression it has no +reality, it is an empty cipher. + +Poetry is an attempt to make language do more than express; to make it +work; to redistribute intelligence by means of the word. If it succeeds +in this the problem of communication disappears. It does not treat +this problem as a matter of mathematical distribution of intelligence +between an abstract known and unknown represented in a concrete knower +and not-knower. The distribution must take place, if at all, within +the intelligence itself. Prose evades this problem by making slovenly +equations which always seem successful because, being inexact, they +conceal inexactness. Poetry always faces, and generally meets with, +failure. But even if it fails, it is at least at the heart of the +difficulty, which it treats not as a difficulty of minds but of mind. + + + + +THIS PHILOSOPHY + + +This philosophy, this merchant-mindedness: how much have we here? +what sum? And of what profit? Somewhere, in the factories of reality, +all this has been produced which now floods the market of wisdom, +awaiting its price-ticket. What is science? yard-measure and scale to +philosophy, expert-accountant, bank clerk. What is poetry? miserable, +ill-fed, underpaid, ununionized labourer, pleased to oblige, grateful +for work, flattering himself that poverty makes him an aristocrat. + + * * * * * + +Only what is comic is perfect: it is outside of reality, which is +a self-defeating, serious striving to be outside of reality, to be +perfect. Reality cannot escape from reality because it is made of +belief, and capable only of belief. Perfection is what is unbelievable, +the joke. + + + + +WHAT IS A POEM? + + +In the old romanticism the poem was an uncommon effect of common +experience on the poet. All interest in the poem centred in +this mysterious capacity of the poet for overfeeling, for being +overaffected. In Poe the old romanticism ended and the new romanticism +began. That is, the interest was broadened to include the reader: the +end of the poem was pushed ahead a stage, from the poet to the reader. +The uncommon effect of experience on the poet became merely incidental +to the uncommon effect which he might have on the reader. Mystery was +replaced by science; inspiration by psychology. In the first the poet +flattered himself and was flattered by others because he had singular +reactions to experience; in the second the object of flattery makes +himself expert in the art of flattery. + +What is a poem? A poem is nothing. By persistence the poem can be made +something; but then it is something, not a poem. Why is it nothing? +Because it cannot be looked at, heard, touched or read (what can be +read is prose). It is not an effect (common or uncommon) of experience; +it is the result of an ability to create a vacuum in experience--it is +a vacuum and therefore nothing. It cannot be looked at, heard, touched +or read because it is a vacuum. Since it is a vacuum it is nothing for +which the poet can flatter himself or receive flattery. Since it is a +vacuum it cannot be reproduced in an audience. A vacuum is unalterably +and untransferably a vacuum--the only thing that can happen to it is +destruction. If it were possible to reproduce it in an audience the +result would be the destruction of the audience. + +The confusion between the poem as effect and the poem as vacuum is +easily explained. It is obvious that all is either effect or it is +nothing. What the old romanticism meant by an uncommon effect was a +something that was not an effect, an over-and-above of experience. +Although it was really not an effect, it was classified as an effect +because it was impossible to imagine something that was not an effect. +It did not occur to anyone to imagine nothing, the vacuum; or, if it +did, only with abhorrence. The new romanticism remedied this inaccuracy +by classifying the poem as the cause of an effect--as both cause and +effect. But as both cause and effect the poem counts itself out of +experience: proves itself to be nothing masquerading as something. As +something it is all that the detractors of poetry say it is; it is +false experience. As nothing--well, as nothing it is everything in an +existence where everything, being effect of effect and without cause, +is nothing. + +Whenever this vacuum, the poem, occurs, there is agitation on all sides +to destroy it, to convert it into something. The conversion of nothing +into something is the task of criticism. Literature is the storehouse +of these rescued somethings. In discussing literature one has to +use, unfortunately, the same language that one uses in discussing +experience. But even so, literature is preferable to experience, since +it is for the most part the closest one can get to nothing. + + * * * * * + +The only productive design is designed waste. Designed creation results +in nothing but the destruction of the designer: it is impossible to +add to what is; all is and is made. Energy that attempts to make in +the sense of making a numerical increase in the sum of made things +is spitefully returned to itself unused. It is a would-be-happy-ness +ending in unanticipated and disordered unhappiness. Energy that is +aware of the impossibility of positive construction devotes itself to +an ordered using-up and waste of itself: to an anticipated unhappiness +which, because it has design, foreknowledge, is the nearest approach +to happiness. Undesigned unhappiness and designed happiness both mean +anarchism. _Anarchism is not enough._ + + + + +A COMPLICATED PROBLEM + + +A complicated problem is only further complicated by being simplified. +A state of confusion is never made comprehensible by being given a +plot. Appearances do not deceive if there are enough of them. The truth +is always laid out in an infinite number of circles tending to become, +but never becoming, concentric--except occasionally in poetry. + + + + +ALL LITERATURE + + +All literature is written by the old to teach the young how to express +themselves so that they in turn may write literature to teach the +old how to express themselves. All literature is written by mentally +precocious adolescents and by mentally precocious senescents. How not +to write literature, how not to be precocious: cultivate inattention, +do not learn how to express yourself, make no distinction between +thoughts and emotions, since precocity comes of making one vie with +the other, mistrust whatever seems superior and be partial to whatever +seems inferior--whatever is not literature. And then, if you must +write yourself, write _writing-matter_, not _reading-matter_. People +will think you brilliant only if you tell them what they know. To +avoid being thought brilliant, avoid knowing what they know. Write to +discover to yourself what you know. People will think you brilliant +if you seem to be enjoying yourself, since they are not enjoying +themselves. To avoid being thought brilliant, avoid pretending to be +enjoying yourself. Make it clear that you know that they know that +nothing is really enjoyable except pretending to be enjoying yourself. + + * * * * * + +People may treat themselves as extraneous phenomena or as fundamental +phenomena--it does not matter which. It does not matter, so long as +they behave consistently as one or the other. What discredits character +is not self-importance or self-unimportance, but the adjustment of +personal importance according to expediency. + + + + +MR. DOODLE-DOODLE-DOO + + +Mr. Doodle-Doodle-Doo, the great mathematician and lexicographer, then +put aside his work and said: ‘_adultery_ and _adulteration_ can wait +until I return.’ + +For Mr. Doodle-Doodle-Do was at one thing or the other by turns, and +this particular morning he felt his mathematical genius complaining: it +was undoubtedly true that it was a long time since he had been out to +get Numbers. So, leaving _adultery_ and _adulteration_ to take care of +themselves, he walked out into the Square, and from the Square into the +Gardens; and in the Gardens he sat down on a bench near the rockery and +began to think with the mathematical half of his brain. + +‘Let me see. I left off with _honey_ last time. Now the problem will +be to show that honey as a purely mathematical symbol is equivalent +to honey as a philological integer. If I can do this I have once more +proved that 2 × 2 = 4 is the equivalent of “two times two is four.” For +it’s not enough to show a thing is true: you must also show that true +is true. By being a mathematical lexicographer and a lexicographical +mathematician, I am therefore able to check the truth with the truth. +My last words are never “that’s true” but “that’s correct,” which +explains how I can be a philosopher and a gentleman at the same time.’ + +With this Mr. Doodle-Doodle-Doo crowed three times: once for +lexicography (Doodle), once for mathematics (Doodle), and once for +himself (Doo), wherein the truth was checked by itself and found +correct. The immediate matter in hand, however, was honey. So he left +off crowing and proceeded with his calculations, which went so quickly +that it is very difficult to record them. But they were something like +this:-- + + H O N E Y = HONE + Y + G O N E + Y = GONEY (sailors’ term for albatross) + L O N E + Y = LONE(L)Y + B O N E + Y = BONEY + O N E + Y + M = MONEY + + BONEY GONEY HONEY LONE(L)Y MONEY + 1 2 3 4 5 + H O N E Y + 1 2 3 4 5 + +At this point he stopped following him. But that his researches must +have reached some happy conclusion was obvious from the enthusiasm with +which he later returned to his lexicography. His calculations then ran +something like this:-- + + 1 2 3 4 5 + H O N E Y + 1 2 3 4 5 + A D U L T [ E R Y + + 1 2 3 4 5 + H O N E Y + 1 2 3 4 5 + A D U L T [ E R A T I O N + + ∴ H O N E Y E R Y ∵ H O N E Y E R A T I O N + + 1 2 3 4 5 1 2 3 4 5 + But H O N E Y = S W E E T + 5 4 3 2 1 5 4 3 2 1 + + ∴ S W E E T E R Y ∵ S W E E T E R A T I O N + +Which went far enough to persuade him that in lexicography he was, if +anything, even more skilled than in mathematics. + + + + +AN IMPORTANT DISTINCTION + + +The important (but infrequently drawn) distinction between what is +gentlemanly and what is dull in poetry. Most people read poetry +because it makes them feel upper-class, and most poetry is written +by people who feel upper-class; at least by people who take pleasure +in describing themselves as upper-class; for instance, by men who +make themselves feel upper-class by holding gentlemanly feelings +toward woman, and by women who make themselves feel upper-class by +acknowledging these feelings. This poetry is idealistic poetry: it +dramatizes a non-existent emotional life and seems real because it is +not real. It also seems ‘interesting’ because it is not real. + +Practical poetry is written by people who do not feel upper-class: +who do not feel anything. It describes themselves, but not as +upper-class, not, in fact, as anything. It is real and therefore not +dramatic and therefore seems unreal. It therefore seems (and is) dull. +The only reason that people ever read dull poetry (such as some of +Shakespeare’s) is that they mistake it for gentlemanly poetry (such +as all of Browning’s). For few people are really interested in anyone +else’s description of himself except as it makes them feel upper-class. +They mistake it for gentlemanly poetry because of their inability to +distinguish between the interestingness of dull poetry and the dullness +of ‘interesting’ poetry. + + + + +THE CORPUS + + +The first condition was chaos. The logical consequence of chaos was +order. In so far as it derived from chaos it was non-conscious, but +in so far as it was order, it had an increasing tendency to become +conscious. It therefore may be said to have had a mind of which it +was unconscious and of which it remained unconscious in its various +evolutionary forms until the mind developed to a point where it in turn +separated from order and invented the self. The occasion of the self +was a stage in the most anarchic evolutionary form, man, coeval with +the general transformation of chaos into a universe. A consciousness +of consciousness arose and at the same time divided between order, in +which mind was the spirit of cohesion, and the individual, in whom +mind was the spirit of separation. In the ensuing opposition between +these two, order yielded to the individual by allowing him to call it +a universe, but triumphed over him since, by naming it, the individual +made the universe his society and therefore his religion. Order was the +natural enemy of the individual mind. To conciliate it order appealed +to the individual mind for sanction. This sanction, the original +social contract, was not between man and man, but between man and the +universe as men, or society. Although the sanction was given on the +basis of natural instinct, or the non-conscious identity of man and the +universe, society has always claimed authority over conscious thought +and purpose. In incorporating the man it attempts to incorporate the +mind and in turn to give the mind its sanction through the sanction +which it first had from the man: it constitutes itself the parent past +and the mind present memory of it. + +The social corpus is tyrannically founded on the principle of origin. +It admits nothing new: all is revision, memory, confirmation. The +individual cosmos must submit itself to the generalized cosmos +of history, it must become part of its growing encyclopædia of +authorities. Such a generalized cosmos, however, must have been +formulated more by the desire of people to define themselves as a +group than to account for the origin of their personal existence. +Origin, indeed, is properly the preoccupation of the individual and +not a communal interest. The group is only interested in the formal +publishing of individuals for the purpose of establishing their social +solidarity. Art, for example, is record not creation. The question +of origin is only emphasized in so far as it proves the individual a +member of the group, as having a common pedigree with the other members +of the group. Thus God, the branding-iron of the group idea, does not +appear in societies where as yet there is imperfect differentiation +between the individual and the type; where as yet there is no need +for branding. Once the distinction between the group mind and the +individual mind could be made the group mind really ceased to exist. +The distinction, however, could only be made by minds complete in +themselves, and as such minds have always been extremely rare, the +fiction of a group mind has been maintained to impose the will of the +weak-minded upon the strong-minded, the myth of common origin being +used as the charter of the majority. The tyranny by which this majority +can enforce its will may be either democratic or oligarchic. The only +difference is that in the first case, provided that the democracy +is a true democracy (which it very rarely is), the group mind is so +efficient that it acts despotically as one man; in the second case the +group mind is less efficient and, by a process of blind selection, the +most characteristic of the weak-minded become the perverse instruments +of unity. + +Both the individual mind and the group mind are engaged in a pursuit +which may be described as mind-making or, simply, truth. The object of +group truth is group-confirmation and perpetuation; while individual +truth has no object other than discovering itself and involves neither +proofs nor priests. In order, however, to win any acceptance it must +translate itself into group truth, it must accommodate itself to +the fact-curriculum of the group. But not only is such truth forced +to submit to group terminology and order, but the group conscience +demands that the individual mind serve it by working with the purposes +of the group. The group, indeed, tries to preclude all idiosyncratic +thought-activity and to use what intelligence it can control against +it. This civic intelligence is found simplified in the catechism +instructing children ‘to order themselves lowly and reverently before +their betters and to do their duty in that state of life unto which it +has pleased God to call them.’ + +The confirmation of the candidate as a member of the group establishes +the superiority of group opinion over individual opinion and the +authority of the group to define this relationship as one governed by +civic duties. It is the nature of these duties which determines the +categories into which civic intelligence falls. The group can never +be anything more than a superstition, but the categories assemble +all available material into a textual Corpus. There being no real +functional group surviving, this Corpus of group texts is used as the +rallying point of the group, the counterpart of the primitive clan +totem, the outward and visible sign of a long-extinct grace. + +The Corpus, in making categorical demands upon the individual, thus +limits the ways in which works may be conceived and presented. These +demands become the only ‘inspiration’ countenanced, and theoretically +all creative supply has its source in them. This seems a fairly +plausible view of the status of the arts and sciences in human +society. The occurrence of a supply independent of Corpus demands, its +possibility or presence, is a question that the social limitations of +our critical language prevent us from raising with any degree of humane +intelligibility. + + * * * * * + +We live on the circumference of a hollow circle. We draw the +circumference, like spiders, out of ourselves: it is all criticism of +criticism. + + + + +POETRY AND MUSIC + + +There is a weakling music and a weakling poetry which flatter each +other by making critical comparisons with each other: there is a +literary criticism of music in which words like ‘wit’ and ‘rhetoric’ +excuse musical flabbiness, and a musical criticism of poetry in which +words like ‘symphonic’ and ‘overtone’ excuse poetic flabbiness. This +mutual tenderness leads to false creative as well as false critical +analogies between poetry and music; to the deliberate effort to use the +creative method of one art in the other. + +I am not distressed by the poeticization of music because I do not +much care what happens to music; it is a nervous and ostentatious +performance, and little damage remains to be done to it. I am, on the +other hand, distressed by the musicification of poetry because poetry +is perhaps the only human pursuit left still capable of developing +antisocially. Musicified or pictorialized it is the propagandist tribal +expression of a society without any real tribal sense. We get a ‘pure’ +poetry, metaphysically musical, that reveals a desire in the poet +for a civilized tribal sense and for poetry as an art intellectually +coördinating group sympathies: and we get a sort of jazz poetry, +politically musical, that reveals a desire in the poet for a primitive +tribal sense and for poetry as an art emotionally coördinating group +sympathies. + +Art indeed is a term referring to the social source and to the social +utility of creative acts. Poetry I consider to be an art only when the +poet consciously attempts to capture social prestige: when it is an art +of public flattery. In this sense Beaumont and Fletcher were greater +artists than Shakespeare--better musicians. Shakespeare alternated +between musical surrenders to social prestige and magnificent fits of +poetic remorse. + +To explain more precisely what I mean by this distinction between what +I believe to be poetry and what I believe to be art I shall set down a +number of contrasts between poetry and music. + +1. All real musicians are physically misshapen as a result of platform +cozening of their audience. They need never have stood upon a platform: +there is a kind of ingratiating ‘come, come, dear puss’ in the musical +brain that distorts the face and puckers up the limbs. All real +poets are physically upright and even beautiful from indifference to +community hearings. + +2. The end of a poem is the poem. The poem is the only admissible test +of the poem; the reader gets poetry, not flattery. The end of a musical +work is an ear, criticism, that is, flattery. + +3. A musical work has a composer; it is an invention with +professionally available material and properties. A poem is made out +of nothing by a nobody--made out of a socially non-existent element in +language. If this element were socially existent in language it would +be isolated, professionalized, handed over to a trained craft. Rhyme +and rhythm are not professional properties; they are fundamentally +idiosyncratic, unavailable, unsystematizable; any formalization of +them is an attempted imitation of music by poets jealous of the public +success of music. + +4. Music is an instrument for arousing emotions; it varies only +according to the emotions it is intended to arouse and according to the +precision with which these emotions are anticipated in the invention +of the music. Emotions represent persons; not persons in particular +but persons in general. Music is directed toward the greatest number +of persons musically conceivable. It is a mass-marshalling of the +senses by means of sound. Poetry is not an instrument and is not +written with the intention of arousing emotions--unless it is of a +hybrid musico-poetical breed. The end of poetry is not to create a +physical condition which shall give pleasure to the mind. It appeals +to an energy in which no distinction exists between physical and +mental conditions. It does not massage, soothe, excite or entertain +this energy in any way. It _is_ this energy in a form of extraordinary +strength and intactness. Poetry is therefore not concentrated on an +audience but on itself and only produces satisfaction in the sense that +wherever this energy exists in a sufficient degree of strength and +intactness it will be encouraged by poetry in further concentration on +itself. Poetry appeals only to poetry and begets nothing but poetry. +Music appeals to the intellectual disorganization and weakness of +people in numbers and begets, by flattering this weakness (which is +sentimentality), gratifying after-effects of destructive sociality. +The end of poetry is not an after-effect, not a pleasurable memory +of itself, but an immediate, constant and even unpleasant insistence +on itself; indeed, it has no end. It isolates energies in themselves +rather than socially dissolving one in another. + +5. Music provides the hearer with an ideal experience, a prepared +episode. Poetry is not idealistic; it is not experience in this episode +or programme sense. There is an entertaining short-story variety in +music; a repellent, austere monotony in poetry. Poetry brings all +possible experience to the same degree: a degree in the consciousness +beyond which the consciousness itself cannot go. Poetry is defeat, the +end which is not an end but a stopping-short because it is impossible +to go further; it makes mad; it is the absolutism of dissatisfaction. +Music brings not the consciousness but the _material_ of experience +to a certain degree, always to different degrees. It makes pleasantly +happy or unhappy. It is the vulgarity of satisfaction. + +6. Music disintegrates and therefore seems active, fruitful, extensive, +enlarging. Poetry isolates all loose independencies and then integrates +them into one close independency which, when complete, has nothing to +do but confront itself. Poetry therefore seems idle, sterile, narrow, +destroying. And it is. This is what recommends it. + + + + +POETRY AND PAINTING + + +Painters no longer paint with paint except in the sense that +poets write with ink. Paint is now only a more expensive, elegant +ink. What do painters paint with, then? They paint with poetry. A +picture is a poem in which the sense has been absorbed by the medium +of communication of sense. It is not an intelligible series of +hieroglyphics, but the poem itself forced into a kind of outrageous, +unnatural visibility: as if suddenly the thing mind were caught in +the hand and made to appear painfully and horribly as a creature. The +development of painting is toward this poetic quality; the better (the +more literal, the less realistic) it gets, the more horrible. So much +for the so-called abstractness of painting: the sense is made identical +with the medium by forcibly marrying it to the medium. Medium and sense +are a legally fictitious One in which the medium, the masculine factor, +forces the sense, the feminine factor, to bear his name and do honour +to his bed and table. _She_ is all meek, hopeless amicability, _he_ is +all blustering, good-humoured cynicism. + +This poetic progress of painting influences the pictorial progress of +poetry. There is a great response in modern poetry to the demand by +painters that it should be more poetic. See for yourself how many of +the newest poems have not their names lettered in aluminium on their +doors, with a knocker designed by the latest French abstract sculptor +(master also of golf), humanly visible furniture within (all primary +colours), and nobody home. + + + + +POETRY AND DREAMS + + +I do not believe there is any more relation between poem-making and +dream-making than between poem-making and child-making. The making +of poems, dreams and children is difficult to explain because they +all somehow happen and go on until the poem comes to an end and the +sleeper wakes up and the child comes out into the air. As for children, +there are so many other ways of looking at the matter that poetry is +generally not asked to provide a creative parallel. As for dreams, +they are the dregs of the mind, anxious to elevate themselves by +flattering comparisons. As for poems, they are frequently (more often +than not) concocted in the dregs of the mind and therefore happy in an +understanding of mutual support between themselves and dreams. + +The only real resemblance between poetry and dreams is that they are +both on the other side of waking--on opposite sides. Waking is the +mind in its mediocrity. Mediocrity is of such large extent that it +pushes off into obscurity the mental degree _beyond_ mediocrity, in +a direction _away from_ sleep. The mental degree _before_ mediocrity, +_toward_ sleep, is the dream. So the stage before the lowest degree +of mediocrity and the stage beyond the highest degree of mediocrity +are bracketed together by mediocrity because they are both outside of +mediocrity--the mind at its canniest intelligence and the mind at its +canniest imbecility. + + + + +JOCASTA + + +§1 + +The pathetic differences between wrong and right are well illustrated +in the persons of Otto Spengler and Wyndham Lewis. Herr Spengler is a +pessimist who has succeeded in cheering himself up with a romantic view +of Decline. Mr. Lewis is an optimist because he is right, forced into +pessimism by the general prevalence of wrong. He sees wrong (rightly) +as Time, Romance, Advertisement (forced optimism), Righteousness, +Action, Popular Art (Time, Romance, Advertisement, Righteousness, +Action, united in an inferiority complex). Since he is right his +right quarrels with the various manifestations of wrong he is able to +distinguish: the more he is able to distinguish the more corroborations +he has of his rightness. Herr Spengler, being wrong, has this advantage +therefore over Mr. Lewis: whereas Mr. Lewis’s success must be confined +to seeing wrong in the most unorganized (that is, various) manner +possible, _his_ success depends on his being wrong in the most +organized manner possible--the more organized he seems, the more right +he seems. Unfortunately this situation brings about a competition +between Herr Spengler and Mr. Lewis: Mr. Lewis feels obliged to +organize his unorganized view of wrong, which cancels the potency of +his rightness, which is only valid so long as it is unorganized (that +is, commentarial instead of systematic). So he becomes a colleague of +Herr Spengler in righteousness, the advocate of a vocabulary. We find +him, as he himself admits, trying to give ‘compendious’ names to what +is wrong: which places him immediately in Herr Spengler’s class.[1] + +To be right is to be incorruptibly individual. To be wrong is to be +righteously collective. Herr Spengler is a collectivist: he believes in +the absorption of the unreal (right) individual in a collective reality +(History or Romance)--by which the individual becomes functionally (as +opposed to morphologically) really-real. Mr. Lewis is an individualist +in so far as he is opposed to organized functional reality. But +he is unable to face the final conclusion of individualism: that +the individual is morphologically as well as functionally unreal, +and that herein alone (in this double withdrawal from both nature +and human society, or history) can he be right. How does Mr. Lewis +come to believe in the morphological reality of the individual? By +devoting himself so violently to revealing the sham of historical +action in art--the unreality of functional reality--that he creates by +implication a real which, since it cannot exist in historical romance +(society), which is all sham, must exist in non-historical romance +(nature). Further, both Herr Spengler and Mr. Lewis think through the +same machinery--the machinery of knowledge. Indeed it appears as if +they thought because they possessed this machinery and had to use it: +this is the constant impression made by Herr Spengler, the frequent +impression made by Mr. Lewis. I do not think that Mr. Lewis really +thinks because of and by means of knowledge. I am convinced that he +thinks. But I see also that he is unable to face uncompromisingly the +problem of individualism. He is not content with being right; he is +stung by his irritation with what is wrong into the desire to be real +as well as right. He therefore organizes the same material that Herr +Spengler organizes--to prove that it is sham, as Herr Spengler to +prove that it is real. He even uses the same false organizing system +as Herr Spengler--analogy. Herr Spengler, by proving the analogical +consistency of his views, merely proves that wrong is wrong. Mr. Lewis, +by overstudying the analogical consistency of wrong, establishes his +right by the same system that Herr Spengler uses in establishing his +wrong. He is making of his right a competitive Romance to argue with +Herr Spengler’s Romance. With both Herr Spengler and Mr. Lewis I feel +in the presence of realists. Herr Spengler, I feel, is happy in being a +realist, Mr. Lewis, I feel, is not. He is not, I think, because he is +fundamentally right, but afraid of facing the unreality of rightness. +It is difficult to explain this because it is a difficult situation; +and I wish if possible to avoid compendious names. It would perhaps be +simplest to say that Mr. Lewis is timid (as he has himself privately +admitted). + +Mr. Lewis attacks the principle which is to Herr Spengler the right of +his wrong. He attacks the reality of the collective-real. But in doing +so he opposes to it an individual-real. The collective-real is man in +touch with man. The individual-real is man in touch with the natural in +him, in touch with nature. Neither Herr Spengler nor Mr. Lewis dares +face the individual-unreal: both believe in unity and integration, Herr +Spengler in the unity and integration of history, Mr. Lewis in the +unity and integration of natural as opposed to historical existence. ‘I +am for the physical world,’ Mr. Lewis says. One of the reasons he is +for the physical world is, apparently, that the historical world, in +keeping up with itself, not only worships the fetich of Romance, but +the fetich of childishness as well. In pointing this out Mr. Lewis is +both wise and courageous; but he reveals at the same time an important +fetich of the individual-real, adultishness. Nor, maddened by the +vulgar success of the historical world with itself, can he see that the +fetich of childishness in only a half-clue to the story of Gertrude +Stein, that Miss Stein has one foot in the collective real and one foot +in the individual-unreal--which is more than can be said of Mr. Lewis, +who has both feet planted in the individual-real.[2] + +I must next give an illustration of the individual-real in contemporary +literature. This will perhaps not please Wyndham Lewis and will +certainly not please its author, Virginia Woolf. I can only say +that I do not mean to attack either of them but merely to explain +the individual-real. And Mrs. Woolf’s most recent book, _To the +Lighthouse_, seems to me a perfect example of the individual-real. +In the first place, it is individual: not in the sense that it +is personal, warm, alive to itself, indifferent to effect or +appreciation, vividly unreal, but in the sense that it individualizes +the simple reality of nature, gives it distinction--shade, tone, +personal subtlety. In the second place it is real--meticulously, +mathematically like life: not historical time-life, which is an easy +approximation, but natural flesh-life, which must be laboriously, +exquisitely, irritatingly, painfully rendered. To do this language +must be strained, supersensitized, loaded with comparisons, suggestive +images, emotional analogies: used, that is, in a poetic way to write +something that is not poetry--used to argue, prove, prick the cuticle +of sense, so to speak, in a way that is extravagant, unpleasant, +insincere (since it purports to be pleasant). The method, in fact, has +no creative justification: it merely drives home the individual-real, +which is physical emphasis of self-individual because it is physically +self, real because as physical it shares in the simple reality of +nature. All this delicacy of style, it appears, is the expression of +an academic but nevertheless vulgar indelicacy of thought, a sort +of Royal Academy nudeness, a squeamish, fine-writing lifting of the +curtains of privacy. In the third place, it (the individual-real as +illustrated in this novel) is adultish--advanced but conservative: it +does not belong to childish, democratic mass-art, but neither does it +belong to the individual, non-physical, non-collective unreal. It is +over-earnest constrained, suppressedly hysterical, unhappy, could give +no one pleasure. Pleasure is doing as one pleases. In works like this +neither the author, who is obsessed by the necessity of emphasizing the +individual-real, nor the reader, who is forced to follow the author +painfully (word for word) in this obsession, may do as he pleases. +There is only one novel-writer who really did as he pleased, let his +characters do as they pleased and his reader to do as he pleased, and +that was Defoe. He could do this because he was, as Pope said, ‘the +unabashed Defoe,’ and he was unabashed because he was unreal, vividly +unreal--personal, warm, indifferent to effect (consistency). Mrs. +Woolf defends herself from any such analysis of her work as I have +made here by declaring that there is no such thing as a novel. If _To +The Lighthouse_ is not to be treated as a novel, then it must, by its +language-habits, be treated as a poem. Analyse it then as a poem: +what then? It proves itself to be merely a novel; and an insincere +novel--the use of the material of the collective-real to insinuate +dogmatically the individual-real. Defoe used the material of the +collective-real as it could only be used sincerely--to insinuate the +individual-unreal: and so Defoe, if you like, did turn the novel into +poetry. + +I once discussed this point with E. M. Forster and we found that we +had each read _Roxana_ in entirely opposite senses. Mr. Forster was +certain that Defoe followed Roxana in every word he wrote of her, and +that Roxana likewise followed Defoe, that there was no do-as-you-please +break between her and Defoe or between her and the reader or between +Defoe and the reader; that all was one intense, physically compact +and consistent exposition of the individual-real. I pointed out the +striking division in, for example, Roxana’s long feminist declamation +against marriage to her Dutch lover--a division in which all the +_dramatis personæ_, including author and reader, are released to accept +the declamation with whatever bias they please. In this division I +find Defoe’s sincerity. Mr. Forster, on the other hand, understands +the declamation as a remarkably unified, _innocent_, three-dimensional +slice of that individual-real which is the story. If I thought that +Defoe had written that passage innocently, with realistic consistency, +I should catalogue him as a fine writer and skilful hypocrite. But +I am persuaded he was neither of these. I am sure that the feminist +recital was wilfully unreal, inconsistent, many-dimensional; that it +was delicate common sense for the Dutch lover, frank but sentimental +expediency for Roxana, sound doctrine for Defoe and undisguised +storifying for the reader present in the story; and that none of these +was deceived in his bias, but could if he wished change it for any +other without damaging the consistency of the piece, since there was +none. _The Tempest_ has the same sort of inconsistency as a Defoe +novel; it is the most unreal of the plays and to me preferable to +the more realistic plays. Others are more poetic, as Mrs. Woolf’s +_To The Lighthouse_ is more poetic than _Roxana_. But they do not +contain so many poems, as there is no passage in _To The Lighthouse_ +with the dimensions (the contradictions) of Roxana’s recital to her +Dutch lover. In _The Tempest_ there is not only a continuous chain +of such inconsistencies (poems); the characters themselves have the +same many-dimensional inconsistency--the unreal Caliban, the unreal +Prospero, interchangeable in their inconsistency. + +Before leaving this question and returning to Herr Spengler, whose +wrong has not in my opinion been sufficiently disorganized, I must +come back to the suffocating, nearly sickening physical quality +of what I call the individual-real--not a strong, fresh, casual +frankness of flesh, but a self-scented, sensuous, unbearably curious +self-smelling of flesh. The collective-real is crude, symbolic, sham; +the individual-real is exquisite, more than symbolic--literally, +intrinsically metaphorical. I have in mind, in connection with _To The +Lighthouse_, a book of E. M. Forster’s, _A Room With a View_. Before +reading this book I had met Mr. Forster and found him charming; the +book was recommended to me by my friends as a charming book. I read it. +I could not deny that it was charming. Yet it was to me unpleasantly +painful to read. It was too charming. I do not mean to be flippant, +or to disgust, or to alter my original conviction of Mr. Forster’s +personal charm, which I have had an opportunity of confirming since +reading this book. But the truth is that it affected me in the same +way as would the sight of a tenderly and exquisitely ripe pimple. I +longed to squeeze it and have done with it. At the time I could only +reproach myself with this rather shameful morbidity and admit that my +reaction seemed preposterous. It was a simple, exquisitely written +story about simple, unexciting people; and the unpleasant excitement it +gave me was unnatural. Since then I have come to be able to identify +and understand a little the individual-real, and it is now perfectly +clear to me why Mr. Forster’s book affected me in that way, although +then I could only feel a vague physical reaction to its metaphorical +realism. That I recognized it as an essay in metaphorical realism is +proved by the persistent image of the pimple with which the book came +to be associated in my mind. And indeed, if I had thought a little more +closely about metaphorical realism at the time, I might have arrived +very soon at the same conclusion that I have here arrived at, _via_ +Otto Spengler, Wyndham Lewis, and so forth. + +In the ordinary time-world or art-world of the collective-real, +symbolism, however romantically it may be used, never denies that it +is symbolism. Its very effectiveness depends on its being recognized +as such. Further, since symbolism is here collective rather than +individual, since the symbol, that is, is _chosen_ to collectivize +individual emotions which would otherwise have separate and presumably +weaker communication with the thing for which the symbol stands, it is +clear that the symbolic method of the collective-real is selective: +it implies a graded choice of the things which it seems necessary and +important to symbolize. This method, whose psychology Herr Spengler +attempts to discover, is all that Mr. Lewis says it is (it is really +the symbolic method of the time-world that he attacks). In the +literature and art of the collective-real it is easy to recognize +because they are frankly symbolical: it is part of their technique to +insist on the symbolic quality of the symbol. This means that symbolic +art is generally bad art, full of double meanings, vulgar obviousness, +facile concessions to sentimentality, flattery of the mass-emotions +which confirm the relation of the symbol with the thing it represents. + +Yet there is a proficiency, a vulgar good in this bad art that gives +great and pure pleasure--great because it has the strength of what +is purposively, defiantly bad, pure because it makes no attempt to +conceal its badness. And there is one further virtue in the symbolism +of the collective-real, that, being a selective symbolism, it does not +symbolize everything--if it symbolized everything it would destroy the +time-world, the organ of communication and author of symbols. Instead, +it lets pass much which it realizes would be proof against symbolism +and thus threaten its prestige: it admits that there is much that is +unreal and, in so far as is consistent with its authority, leaves it +alone. Poetry, therefore, in the world of the collective-real, is given +a little chance. + +Symbolism, in the nature-world of the individual-real, denies +itself to be symbolism. It uses all the tricks of the symbolism of +the collective-real, but to insist that it is individually, not +collectively real, that it is, therefore, not symbolic but literal, +not ‘artistic’ but natural. It is not selective, since if it were it +would admit itself to be symbolical, but makes everything it touches +equally significant, physical, real. Its technique is to insist on +the authentic quality of the symbol. This means that it is only a +more ambitious, expert, clever symbolism than the symbolism of the +collective-real. It is literally instead of suggestively symbolic. It +is morbidly physical instead of merely morbidly sentimental. It is +difficult (not by nature but by art), adult, aristocratic, _better_. +The difference between the collective-real and the individual-real +as revealed by their respective methods of symbolism proves itself +to be no more than a snobbish difference of degree: the art of the +individual-real is self-appointed good art. And as such it is +strained, unhappy-hypocritical, slave to an ideal of superiority that +I can only properly describe as the ideal of slickness. There is no +opposition here of right to wrong, only a more academic, individual +wrong (or real) than even the best democratic, collective wrong. The +right (the unreal) remains (as it should) categorically non-existent.[3] + +I recall with pleasure an outrageous example of the vulgarity, +sentimentality, proficient badness of collective-real literature; a +novel by Rebecca West. It is a long time since I read it, and what +I can reproduce of it is from memory. I remember in particular one +passage, in which it was told how delightful it was to hold an egg in +the little hollow in the front of the neck, and in which baked potatoes +were charmingly mixed up with cirrus clouds. It was all so frankly +false, so enchantingly bad, so vulgarly poetical without the least +claim to being poetic, that it was impossible not to enjoy it and not +to find it good: one was being sold nothing that was not obvious. +After Rebecca West put Katherine Mansfield, a cross between the +collective-real and the individual-real, a perplexed effort, a vapour. +Then put the development of the individual-real, culminating in the +art of Virginia Woolf, in which nothing is thrown out since it admits +no unreal, in which poetry has no chance because the individual-real +itself is so poetic, in which one is sold poetry without being aware of +it; this super-symbolical, unsufferably slick alchemy that takes poetry +out of the unreal and turns it into the dainty extra-pink blood by +which reality is suffused with reality: + +‘She looked up over her knitting and met the third stroke and it seemed +to her like her own eyes meeting her own eyes, searching as she alone +could search into her mind and her heart, purifying out of existence +that lie, any lie. She praised herself in praising the light, without +vanity, for she was stern, she was searching, she was beautiful like +that light. It was odd, she thought, how if one was alone, one leant to +things, inanimate things; trees, streams, flowers; felt they expressed +one; felt they became one; felt they knew one, in a sense were one; +felt an irrational tenderness thus (she looked at that long steady +light) as for oneself. There rose, and she looked and looked with her +needles suspended, there curled up off the floor of the mind, rose from +the lake of one’s being, a mist, a bride to meet her lover.’ + +I submit that this is _more wrong_ than Rebecca West’s writing +because it is better, slicker. It bends the bow of taste (to use the +manner of Mrs. Woolf) back into a contorted, disdainful, monotonous, +sensuously bulging circle. The collective-real, when a revolution +takes place in it (when it is threatened by the unreal and makes a +violent gesture of self-assertion), acknowledges the shadow that +has passed over it, accepts the consequences of pledging itself to +be with time: shortens its skirts, chops an inch off its hair, puts +a cheerful face on its modernity--its progressive retreat from the +unreal. The individual-real, on the other hand, secure in Nature’s +fortress, insists that no shadow of the unreal can fall upon it. It is +everything--real because it is individualistic, unreal because it is +symbolical: it cannot come to harm. If it is threatened, it lengthens +its skirts, swishes grandly along the ground, grows its fingernails, +scratches exquisitely the plaster wall that surrounds it, sharpens its +pencil till it has nerves and writes just a little more finely than is +possible. And whatever it touches turns to spun-silk under it. It is +the delamarish memory-fairy. + +Yet certainly there is much that cannot, except in the fairy-tale +of memory (the individual-real) be turned into spun-silk. To make +everything real, no matter how unreal, how personal it may have been +in its occurrence, is to symbolize it for the democratic mass. Thus +psycho-analysis is not unacceptable to the individual-real, thus in +individual-real literature we find grating public exhibitions of +individuality. Any personal incident may be stroked, coaxed, maddened +by fine torture into symbolic existence. For example: when I was +fourteen I used to read the _New York Times_ every afternoon for an +hour (for a pittance) to an old man whose eyesight was poor, a veteran +of the Civil War. He had a most eccentric mispronunciation, which I +had to adopt in reading to him. It was very difficult, as on the other +side, at school, I was being trained in pronunciation. I concentrated +on mispronunciation, and one day, when I had just about become +expert in it, I knocked at his door to find that he had died. There +I was, with all that mispronunciation on my hands; and to a certain +extent it is still on my hands. Now, if I were a psycho-analytic +individual-realist, I should symbolically refine this. I should have +a mispronunciation complex, I should say that life was like that and +associate it with other incidents in which life was like that, I +should have a mental ejaculation every time I mispronounced, and so +on. As it is, it is merely an incident--what I may call a statistical +incident. It happened, I occasionally mispronounce, it is all very +personal, unreal, illogical, unsymbolical and poetic to me. I have +never told it, poetically, as a good story to illustrate this or that +or to mean this or that.[4] And in treating it in this way I am sure +I am closer to the incident as it happened and as it affected me, +though I am not closer to what is called the reality of the incident. +This is perhaps trivial and even irrelevant to the argument. Yet it is +to me an exposition in life of the always threatening danger of the +individual-real in literature and art. + + +§2 + +I have already said that I considered Herr Spengler wrong and Mr. +Lewis right. To say that Herr Spengler is wrong is to say that he is +wrong. To say that Mr. Lewis is right is to imply, because I place +his right side by side with Herr Spengler’s wrong, that I regret +the argumentative rightness of his right: I not only object to +Herr Spengler’s systematic wrongness because it is wrong, but also +because it is systematic. Herr Spengler perceives a conspiracy and +is delighted, Mr. Lewis perceives a conspiracy and is infuriated. +Therefore, though I admire Mr. Lewis because he is right, I restrict my +admiration in so far as he is systematic: the obsession with conspiracy +is no more wrong in Herr Spengler than in Mr. Lewis. I regret to see +Mr. Lewis decorating his right with the trappings of argument: I +regret to see him dramatizing his right realistically to impress the +same audience as Herr Spengler does--emphasizing the individual-real +as Spengler does the collective-real. I should like to see Mr. Lewis +being right, being unreal, being himself, rather than sending out his +right to instruct the democratic mass on the same stage on to which +Herr Spengler sends out his wrong. It is none of my business, of +course, what Mr. Lewis does with his right; but in admiring Mr. Lewis +and not admiring Herr Spengler it is only fair to point out that the +former as well as the latter is guilty of realistic projections. + +By projections I mean saying more, thinking more, knowing more, +observing more, organizing more than is self. I mean creating the real. +In Herr Spengler’s writing I find nothing unreal; I find no self. In +Mr. Lewis’s writing I find a considerable unreal projecting itself +realistically, organizing itself against, for example, James Joyce. I +do not speak merely of attacking James Joyce or Sherwood Anderson or +D. H. Lawrence. I speak of attacking by advocating a system to take +the place of the system which certain aspects of James Joyce’s work, +say, represent to Mr. Lewis. I think this system should indeed be +attacked in so far as it is a system and in so far as is necessary for +a preservation of integrity. I do not think it should be replaced. I +want the time-world removed and in its place to see--nothing. I do not +want to see the unreal--Mr. Lewis’s, mine, anyone’s--become more than +itself, become either intellectual (Spengler) or physical (Lewis). +I want it to remain inhuman and obscure. Both Herr Spengler and Mr. +Lewis make it, the one in his wrongness, the other in his rightness, +human and glaring. To me the secularistic subjective softness of +the first is no more aggressively realistic than the secularistic +‘objective hardness’ of the second. For all Mr. Lewis’s unreal, the +question remains to him ‘whether we should set out to transcend our +human condition or whether we should translate into human terms the +whole of our datum.’ I agree with Mr. Lewis in discarding the first +alternative, but I submit that the second contains in it two other +alternatives and that in choosing the _wrong one_ of these (as he does +by creating the original pair of alternatives) Mr. Lewis leans towards +rather than away from transcendentalism. For what he calls the datum is +nothing but the unreal; to call it the datum and, further, to suggest +the necessity of its translation from the unreal into the real, the +personal (inhuman) into the human (physically collective) is only to +oppose one kind of transcendentalism to another--the individual-real +to the collective-real. In this he is identifying himself with critics +who, like I. A. R. Richards, wish to find a place for literature and +art ‘in the system of human endeavours,’ to prove the unreal to be but +‘a finer organization of ordinary experiences’; that is, in order to +combat the gross romanticism and rhodomontade of democratic realism, +he turns merely to a more classical, aristocratic realism.[5] He +thus reduces the difference between himself and Herr Spengler to a +difference in taste rather than in principle; the distinction between +right and wrong, unreal and real, which Mr. Lewis might be one of the +few people able to maintain, becomes, as has already been pointed out, +merely the distinction between good and bad, between two types of the +real or between degrees in the real. + +Man, as he becomes more man, becomes less nature. He becomes unreal. He +loses homogeneity as a species. He lives unto himself not as a species +but as an individual. He is lost as far as nature is concerned, but as +he is separated from nature, this does not matter. He is in himself, he +is unreal, he is secure. This sense of unreality, however, varies in +individuals: it is weakest in the weakest individuals. These weakest +individuals, missing the physical homogeneity which reality in nature +would give man, construct by analogy an ideal homogeneity, a history, +a reality of time. ‘The means whereby to identify living forms,’ +Spengler says, ‘is Analogy.’ As systematic analogy with nature becomes +more and more difficult, the basis of analogy, parallelism with +nature, is removed; but the system of analogy remains. A transference +is made from what Herr Spengler calls morphological equivalence to +functional equivalence. Instead of being nature-like (like the species +_man_ in nature) he becomes man-like (like the species man in man). +The individual is like himself collectively, really, not like himself +individually, unreally. It is now possible perhaps to discuss more +clearly the significance of the terms I have been using: pessimism, +optimism; collective-real, individual-real; unreal. Herr Spengler, I +should say, is pessimistic at the sight of the disintegration of man +as a natural species; he consoles himself with a vision of man as a +consistent analogous rather than homologous social mass. He has, we +might say, a melancholy, mystical vision of an eternal structure of +decay, whose processes may be collectively appreciated and participated +in. His vision is the collective-real, by which he manages to transcend +the unreal. Mr. Lewis, I should say, is fundamentally optimistic at +the sight of the disintegration of man as a natural species. He is +not distressed, I believe, by the fact that there is a problem of +individualism. He would face it cheerfully if he were not so annoyed +by Herr Spengler’s gloomy evasion of it--by the whole time-philosophy +for which Spengler is but one of many spokesmen. But he is distracted +from his pursuit of the problem of individualism into the unreal, where +is to be found its only satisfactory conclusion, by his annoyance +with evasions of it like Herr Spengler’s or Dr. Whitehead’s. And in +his annoyance he remains permanently distracted; he succeeds in doing +no more than substituting for it another kind of evasion. I do not +say that Mr. Lewis is an official spokesman of the individual-real +in the way in which Herr Spengler is an official spokesman for the +collective-real. But in opposing him without fully acknowledging the +unreal he seems to me to be identifying himself with a brand of realism +that is in its way as obnoxious as collective realism. + +Let me elaborate what I consider to be the viewpoint of the +individual-realists. They perceive the disintegration of man as a +species and resent the philosophical substitute which the collective +realists, with the help of history, make for the natural species--this +analogical instead of homological species. They recognize that however +removed man may now be from nature, analogies of the individual with +natural history are less false than analogies of the individual with +human history. Analogies of the individual with nature will become +less and less exact as man becomes more and more removed from nature. +But it is at any rate true that these analogies will hold as long as +it will be possible to make them. Analogies of the individual with +history will, on the other hand, become more and more exact, since they +are invented rather than discovered analogies, analogies maintained +by a system of representational cohesion. Historical analogy thus +stands for the tyranny of democracy, while physical analogy stands +for a Toryish anarchy--the direct communication of a few individuals +with the physical world without the intervention of the symbolic +species.[6] I think that anarchism is very nice; but I do not think +that anarchism is enough. I agree that morphological analogy is more +literal than functional analogy; but as morphological analogy is bound +to become less and less exact as the individual’s memory of himself as +a member of a species becomes more and more shady, it seems to me idle +to maintain it at all (except humorously); especially idle to maintain +it, this individual-real, categorically against the collective-real, +and in doing so to lose sight of the only quality in which the +individual is secure, in a certain personal unreality not affected by +analogy of any kind. I am not much concerned about the philosophical +invalidity of the individual-real; I am ready to admit that it is +philosophically a more tenable position than the collective-real. +Philosophical positions have all to do with versions of the real, and +have varying degrees of tenability: but if a philosophical position +have the maximum degree of intelligibility it does not alter the fact +that any philosophical position is irrelevant to the individual and +relevant only to a symbolic mass of individuals. The only position +relevant to the individual is the unreal, and it is relevant because it +is not a position but the individual himself. The individual-real is +more indulgent of the individual-unreal than any other philosophical +position; but this is a disadvantage rather than advantage to the +unreal, since it actually means an encroachment upon, a parody of +the unreal by the individual-real. It is about this encroachment and +parody as it takes place in literature that I am really concerned. +To put it simply, the unreal is to me poetry. The individual-real is +a sensuous enactment of the unreal, opposing a sort of personally +cultivated physical collectivity to the metaphysical mass-cultivated +collectivity of the collective-real. So the individual-real is a +plagiarizing of the unreal which makes the opposition between itself +and the collective-real seem that of poetic to realistic instead of +(as it really is) that of superior to inferior realistic; the real, +personally guaranteed real-stuff to a philosophical, mass-magicked +real-stuff. The result in literature is a realistic poeticizing of +prose (Virginia Woolf or any ‘good’ writer) that competes with poetry, +forcing it to make itself more poetic if it would count at all. Thus +both the ‘best’ prose and the ‘best’ poetry are the most ‘poetic’; +and make the unreal, mere poetry, look obscure and shabby. And what +have we, of all this effort? Sitwellian connoisseurship in beauty and +fashion, adult Eliotry proving how individually realistic the childish, +mass-magicked real-stuff can be if sufficiently documented, ambitious +personal absolutes proving how real their unreal is, Steinian and +Einsteinian intercourse between history and science, Joycian release +of man of time in man of nature (collective-real in individual-real), +cultured primitivism, cultured individualism, vulgar (revolutionary) +collectivism, fastidious (anarchic) collectivism--it is all one: +nostalgic, lascivious, masculine, Oedipean embrace of the real +mother-body by the unreal son-mind.[7] + + +§3 + +In showing how the distinction between the collective-real and +the individual-real meant really no more than a difference of +degree--between degrees of good, for example--I might have carried the +argument further. I might have shown that in thus revealing themselves +as merely differences of degree, they reduced all oppositions that +might be made between them to differences of degree. Take the +opposition of _intellectual_, of the time-world (collective-real), +to _physical_, of the selves-world (individual-real): _intellectual_ +proves itself to mean based on an emotionally maintained unity; +_physical_ proves itself to mean based on a unity maintained by reason. +The opposition then of _intellectual_ to _physical_ (of Herr Spengler, +say, to Mr. Lewis) or of intuition to intelligence (of John Middleton +Murry, say, to T. S. Eliot) is a restatement of the more hackneyed +opposition of _emotional_ to _intellectual_; which in turn proves +itself to be not an opposition at all but an expression of degrees of +historical advancement. + +Thus to Herr Spengler ‘Soul,’ the felt self, is an eternal, romantic +youthfulness in man; which expresses itself by comparing itself +(analogy) continually with the world, the not-self, the unfelt self; +which is the permanently aged, self-apprehending, being self of nature. +Herr Spengler does not see that once having made this opposition he +has placed himself in the position of choosing between them, that one +or the other must represent the illusion of one or the other. Failing +to do this, by maintaining a communicative opposition between them, he +shows that both are illusions (mutually, one of the other). To compare +mathematics and logic is to show wherein both are false, by reason of +their resemblance to each other. If the likeness were true, it would be +a complete likeness, it would be identity, and one or the other must +disappear; and it follows that the one in whose terms the likeness is +stated is the most false, the most illusory. The likeness is maintained +by the self’s fear of self, the fear of personal loneliness. The +mathematical unity of the world sets an example for the historical +unity of the Soul, the time-child of the world; a community self, a +Culture, is invented to keep the self company. All the values by which +this self is organized are derivative values. ‘Logic is a kind of +mathematic.’ Language is an expression of functional relationships, +it is not just language, the tongue of a self; it must co-ordinate, +_express_ the members of the community self rather than _say_ each +self; it must be comprehensible, that is, it must show likeness--if +it does not show likeness it is attacked as obscure. A painter or a +composer or a sculptor is one who demonstrates, through his medium, +this communicative opposition between the world of reality and the +world of self. The poet is one who, by personal duplicity, takes it +upon himself to prove that the opposition is so and not so; his poetry +is a demonstration of the righteousness of duplicity. ‘Nature is to +be handled scientifically, History poetically.’ Self is poetic self. +Nature, mathematical life, is the become, the eternally grown-up; +History, logical life, is the becoming, the eternally childish. + +The time-advocate, whom I shall call the philosopher, does not see, or +is afraid to see, that the become and the becoming are both mutually +illusory Worlds of reality: that they are self-created refutations +of individuality to which the individual succumbs from imperfection. +He forgets, that is, that the individual is an _unbecoming_ and that +the categories ‘becoming’ and ‘become’ are really a derivation from +him, a historical reconstruction. Unbecoming is the movement away +from reality, the becoming unreal. What is called the become is +therefore really the starting point of the unbecoming. What is called +the becoming is therefore really a hypothetical opposition to the +unbecoming. The become and the becoming are both oppositions to the +unbecoming; the become from which the becoming is derived is a static +order organized against the unbecoming, the become is the material of +disintegration. The becoming is an attempt to check the disintegration +of the become from real to unreal by reversing its direction, turning +it from real to more real, making Nature suggest History. This is done +by reading into Nature a necessity and inventing for the species man, a +digression from Nature, an analogical Darwinistic Nature. The necessity +of Nature is then called Causality, the necessity of History, Destiny. + +The philosopher, then, is the formal opponent of the unreal. To him +the individual is a piece, Nature is a whole, and the individual +cannot match the wholeness, the real of Nature, except by sharing +in a community self, the collective-real. To one who recognizes the +reality of the unreal, each individual is a positive unit produced +by the disintegration of the reality of Nature. Nature is a process; +and the pieces of this process are the wholes, not Nature. To the +philosopher thought is a reintegration of the scattered pieces into +a symbolic whole, which may then be related to the literal whole of +Nature; it also brings about a close interrelation of these pieces +among themselves, a functional conformity. To a believer in the unreal, +thought confirms disintegration. It is not a collective system. It is +each self. + +This opposition of the philosopher to the individual-unreal remains +merely a philosophical opposition. For it is the nature of the +believer in the unreal to be without a system--a system implies +collective association (it is even impossible to give him a label, +like ‘philosopher’); and the philosopher could only be opposed by a +system. Indeed so thoroughly ‘unselfish’ is the character of the unreal +self that its just conclusion is a sort of social disappearance. This +is practically impossible because to the unreal self is attached a +physical memory of the process by which the self was made, a birthmark +of piecemealness opposing to the complete unreal self a reconstructed, +ideal whole of origin. The unreal self is forced to indulge this. Sex, +for instance, is an indulgence by the unreal self of romantic physical +nostalgia. To the unreal self this indulgence is incidental, to the +philosopher it is fundamental. Herr Spengler’s whole inspiration is +nostalgic. (So is T. S. Eliot’s. So is Mr. C. B. Cochran’s--every +‘Cochran’s Revue’ is a variation on the theme of the integration +of historical pageantry, an epistemological medley of primitivism, +Shakespeareanism, Charlestonianism, etc.) + +The philosopher has, however, his formal opponent. His formal opponent +is one who resents the gross personification of man as the ideal +individual of the species; to whom Spenglerish dualism is only ‘bad +philosophy’ (Mr. Lewis); to whom good philosophy is a severe monism, +a literal, aware dwelling in the mathematical (being) self of Nature. +Instead of History we have Criticism: the formal opponent of the +philosopher is the Critic. And, once more, the difference between them +shows itself to be only a difference of degree; criticism defines +itself as ‘better,’ more intellectual philosophy than ‘intellectual,’ +‘bad’ philosophy. The critic (this new, anti-philosophical type that I +am speaking of) dismisses the childish, historical self as a travesty +of the adult self of physical reality; as that sick, inner-eyeish, +Strindbergian ‘subjective’ self, which has poisoned instead of +nourished itself on reality, that the psychologist, physician +of reality, attempts to redeem from the subconscious (run-down, +pathological reality). For the philosophical system of logic the critic +substitutes the mathematical system of reason. The world of Self is not +to be deduced from the world of Nature; there is but one world, and +the self is in this, a like fact with other facts, not a subjective +fact in a shadowy world of analogy. What Mr. Lewis calls the ‘success +of reason’ would permanently establish self as objective fact, as the +individual-real. The language of the individual-real neither expresses +the members of a community-self nor isolates each self. It expresses +the extrinsic value of the self for a system in which there are only +extrinsic values; as the language of the collective-real expresses its +intrinsic value for a system in which there are only intrinsic values, +which are made valid, however, by means of oppositional relation to a +system of extrinsic values. So that for the individual-realist, the +self is also poetic self; rational instead of intuitive, ‘physical’ +instead of ‘intellectual’; a poetic detail of real reality rather than +a real detail of poetic reality. + +The critic, then, like the philosopher, is an opponent of the unreal. +The unreal self is intrinsic self, intrinsic without respect to a +system of extrinsic values; it is without value. It is more than +anarchistic; it does not treat individualistically with values; it +supersedes them. The unreal self is not poetic self, it is self. +It is not a detail of co-ordinated reality.[8] It is an absolute, +disconnected, hopeless whole. To the philosopher thought is memory of +Mother-Nature. To the critic thought is thoughts--diverse, objective, +related facts of reality. There is no antithesis between the position +of the philosopher and that of the critic: the philosopher invents +instruments for observing and measuring reality from afar and has +dream-embraces of reality: the critic says: ‘Sentimental stuff and +nonsense! I am _in_ reality.’ The critic, that is, is a little more +sentimental, ambitious, intellectual, poetic, snobbish than the +philosopher. To both of them thought means connection with reality. To +both of them poetry means eloquent consciousness of life. To the unreal +self, to whom they are both brother-opponents, thought is separation +from reality, and poetry is the consciousness (the perhaps ineloquent +consciousness) of what is not life, of what is self. A tree (even +this is doubtful, for it is a late, nearly human form) is not born; +it lives. What is born ceases with birth to live; it is self, unreal +self. For this reason it is impossible to call the unreal self poetic +self: ‘poetic’ and ‘poetry’ are words drunk with reality, they have +indeed become by popular use rhetorical substitutes for ‘real’ and +‘reality.’ By reality I mean organized, ‘universal’ reality. It would +be possible to speak of the unreal self as the real self, the self of +separate reality, were it not for the community sense that belongs to +philosophical or critical reality. I might have said, instead of unreal +self, dissociated self. The problem of the right word is more difficult +in the case of ‘poetic’ and ‘poetry.’ I can point out that the real +self is poetic, and, in opposition to both real and poetic, put the +unreal self. It is painful, however, to be forced to leave ‘poetry’ +to the real self and to call the poetry of the unreal self unreality. +Poetry is a stolen word, and in using it one must remain conscious of +its perverted sense in the service of realism, or one suddenly finds +oneself discussing not poetry but realism; and this is equally painful. +But if poetry is a stolen word, so is reality: reality is stolen from +the self, which is thus in its integrity forced to call itself unreal. + +Poetry may perhaps for the moment be saved for the poet and for the +unreal self if the collective-real, the individual-real, philosophy, +criticism, are denominated ‘literature.’ Literature then clearly +represents the symbolical, the rational, the romantic, the classical, +the collective, the individualistic reality of man. Further, if we +make it clear to ourselves that all literature is poetic, then we are +separating poetry from literature and drawing a sharp line between what +is poetic and what is poetry. Further still, we are discovering that +literature is everything but the unreal self, it is the society of +reality; it is History, it is Nature, it is Philosophy, it is Reason, +it is Criticism, it is Art. Most of all perhaps literature is Art, the +seizure and confirmation of reality by the senses, the literalizing of +the world of reality. The more ‘abstract’ Art is (the less symbolical) +the more real it is. Poetry is thus seen to be neither literature nor +Art. Literature is the ladder of reality: the historian yields to the +scientist, the scientist to the philosopher, the philosopher to the +critic, the high-priest of Reason, of which ‘great works of art’ are +the visible signs: for Reason is Reality.[9] + + +§4 + +This has been, so far, the elaboration of a point of view. From here +on will be found various applications of this point of view. Generally +in expositive writing there is no distinction made between what is +organically elaborative and what is incidentally applicative: all is +elaborative and therefore over-elaborative. The argument continues to +elaborate itself even though it has come to an end; it incorporates +the application of the point of view in the development of the point +of view; it does not distinguish between argument and comment. I +wish to distinguish carefully here between argument and comment. A +certain very small amount of illustration and instancing is necessary +to focus an argument properly: the smaller the better, since most +specific reference and substantiation is a concession to the audience, +which generally cannot think purely, that is, without the machinery +of learning. Once the argument is focused, it should not develop +further. It should repeat itself, like an acid test, in each fresh +application. All philosophical or critical systems are the absorption +of an original point of view by the facts to which it applies itself: +the force of the point of view is lost, it becomes a convenience by +which facts organize themselves and eventually dominate the point of +view. All philosophical or critical systems are no more than learning, +a synthesis of instances, and therefore develop generalizations that +mean nothing without instances. I have no philosophical or critical +system to advance; I am interested in generalizations that mean +something without instances, that are unreal, since they mean something +by themselves. Generalizations of this sort, when applied to instances, +should not be absorbed by them. The argument should dismiss instances +with comment on instances, remain meaning in itself. If it does this +then it is capable of maintaining an opposition between right and +wrong. If it does not, it only becomes a better wrong than the wrong it +attacks. It becomes real. + +By this I do not mean that I am a subjective critic. A subjective +critic is one who converts his point of view into a system, makes +it real: his point of view must be continually fed by works of art, +otherwise it ceases. I propose here a point of view that is completely +unto itself, that is unreal, that is independent of instances. When +it meets instances it comments on them by repeating itself. Nor is it +subjective, since subjectivity implies an objective world of experience +from which it must perpetually derive itself. I speak of a point of +view which is self and only self, of an unreality which is every +one’s to the extent to which he is able to extricate himself from +quantitative reality and be, instead of a purse-proud something, a +proud and purseless nothing. What is this I am describing?--the poetic +(a stolen word) self. + + +1 + +Mr. Herbert Read (_Reason and Romanticism_). + +‘That the critical spirit, expressed in reason, will ever evolve a +synthesis capable of fulfilling the functions of religion is evidently +impossible. Reason and emotion only unite in very rare and special +perceptions; such perceptions are not capable of generalization.... +Emotions are too diffuse, too widely distributed, ever to be unified +in reason, which is an evolved possession, never perfect at all, +and only approaching perfection in the rarest individuals.’ The +impossible, Mr. Read admits, is attainable in the rare ‘universal +mind.’ Universal in the strict critical sense proves itself to mean +‘broad’ in the eighteenth-century sense--aristocratic. So Goethe +(both for Herr Spengler and Mr. Read) is the ideal universal type; so +is Leibnitz, so is Diderot. Mr. Read confirms my description of the +philosophico-critical system in his definition of universality as ‘a +capacity _to receive_ all knowledge and events with equanimity and +unprejudiced percipience; and to build up a positive attitude on this +clear and perceptual basis.’[10] From here we are gently conducted +to the proposition that ‘poetry is, in short, delectation.’ Poetry +is, in short, a game-like, sporting, snobbish exercise of reason, the +most ambitious display of knowledge possible: ‘and the greater our +knowledge, the more surcharged it is with the perception of values, the +deeper will be the delight aroused in us.’ What is reason? Reason is +socialized reality, ‘the sum total of awareness, ordained and ordered +to some specific end or object of attention.’ + +Mr. Read on metaphysical poetry: metaphysical poetry is ‘emotional +apprehension of thought.’ This means, we discover, individual mind +systematically apprehending reality: ‘... we find in Donne a mind +poised at the exact turn of the course of philosophy drawing his +inspiration right back from scholastic sources, and yet at the same +time eagerly surveying the new future promised by the science of +Copernicus and Galileo. Chapman, on the other hand, is in a remarkable +degree the forerunner of humanist philosophy--of Hume and Spinoza in +particular. He is aware, above all things, of “the constant and sacred +harmony of life.”’ In this way criticism classifies poetry according +to the poet’s intelligence of reality--that is, according to his +conventionality, his politeness; whereas that Donne wrote poetry at all +was because he was able to separate himself rudely from the reality of +which he was in a class sense a privileged agent.[11] + +On Dante and Guido Cavalcanti: ‘Or, more exactly, all experience, +whether intellectual or sensual or instinctive, was regarded as equally +and contemporaneously the subject-matter of their poetry. The result +was a desirable continuity or coherence; imagination, contemplation, +and sensibility becoming fused within the perfect limits of a human +mind.’ Mr. Read then quotes from William Walrond Jackson, D.D., +‘Introduction’ to his translation of the _Convivio_ (Oxford, 1909), +p. 18: ‘The poet was inspired by an overmastering desire to link the +present with the past and with the future, to blend all knowledge +into one coherent system, and to bring the experiences of life into +one harmonious whole....’ Plainly, this donnish, publicly fostered +service of the poet to reason would be absorbed, if he were a poet at +all, in his essential, enduring unreality by the time his work reached +the criticism of four hundred years later. Instead criticism keeps +artificially alive the derived reality of the work, submerging in it +what intrinsic unreality it may have had. ‘The true metaphysical poet +is conscious of no such dualism: his thought is in its very process +poetical.’ Poetry is reason. ‘Leibnitz has defined an intelligent +author as one who includes the most of reality in the least possible +compass.’ And further ... ‘the poet is in a very real sense the +product of his age--witness especially Dante’ (‘age’ meaning ‘the +most of reality in the least possible compass’). These two statements +comment sufficiently on themselves. What recommendation has Mr. Read +for the modern poet? He looks ‘to the modern physicists, whose work +would seem to provide a whole system of thought and imagery ready for +fertilization in the mind of the poet.’ This again, is its own best +comment on itself. + + +2 + +Mr. Lewis is merely a pamphleteer of anarchism, T. S. Eliot is a +serious moralist, bent on professing rather than on attacking. We +therefore look to Mr. Lewis for explanatory rhetoric and to Mr. Eliot +for explanatory ritual: in many respects his modest behaviour is more +illuminating than all Mr. Lewis’s language. After years of hard and +brilliant service as a poetical yogi Mr. Eliot suddenly discovered +that he had all the time been acting on behalf of the universe of +man, of human nature, instead of in behalf of the universe of reason, +of natural nature. So he replaced religiousness by priggishness; he +went from a popular, mystical cult to an exclusive Thomist club; from +large, symbolical (ironic) outer circle abstractions to small specific +(concrete) inner circle abstractions. + +Instead of attacking the time-mob, like Mr. Lewis, he withdrew +himself from it and left it to carry on the orthodox, unanimous +flux so obnoxious to Mr. Lewis, yet so necessary to both Mr. Lewis’ +and Mr. Eliot’s anarchism: the basis of anarchistic individuality +is not authentically individualistic, but snobbish. Mr. Lewis’s +incentives to anarchism are political--‘for the sake of the ride’; +Mr. Eliot’s are moral, that is, self-protective--the ride was for the +sake of running away. He ran away from the collective-real to the +individual-real (the _Criterion_ furnishes us with a progressive record +of Mr. Eliot’s movements). Like Mr. Lewis he opposed aristocratic +orthodoxy (anarchism) to democratic orthodoxy (co-operation); he +deserted the collective dogma of periods for the collective dogma +of individuals. ‘For those of us who are higher than the mob, and +lower than the man of inspiration, there is always _doubt_; and in +doubt we are living parasitically (which is better than not living +at all) on the minds of the men of genius of the past who have +believed something’ (from the _Enemy_, January, 1927). Mr. Lewis +advocates grandiloquently but vaguely aristocratic orthodoxy in +general; Mr. Eliot is dryly and specifically in pursuit of _the_ or +at least _an_ aristocratic orthodoxy. The difference is that between +irritated rightness and alarmed priggishness. Mr. Lewis is merely led +astray by his extravagant though praiseworthy fury with democratic +orthodoxy; his worshipful enthusiasm for the classical man of quiet +is not dogma but pique against the modern romantic man of action +(time-flux, space-motion). Mr. Eliot upholds the man of quiet from +dogma. He is a minority-representative, as the man of the time-flux is +a majority-representative. Mr. Eliot’s position demonstrates clearly +the relation of the individual-real to the collective-real: it is a +priggish, self-protective minority-attitude to the same material which +is the substance of the dogma of the collective-real. But he objects +to ‘mentalism’ not only, I should say, because it generally means +mob-mentalism, but equally because it may mean unreal, unorthodox +individuality; his anarchism is timidity fallen between two stools. +Mr. Lewis, however, objects to mentalism, I feel, chiefly because it +generally means demogogic mob-mentalism. ‘By this proposed transfer +from the beautiful _objective, material_, world of common sense, over +to the “organic” world of chronological mentalism, you lose not +only the clearness of outline, the static beauty, of the things you +commonly apprehend; you lose also the clearness of outline of your own +individuality which apprehends them.’ I do not think Mr. Eliot would +have been capable of saying ‘your own individuality’; I do not indeed +believe that Mr. Lewis is naturally an individual-realist, but that he +has been unfortunately stung into a pose.[12] + +Aristocratic (as opposed to democratic) orthodoxy is not, as I have +already indicated, a pose with Mr. Eliot. I said he had _an_ orthodoxy. +It would be helpful to an understanding of the problem to discover what +the nature of an aristocratic orthodoxy may be. In Mr. Eliot’s case, +this is all too obviously: a humble, up-to-date respect for the best, +internationally sifted great names. A practical-minded Toryism, which +says, in gently criticizing Mr. Anthony M. Ludovici’s more journalistic +Toryism (The _Monthly Criterion_, July, 1927): ‘Mr. Ludovici is engaged +in forming what might be called a myth or idea for the Tory Party. Such +a myth or idea has much to commend it; and I sympathize with so many +of his views that I may declare at once what seems to me the great +weakness of his construction: he isolates politics from economics, and +he isolates it from religion.’ What Mr. Eliot’s attitude to economics +is it is difficult to determine; I should say from various evidences +that economics to him did not mean a human problem but an academic +tradition worthy of study. Mr. Eliot has, from time to time, spoken +more specifically on religion. In the review from which I have just +quoted, Mr. Eliot further says: ‘Toryism is essentially Anglican; +Roman Catholicism, which in our time draws its greatest support +from America, is more in harmony with Republicanism. The problem of +Toryism should be rather to make the Church of Laud survive in an age +of universal suffrage....’ Further, he ardently seconds Mr. Ludovici +in his recommendation that the Conservative Party should encourage +_thought_, ‘the activity of men of thought who are not and who do +not desire to be parliamentarians.’ In such quiet language does Mr. +Eliot phrase his gospel of timid, aristocratic mentalism--a kind of +politico-literary extract of Anglo-Catholicism, if we may judge by +signs. His demands are familiar to every properly brought-up British +schoolboy: that the Church must have more power, that the Kingship must +be strengthened, and that Aristotle must be studied, supplemented by +an Anglican reading of St. Thomas if the lad is to enter literature. +Yes, literature. I had nearly forgotten that Mr. Eliot began his +Progress as a Poet. But Mr. Eliot, finding himself higher than the mob +and lower than the man of inspiration, is modest; he does not ask to +be considered, or consider himself, as a poet. Unless we are deceived +by his modesty, he would be content to be Bishop or to be Professor +Saintsbury. + + +3 + +Mr. Roger Fry in _Transformations_ concerns himself with the +distinction between pure and impure art--‘a distinction which Mr. +Richards has the good fortune to be able to ignore.’ Mr. Richards, +we learn from his _Principles of Literary Criticism_ (published in +1925, the first text-book of psychologico-literary criticism) is +interested in value rather than in purity. Criticism is to him a minute +and comprehensive gradation of what T. E. Hulme called the world of +religious and ethical values; purity, a social rather than æsthetic +attribute; a moral term, by which a work is described as a public act +of its author. To Mr. Fry a work is not conduct, it is a thing; its +purity as a thing depends on its dissociation from authorship. It is +impossible not to prefer Mr. Fry’s criterion to Mr. Richards’; the +former is plainly trying to discover the laws of goodness in works, the +latter, the laws of goodness in humanity. The works we have with us; +humanity, the idea of species, must be philosophically evoked. + +But what is the nature of the work as thing? According to Mr. Fry its +nature would seem to be reality. It is created by a sharp separation +of the author’s personality from the material with which he works, so +that his work, when complete, is to be classified with nature, the +world of mathematical reality, rather than with man, to whom reality +is a sentimental objectification of his subjectivity. I should say +that Mr. Fry’s criticism made possible a clearer sense of a work’s +_self_ than Mr. Richards’, but that it created a misunderstanding of +the nature of this self by identifying purity with reality. In Mr. +Fry’s criticism the homologue of a work would be a thing. But what is +a thing and how is it pure? Pure means being whole, single in element, +nothing but self, thoroughly new and fresh. Impure means being more +and less than whole, complex in element, not possessing thoroughly new +and fresh selfhood. The ‘things’ of what is called reality are mere +interpretative morsels, tainted with pedigree. To me the thingishness +in a work depends on no real homologue; the work is a thing of its own +kind, without homologue. The material with which an author works is +not reality but what he is able to disentangle from reality: in other +words I think the identity is rather of purity and unreality. An author +must first of all have a sure apprehension of what is self in him, what +is new, fresh, not history, synthesis, reality. In every person there +is the possibility of a small, pure, new, unreal portion which is, +without reference to personality in the popular, social sense, self. I +use ‘self’ in no romantic connotation, but only because it is the most +vivid word I can find for this particular purefaction. When this self +has been _isolated_ from all that is impression and impurity of contact +in an individual, then a ‘thing,’ a work, occurs, it is discharged from +the individual, it is self; not _his_ self, but self. If it is not +discharged, it is immediately reabsorbed in that composite accident of +reality by which he is known to others as a person. Thus many people +without creative ability--the ability to discharge self--must feel for +one passing moment that isolated purity in themselves which might, +if they were able to sustain it a little longer, turn into ‘things.’ +In those who can from time to time discharge self, the power is not +constant: if it were, ‘creation’ would cease--creation is intermittent +recurrence and repossession of this power--and there would be death, +bright death. + +The power, then, is not synthetic, is not to compose things, but to +isolate them; it is an analytic power. Mr. Fry describes the reaction +to works of art as a reaction to a relation. This could only refer to +works which were compositions, attempts to create, by a synthetic, +material (non-personal) action of the senses, real things; for relation +can only result from synthesis. A work-thing of this kind is a pattern +of reality, an arrangement of elements; and pattern is accident. The +author of a synthetic work can choose the elements of which it is to +be composed, but they work themselves out: the so-called necessity +of reality is really _accident_. The reaction therefore to the kind +of work Mr. Fry speaks of, a ‘real’ work, is a reaction to accident: +the critic, himself presumably a pattern of reality, experiences a +shock from meeting another pattern which is commandingly different +and hypnotizes him into a rearrangement of the elements of which he +is composed--‘the esthetic emotion’ is here a sensual recombination +of personality. For this reason I consider such esthetic emotion +false and escapist. The experience, on the other hand, of a critic +confronted with an ‘unreal’ work, would, I believe, be this: if it +were a thing of pure, isolated self, he could not perceive it except +with what was pure, isolated self in him. He would be forced for the +moment to discard what was real in him; he might, by means of the +thing, succeed in discharging self: the operation of the thing on him +would have an analytic effect separating in him the pure from the +impure, protecting him for the moment from the ‘esthetic emotion’ with +which in fact he generally reacts to everything. When Mr. Fry says +‘In literature there is no immediate sensual pleasure,’ he is really +commenting on the analytic, unreal quality of the word as opposed to +the synthetic (sense-combining), real quality of the instrumentalities +of the material arts. Word-works in which there is an immediate sensual +pleasure are ones which have been artified, realized. Words in their +pure use, which I assume to be their poetic use, are denials rather +than affirmations of reality. The word _hat_, say, does not create a +real hat: it isolates some element in the real hat which is not hat, +which is unreal, the hat’s self. + +But my description of this unreality would at first seem to correspond +with the unreal world of poetry described by A. C. Bradley. Mr. Fry +quotes Dr. Bradley: ‘For its (poetry’s) nature is not to be a part, nor +yet a copy, of the real world (as we commonly understand that phrase), +but to be a world by itself, independent, complete, autonomous.’ The +key-word in this definition is _world_: Dr. Bradley is not writing +about unreal self but about romantic humanity. Poetry represents to him +the world of fancy; and by fancy he means ethical, realistic fancy--the +real world of man as opposed to the real world of mathematical nature. +Nor is this a true opposition: it is impossible to overlook the +significance of the term _world_--we have here all over again the +ambitious, analogical Soul-World of Herr Spengler. + +Mr. Fry is at pains to point out the alien, psychological, literary +element in various plastic works, in determining what is ‘pure’ art. +The very term ‘art’ forces him to confine his definition to the purely +real. So that he can do no more than make a sharp distinction between +the art of the real world and the art of the unreal (psychological, +literary) world. We are to conclude that in its way the art of the +unreal world (literature) is pure: what is impure is a mixing of these +two worlds. Mr. Fry is only annoyed by literary art, not by artistic +literature. + +But the unreal, literary, psychologically organized self-world is the +collective-real: its existence depends on a belief in reality, though +in reality as a myth. Nor is the self of Mr. Fry’s real world any +less ‘psychological’: but merely a more anarchistic, individualistic +associate of reality, reality hence as reason rather than myth, or, +as Mr. Lewis might put it, as God Himself rather than religion. And +so the issue between realism and idealism is no more than a quarrel +over methods of affirming reality: rationalistic instinct as against +emotionalistic intellect, short-way-round as against long-way-round, +anarchistic as against communistic psychology. Realism is the method +of artistic art, idealism, of literary art. Art is the use of self to +make syntheses--things _like_ ‘real’ things: all controversy about +art-methods narrows itself down to a disagreement over what real things +are _like_.[13] + +The controversy, that is, is not over principles but over style; and +style is, ultimately, not so much the manner of a work as the manner +in which it is talked about. The end of most criticism is not to +determine what a work must be but to fix the language of criticism; and +it follows that most works are therefore without the quality of self: +they are made merely to fit the language of criticism popular at the +time or that happens to have made an impression on the author. + +Criticism has to do with what is already done, with what has already +happened: it is a cataloguing of reality, and reality is the past. A +work that invites criticism is an exercise in history, whether its +author has the man-history point of view or the nature-history point +of view; it is the creation of old stuff. Most works are old stuff, +differing only in style; in how they innovate old stuff; in their +critical language: they agree in principle, that only old stuff is +possible--reality, synthesis, pattern, recombination. + +Mr. Read blames Mr. George Moore for using the word ‘objective’ +to describe what he means by ‘pure poetry’--‘objective,’ Mr. Read +complains, is a psychological term. It is not one of the what Mr. Read +calls ‘universal terms.’ A universal term should convey ‘an inner +conviction of necessity.’ What Mr. Read is really complaining of is +the unsystematic use of a psychological term. Criticism should use the +same language about art as it does about reality; it should unite +philosophy and art in Reason. Reason is personal, direct, conscious +traffic in reality. It is enlightened magic (‘an inner conviction +of necessity’). Primitive man, being more instinctively aware of +reality, did not need to have his magic (his art) enlightened. The +primitive artist was a seer, the civilized artist is a visionary: to +Mr. Read reason is the ability to have correct visions of reality. +It is interesting to find that Mr. Lewis uses the same language of +criticism. The artist is to him a wide-awake dreamer; ‘Don Quixote, or +the Widow Wadman, is as _real_, to put it no higher than that, as most +people ostensibly alive and walking the earth to-day’; ‘For me art is +the civilized _substitute_ for magic.’ To both Mr. Read and Mr. Lewis +purity means that magical intelligence, that inspired (rather than +primitive, stupid ‘objective’) literalness which may be philosophically +defined as the individual-real. Both, moreover, object to art that is +magical in the primitive sense as to an anachronism; it is fabricated +sensationism, it is the collective-real, it is ideological rather +than natural symbolism.[14] They are interested in getting man into +proper focus in reality, and in his usefulness as an instrument of +measurement: they are interested, that is, in psychology, in the +language of criticism, the mathematics of synthesis. + +Mr. Richards, too, is primarily interested in the language of +criticism. He condemns Beauty-and-Truth terminology--the criticism +that treats civilized art as unintelligent magic, in fact. He not only +recognizes Reason as man’s participation in the patterns of reality; +he insists on Reason as social duty; criticism is to him morality. The +mathematics of synthesis by which reality may be accurately apprehended +are to be developed by turning the human world into a world of values: +making conduct (communication, relation) achieve significant pattern. +Conduct is then the training of the community as a whole in traffic in +reality, with the artist as band-master--‘the arts are the supreme form +of communicative activity.’ Value (the graded necessity of reality) is +to be discovered by a ‘systematization of impulses.’ We have here that +intelligent, superior, adult instinct which Mr. Lewis believes should +supply the civilized substitute for magic--the instinct equally of the +collective-real, with only a difference of degree in sophistication, +manners. Instinct in the collective-real is always either unconsciously +or consciously flamboyant, grossly poetic; in the individual-real +always consciously reserved, meticulously poetic (art, Mr. Richards +says, deals with ‘minute particulars’). But it is always the same +instinct, the nostalgic desire to reconstitute an illusory whole that +has no integrity but the integrity of accident. + +Respect for this accidental quality of reality (necessity) may be +expressed either by the enthusiasm of what Mr. Lewis calls the +Revolutionary Simpleton, who is always religiously anticipating +accident, or by what I should like to call Mr. Richards’ Moral +Simpleton, who observes a reverent plasticity in the development +(accidental rearrangement) of custom. And I should like to add Mr. +Lewis’s own hero, the Individualistic Simpleton, who is to be forced +‘to remain absolutely alone for several hours every day.’ Why? To +become unreal? No, to become more real, to be made into ‘much better +people.’ But if they were much better people already (if a kind of +criticism of reality prevailed which satisfied Mr. Lewis), then Mr. +Lewis, however free he might permit himself to be, would certainly not +worry them with individualism.[15] He wants them free now only as a +protest, an act of spiteful superiority against the collective-real. +The individual-real is not concerned with self but with exposing the +stupidity, the hypocrisy of the fanatic mob. Instead of freeing the +self to self, it frees it to Reason, to prove merely that intelligent +civilized individuals can be in closer touch with reality than a +stupid civilized mob: that they can know more, conform more perfectly +to customs of more perfect taste, control what is unreal self in +them more systematically, respond more respectfully, regularly +(classical-poetically) to the stimuli of accidental reality. That they +can behave, that is, by finding a civilized substitute for magic, like +a perfect primitive mob of philosophy-fed art students. + + +4 + +Mr. Richards quotes Dr. Bradley’s definition of poetry as an +illustration of the sort of criticism to which he is opposed. In +principle, however, I do not think they are opposed. Dr. Bradley’s +‘world by itself’ is fundamentally allied with Mr. Richards’ world of +values: the difference is that Dr. Bradley’s world--not ‘a copy of the +real world,’ not bound up with human affairs--gets its revelations +of reality through the imagination, that is, dreaming, while Mr. +Richards’ world gets its revelations of reality through waking. Both +worlds are trying to prove how real they are, the one lying down, the +other standing up. They are the same world in different attitudes, +the æsthetic attitude and the moral attitude. The protagonist of the +first says, ‘I cannot do two things at once--apprehend reality and +make money or eat my supper at the same time, I must set aside a part +of the day sacred to reality, in which I do nothing else, sleep over +it, as it were.’ The protagonist of the second says: ‘Pshaw, affected +sensitiveness. I can sharpen knives, shave, cook, travel, marry, go +to church and apprehend reality at the same time: in fact, whatever I +do is all the better done for this, and I apprehend reality all the +better for what I do.’ Whether a person apprehends reality from the +moral or from the æsthetic point of view is all a matter of energy: +what seems easy to one person may seem difficult to another, and +_vice versa_. Thus, to Mr. Richards, the moral theory of art ‘has the +most great minds behind it,’ ‘the most prominent of these great minds +being Plato, Aristotle, Horace, Dante, Spenser, Milton, the Eighteenth +Century, Coleridge, Shelley, Matthew Arnold and Pater.’ Which leads us +to believe that as a ‘moral’ critic Mr. Richards is something of an +æsthetician. + + +5 + +Modern criticism has supplemented itself with psychology, or rather +with its literary version, psycho-analysis. If criticism is primarily +interested in the language in which reality is discussed, then +it must have a partner to deal with the rough physical side of +reality--a field worker in reality. Criticism confines itself to taste; +psycho-analysis to substantiating taste with practical data. + +‘We are our bodies,’ Mr. Richards says: that is, we should try to be +our bodies, to exist psycho-analytically, to provide criticism with +data. The view that we are our bodies, Mr. Richards says, should +not be described as Materialism--‘it might equally well be called +_Idealism_.’ All criticism, he means to say, is an appreciation of +reality; criticisms differ in method, never in principle. With the +help of psycho-analysis we pay reality the compliment of saying ‘we +are our bodies’; and reality, with the help of criticism, returns the +compliment, permitting us to say ‘our bodies are us.’ + +As bodies we are acted upon by reality; this is the psycho-analytic +half of the trick. The action of reality on us produces effects which +reveal the nature of this reality which acts on us; a description of +this nature is the critical half of the trick. It is not suggested +that as bodies we may act on reality, for this would reveal the fact +that bodies were not like reality a solid lump, but separate and +independently acting; it would indicate a break-up of reality, open up +the problem of the unreal, and O! What a mess we should be in then. Let +us have order while we can. + +‘To know anything,’ Mr. Richards says, ‘is to be influenced by it.’ +This makes things still more simple and comfortable: we do not have to +worry about anything which is not _here_, which does not affect us, +which is not reality. We are what we know, and what we know is also +what we know. The echo of matter in mind proves that there is matter, +and also that mind is matter. The mind need have no fear of becoming +lost in itself so long as it continues to know, to be affected. It +need not be afraid to produce art so long as art remains a knowing +of reality; knowing of reality is reality: as echo of sound is also +sound. Mr. Read quotes sympathetically Professor Sonnenschein’s +learned expression of this echo-theory as applied to poetry: ‘Rhythm +is that property of a sequence of events in time which produces on +the mind of the observer the impression of proportion between the +duration of several events or groups of events of which the sequence +is composed.’ ‘A good artist,’ Mr. Read says, ‘is firstly a good +critic.’ He predisposes his mind materially to apprehend reality, to +receive echoes: ‘The work of art emerges within a radiation of critical +perceptions.’ + +If every one began systematically treating himself as mind, we should +all quickly become separate individuals and know ourselves, and the +symbols we used would not be echoes of reality but themselves, and +then indeed we should be in deep water. To prevent this possibility +psycho-analysis is called on to supplement ‘the narrowness of +criticism’ (Mr. Read’s phrase). Criticism is presumably narrow because +it deals with forms, while psycho-analysis can roll up its sleeves, +poke around in the stuff from which the symbol is derived, and ‘help +us test its social validity’ (Mr. Read)--‘social’ meaning pro-matter, +anti-mind: mind can only be pro-matter when it is collective mind. + +Psycho-analysis divides people into two types--introverted and +extraverted. Introversion represents error in man, a straying away from +reality into self, a going of the mind into mind. Both psycho-analysis +and criticism agree that this process cannot, or rather _should not_ +produce art. Both processes, _or their possibility_, exist in each +individual (psycho-analysis is forced to admit that introversion always +exists; extraversion exists if the individual is ‘successful’). They +may, it is held, be combined in _phantasy_, and phantasy produces +‘living reality,’ art. But what is this phantasy but the whole +introversive world of man behaving extraversively--the collective-real? +Unless it is introversion actually transformed in the individual into +extraversion, individual mind into matter of ‘more than individual +use’ (as Mr. Read defines creative phantasies)--the individual real? +The opposition between collective-real and individual-real disappears +in the general agreement between all parties that, by no matter what +method, introversion must be extraverted. Likewise the opposition +between romanticism and classicism: romanticism is acceptable if it has +an extraverted, classical touch; classicism is not necessarily damaged +by an introverted, romantic touch, so long as it does not lose complete +hold of extraversion. + +Extraversion, it is clear, is intelligent body-being. What +introversion is it seems difficult to say, since it is always defined +by defamatory comparison with extraversion. ‘Jung,’ Mr. Read says, +‘further differentiates _active_ and _passive_ phantasy--the latter +a morbid state which we do not need to stop to consider here.’ +Complete introversion is presumably not intelligent mind-being, but +a pathological condition. Individual mind-being is not intelligent, +pathological, because it does not make for unanimity. And both +psycho-analysis and criticism want some unanimous, collective mind in +contemporary man like the collective mind in primitive man, with the +distinction--made in consideration of the grown-up, individualized +character of modern man--that this must be an intelligent collective +mind, inspired with Reason, a refined version of brutish objectivity. +‘We need some unanimity,’ Mr. Read says, ‘to focus the vague desires +that exist in the collective mind.’ + +But what is the collective mind? A herd of deer clinging together +may be said to have unanimity, but it can scarcely be said to have +a mind: it has unanimity because to the extent to which it clings +together it _is_ brutish, natural reality. And the same is true of +primitive man up to the point where individual works of art occur; +at this point the hold on reality has been lost, unanimity can only +be maintained by force, and by the force of a few masterful but +pathological, introversive, mind-being individuals. Collective mind is +a contradiction in terms: what is meant is intelligent (self-enslaving) +collective matter. + +And here psycho-analysis is more consistent than criticism because +it is frankly interested in extraversion rather than in extraversive +works: it would not seriously worry psycho-analysis if works and their +authors were discontinued: it would still have Case B, in which Mr. X +and Miss Y.... Criticism, on the other hand, cannot get along without +famous works by famous authors, which are, moreover, a continual +source of discord since they are all introversive in origin and cannot +be allowed to take their place in literature until they have been +rigorously extraversified. + + +6 + +Psychoanalytic criticism makes the emotion with which a work is +experienced merely a more complicated, appreciative kind of sensation. +In sensation the cause of sensation, a real object (experience), +attacks the individual; he is helpless _not_ to respond, he can only +classify his response according to whether he does or does not enjoy +it. Every sensory experience is a destruction of his originality. The +work of art presented to him on this response-basis is a deliberately +aggressive real object intended to usurp his originality in a more +constructive way than ordinary sensation. Even the freedom of +classifying sensation according to its enjoyableness is denied him: a +forced classification is contained in the object-work, representing +not a principle of personal preference, but of social preference, +expressing the criticism, or Reason, of the time. The ordinary object +has generally only an immediate, disorganized sensory effect; the +object-work reaches back into the whole past of the individual, +re-adapting it to itself by means of memory. All image-making involved +in so-called appreciative, reactive experience is a perversion of +originality, of the independent power of acting upon initiative, to +the derived power of acting upon incentive: the critical bias, first +interpreting works as object-works, then inspiring works to be +object-works means ‘imitation’. + +So little does pure, original action seem possible or desirable that +we have no word for an impulse contrary in its nature to the nature of +reaction, for dissociative rather than associative conduct--disaction. +To the psycho-analyst all activity is interpretable only as reaction +to sensation; to the professional critic (Mr. Richards, for example) +all critical conduct is imaginary re-activity: we have the individual’s +originality not momentarily eclipsed, but actually engaged in +destroying itself, enriching sensation with the complicated depth of +personality. + +Art so conceived thus becomes a skilful thwarting of originality. +The immediate shock to the consciousness which a work brings, which +might be expected to encourage an independence in the consciousness, +a dissociation from reality (influences) and a development of its +differences from reality, is utilized to possess the consciousness for +reality, to force it to organize itself according to its resemblances +(responses) to the particular object-work by which it is attacked. +Art is an exaggeration of the hostile operation of reality on the +individual consciousness, an exaggeration proportioned to overcome +the originality which offers a casual, disorganized resistance to +ordinary objects. Between object and object there is a complete +hypnotic interaction by which reality is maintained and which exists +only partially between man and object because man is possessed of +originality. The object-work is therefore an object especially designed +to correct this originality in man by ensnaring him in a more than +ordinarily intense field of hypnotic action. + +A poem, then, in the critical scheme, is only a work in the sense that +it achieves a value equal to an exceptionally ‘good’ experience; it is +an especially high-class object, one that makes use of all man’s powers +for reconstructing reality: a model object, as the poet is supposed to +be a model man. But man’s powers for reconstructing reality are really +a misuse of his powers for constructing himself out of the wreckage +which is reality. The only true entity possible to man is an analytic +entity: the synthetic entities of art are all parodies of self. An +original poem is only seemingly synthetic; the words of which it is +made are both the instrument of the analysis and the substance of the +pure self of the poem which emerges from the analysis. Every poem of +this kind is an instance of fulfilled originality, a model, to the +reader, of constructive dissociation: an incentive not to response +but to initiative. Poetry is properly an art of individualization as +opposed to the other arts, which are arts of communication. To compare +a poem with a picture or with a piece of music or sculpture, is to +treat analytic entities and synthetic entities as if they were objects +of similar reality. Synthetic entities are imitative, communicative, +provocative of association: their keynote is organized social sanity. +Analytic entities are original, dissociative, and provocative of +dissociation: their keynote is organized personal insanity. This +is why, in hurried scientific fear, the shamen of psycho-analysis +and criticism explain as pure introversion only obviously morbid +conditions, making out art to be, wherever possible, redeemed +introversion. If criticism of this sort persists there is no doubt that +art will in time produce only synthetic entities: that is, poetry will +disappear. Indeed it may be the prevalence of such criticism that is +responsible for the present situation of poetry; why, in Mr. Read’s +words, there is ‘no adequate literary equivalent in England for the +impressive organization and intellectual content of the modern movement +in painting.’ For poems as synthetic entities must obviously always run +a very poor second to pictures. + + +7 + +As to the problem of rhythm and the point of view I have been applying. +Rhythm in the decorative poetic sense in which it is generally used +is, I believe, a strictly prose property. Prose is an inclusive medium, +its merit depends on its fullness. The more rich in illustration, +detail, rhythmic intricacies it is, the better prose it is, the more +effective as an instrument of synthesis. It is poetry, on the other +hand, which is properly harsh, bare, matter-of-fact. Punctuation, the +notation of rhythm, is essentially a prose development, a means of +managing the intricate language-flow. Prose is the social, civilized +instrument of communication. The restraints put on it are like the +complicated conventions that govern an apparently free-and-easy but +actually rigidly prescribed drawing-room atmosphere. + +The purpose of poetry is to destroy all that prose formally represents. +It is an exclusive medium, and its merit depends on the economy with +which it can remove the social rhythmic clutter of communicative +language. The savage _tom-tom_ is poetry of a brutally specialized +kind used to eliminate everything in the listeners but the purpose +with which it has been argumentatively overloaded. Non-purposive +poetry has all the eliminating force of the _tom-tom_ without the +grotesque effects of special pleading. A suppression of all associative +obligations that might hinder analysis takes place in the poet: by +this narrowness he is free as by the synthetic broadness of prose +the prose-writer is bound. And it is this narrowness that is the only +rhythm proper to poetry. Metre is an attempt to soften the economy +and narrowness requisite in poetry; and it is likely to cause, and in +the main has caused, only a more fancy, mannered prose than prose; to +misrepresent the nature of restraint and limitation in poetry. The end +of poetry is to leave everything as pure and bare as possible after +its operation. It is therefore important that its tools of destruction +should be as frugal, economical as possible. When the destruction +or analysis is accomplished they shall have to account for their +necessity; they are the survivors, the result as well as the means of +the elimination. They are the pure residue, and the meaning if there +is any; and they vary in each poem only according to the amount of +destruction they have done and the clutter with which they began. The +greater the clutter attacked and the smaller, the purer, the residue to +which it is reduced (the more destructive the tools), the better the +poem. + +Rhythm in poetry is therefore a deadly hammer, hammer away in +which each word demonstrates its necessity and in which each word +is accented. In prose there is accenting, then a long period of +relaxation, the harshness of the important words is absorbed in the +unimportant words: it is rhythmic. Prose is skilful manipulation +of the whole standing vocabulary, and a great deal of poetry merely +competes with prose in vocabularistic manipulation. Poetry is a +selection of a few words from this inert mass, which justify, quicken +themselves, in its destruction. The abruptness of poetry, commonly +softened into prosaic musicalness, is due to the implied omission at +every point of rhythmic prose language. Poetry is narrow (like the poem +on the page), broken, quick; prose is broad, rhythmic, slow. Poetry is +personal, prosaic. Prose is social, dressed out in verbal amenities, +poetic. + + +8 + +As to the application of the kind of point of view that I have outlined +to an individual’s relations with his fellows and, beyond that, to +the relations of a poem with reality. As to fellows: the unsocial, +ascetic concentration of self on self, the analytic intensification +of personality to a state of unreality, makes personality a pure, +not diffuse, a restrained and completely private activity. Where +personality was of this nature, all synthetic, public, real life +would be impersonal and formal--it would have manners for the sake of +communicative ease, not for the sake of concealing or discovering, +or suppressing or standardizing personality. Real life, I mean, as +an abstract, general life would be happier so than as a concrete +synthesis of personalities. It would not be a source of physical +nourishment for personality. The unreal person would not feed on or be +absorbed in the pattern; he would sharpen and try his asceticism in +it. A view of this kind, making society an artificial pattern based +on accident instead of a ‘real’ pattern based on necessity, is the +only possible clue to the reconciliation of freedom and formality. +To attempt to discover and form personality in the social pattern +is to make social life dull, vulgar and aggressive, and life with +self, dull, morbid and trivial. To treat social life as an impersonal +pattern is to give it the theatrical vitality of humour and to make +life with self strong and serious. The social problem is for each +individual how to reach the proper degree of humorous formality in +his communicative language, his clothes, his home; not how to acquire +a vicarious personal life which has no content but a gross synthetic +personality-desire. Social life (life with others) as opposed to +personal life (life with self) should be as dancing opposed to +walking--formal meaningless gesture as opposed to eccentric significant +character. Certain strictly social arts such as music would become +immediately tolerable and desirable if treated as arts of gesture +rather than of character. + +Now as to poems and reality. A poem is an advanced degree of self, as +reality is an advanced degree of social life. The poem dances the +dance of reality, but with such perfect artificiality that the dance, +from very perfection, cancels itself and leaves, as far as reality is +concerned, Nothing. But as far as the poem is concerned, Nothing is +a dancer walking the ruins; character, by the ascetic nature of its +energy, surviving gesture. This asceticism is the creative formality of +the poem. Its critical formality is its original deadly participation +in the dance. Where we find no critical formality the poem represents +diffusion of self in the literary, synthetic self of reality; +wantonness of gesture; sentimental corruption of character; tedious +extension of reality beyond decent limits of sociality; instead of the +dance, an orgy of improprieties. Where we find only critical formality, +there is the same moral laxity, but concealed under a squeamish +disciplinary veneer; the difference between ‘romantic’ and ‘classical,’ +merely. + + +9 + +Mr. Lewis’s ambitious offensive against wrongness makes a nice point +of conclusion, as it made a nice starting-point, for this exercise. +Most of Mr. Lewis’s confusions are due to his attempt to correlate his +political system with his taste. His political system is consistent +with itself; we agree with it unreservedly or we agree with it not at +all. His taste is inconsistent with itself wherever it has been made +to conform with his political system: it becomes a nagging, expedient +right, lacking the proper indifference of taste and the proper +consistency of a political attitude. It is therefore obviously futile +to treat with Mr. Lewis on matters of taste; while, on the other hand, +it may be helpful to consider certain clear features of his political +system. + +(_a_) To the popularist progress is socially continuous; culture +is the large-scale, accumulative participation of everyman in +progress; conduct is behaviourism, perfect social automatism. +To the individualist progress is political rather than +social--aristocratically hereditary through that bluest blood, Reason; +culture is eclectic, conduct is anarchistic, the perfection of the +individualism of the few who are in this system responsible for the +social conformity of the rest. They differ in their opinion of the size +of a potent political group: the former believes that the entire social +group may form the political group, the latter that the political group +is an independent minority representative of the social group. But both +support the idea of a progressive tradition; to the one it is mystical +and collective, to the other rationally and personally maintained. +And to both the idea of a non-social self outside the tradition and +without reference to a cultural line of succession (a self, rather, +‘beginning again and again and again’) would be equally foreign and +repulsive. Mr. Lewis’s concrete, ‘stable’ person is only an upper-class +version of the hysterical, hypnotic, mass social self--more realistic, +steady, decorous, common-sensible. The suppression of individual will +by mass-will of which Mr. Lewis complains refers only to checks on +political opportunism: what he is really interested in is power not +individuality. He appreciates the fact that sociality means loss of +personal consciousness. His solution is that the few strong individuals +who object to loss of consciousness should benefit by an anarchistic +dispensation that leaves them their consciousness intact in order that +they may politically administer sociality to the unconscious. + +(_b_) Mr. Lewis’s individualistic compromises come from his +unwillingness to face the dualistic character of the individual--his +real, social effect, his unreal, more-than-anarchistic self-subtraction +from the social group for purposes of identity. For various reasons +Mr. Lewis has not been able to shake himself free of the academic, +philosophical force of the language that he uses; the problem is in +any case too fine for his rough argumentative methods. He would have +first to overcome his prejudice against dualistic concepts arising +from their shady association with romantic ventures in philosophy, a +task of patience not in harmony with his temperament. In any case, +his political sense is too strong, too orthodox, to permit of his +admitting that the identity of the individual may be established +outside the social group. We may find the clue to his dogmatism in this +respect in the accent of philosophical awe with which he pronounces +‘reality.’ Reality’s the thing; the individual is only (in a few +individuals specializing in individualism) an honourable second. Even +unreality may not be a thing by itself: it is (and this seems to be +Mr. Lewis’s general conclusion) the queer slant at which reality is +seen. To say that reality is unreal, from Mr. Lewis’s viewpoint, is +like saying that sugar is sweet: the queer slant is in reality, not in +the individual, as the sweetness is in the sugar, not in the tongue. +‘Unreal’ is in this usage merely a more philosophic-sounding word +than ‘pretty,’ ‘spiritual,’ ‘mysterious’ or ‘queer.’ ‘The reality,’ +Mr. Lewis complains, ‘has definitely installed itself inside the +contemporary mind’--it has become what I have called the fairy-tale +of the collective-real. Mr. Lewis, that is, is more interested in the +prestige of reality than in the general integrity of the individual +mind. His implication being that if the contemporary mind had +definitely installed itself in ‘the reality’ all would be well. We +should have a social group psycho-physically imbedded in reality, the +individual consciousness being in this case the fairy-tale--with a +few independent individual consciousnesses wagging themselves wisely +and anarchistically in political appreciation of the situation. +Farther than this Mr. Lewis is unable to go. He contents himself +with establishing the concreteness, the social security of the +wiseacres. His brand of individualism depends on the social setting for +authentication; he does not dare to separate the fact of individuality +from the fact of sociality and reveal how they maintain themselves +in one person through a contradiction, not through ‘reason.’ The +contradiction is difficult to grasp, as is the dualism from which it +proceeds, and difficult to persevere in clearly and equitably once it +is grasped; demanding infinite precision and much active distress and +conferring few brilliant occasions on those who do grasp it. And Mr. +Lewis’s brand of individualism is more immediately ambitious, more +impatient, more realistic. He does not trust himself to wait upon +successes or brilliant occasions. He skilfully glozes over the fine +distinctions, makes politic compromises with the reality sufficient +to assure the more astute members of the social group of a few ready +individualistic privileges, and sneers down with aristocratic scorn the +political idealism of the mob. He is willing to go all the way back to +wipe out the effects of historical romancing; he is unwilling to come +all the way forward again and risk doing the job thoroughly (the job, +that is, of thinking through to the fine distinctions), as it might be +now done. And so he remains, for all his intellectual swagger, a mere +reactionary and anarchist. Another hero who, having fought just hard +enough to permit him to celebrate a triumph, but not hard enough to +force a conclusive battle, has claimed his laurels in Rome and retired +to live upon them; the fine distinctions still untaken. ‘For the former +generals, as soon as they believed their exploits had entitled them +to the honour of triumphal distinctions, always abandoned the enemy. +Insomuch that there were already in Rome three statues adorned with +laurel; but still Tacfarinas was ravaging Africa....’ + +(_c_) Mr. Lewis’s world of reality is what we see plus what we know: +what we know is the queer slant in what we see, not the queer slant +in us. Our knowledge is the poetic touch in reality. The world of +reality for the collective-real is what we see, alone; the fact +itself of reality is poetic. But the differences are fundamentally +slight. Knowing is the individualistic comprehension of seeing; +conscious, literal perception versus crude, mystical mass-sensation; +private ownership of reality versus the vulgar, public, figurative +participation in reality of the impoverished working-class mob--that +is, anarchistic, personal seizure of reality made possible by the +philosophical vagueness of the mob. (For example, Mr. Lewis could +not argue his position either with success or impunity in Russia.) I +repeat, then, that the differences between the collective-real and the +individual-real are fundamentally slight. Both defer to the snobbism +of reality: it is reality and not the individual that matters. And +both are poetic, a sentimental fusion of two contradictory categories, +a wilful blurring by the intelligence of the dualism upon which it is +based. Both, for example, have difficulty in defining ‘the object,’ due +to their unwillingness to admit this duality; so that the same fusion +and blurring that takes place in the individual takes place in the +object as well. The romantic inwardness of the one inflates its faults +and delusions to a degree of obviousness that invites and facilitates +attack. The common-sense outwardness of the other is more aggressive, +but more discreet, hiding under its well-bred anarchism and upper-class +self-deprecation an enormous greed of possession. The one is childishly +content with a fairy-tale of possession; the other insists haughtily +upon a true story. But for both the problem, whether as seeing or +seeing and knowing, is essentially the same: to have or not to have. As +for being, it is not a proper poetic, not a proper philosophical and +therefore not a proper political question, and therefore out of order. + +(_d_) The evasion of both of these two systems of the dualism that +I have attempted to suggest without romantic prejudice is reflected +in their respective treatment of time and space. Recognizing the +antinomy of time and space, they dismiss the possibility of enforcing +it practically as too frightening: if what is is made to be what is, +then we have nothing but what is; we cannot fool ourselves; therefore +evasion and philosophy. The antinomian pie is cut. Mr. Lewis’s side +takes space; the other side takes time; and both sides now devote their +energies to proving that each has the better piece. And certainly +both have very good pieces. In space occurs a disintegration that +may prove space, through its particulars; in time, an assemblage of +particulars that need not however develop particularity, but merely +prove time, through the standardizing of its particulars. Good pieces. +But only pieces. Space suffering from excessive definiteness; time +from excessive indefiniteness. Each trying to pretend it is the whole +pie, but each remaining just a self-infatuated piece. Space-synthesis, +time-synthesis--philosophical impostures with different political +methods, one conservative, old-fashioned, the other revolutionary, +modernist. Time a sort of negative space, space a sort of positive +time. Space-ist philosophy belied by its individualism, time-ist +philosophy by its generalism. To the time-men the wholeness, the +reality, is administered by a democratic Self; a Self not sufficiently +self-ish, nothing-ish, unreal, small, instantly conceived, to be +real in a time-scheme; therefore mystical, poetic. To the space-men, +the wholeness, the reality, is administrated by an anarchistic, +aristocratic God; a God too personal, too concretely particular, too +specially knowable, too real, in fact, to be real in a space-scheme; +therefore rationalistic, poetic. The time-men re-inforce the democratic +Self with Everybody. The space-men re-inforce God with Art, which is +a few superior minds capable of animating the material world ‘with +some degree of mental existence.’ For by itself--and this is Mr. +Lewis’s astounding conclusion--the material world is unreal. And we, +too, are unreal--we should regard ourselves, he thinks, as surface +creatures. But his conclusion is less astounding if we understand it +as the debater’s final shock that clinches the argument: the material +world is unreal and we too are unreal _if_ we do not believe in +reality. If we believe in reality ‘God becomes the supreme symbol of +our separation and of our limited transcendence.’ God is the queer +slant which through faith (the proper geometric point of view) may be +conceived as ultimately (that is, in the absolute sense) straight. And +faith is reason. In the time-scheme the democratic Self is the queer +slant; it is a sceptical, an ultimate queer slant. And scepticism +is romanticism: vague, insincere, sweeping transcendence of the +material world. Mr. Lewis, then, is not, as it at first seemed, against +transcendence, but only against temporal transcendence. He does not +object to evasion and philosophy, but rather wishes them to be more +zealous, individualistic, spatial; more evasive and philosophical; to +be Art. The temporal what-may-be comes too carelessly close to the +what-is. Art, backed up by God, begs the question more efficiently; +anarchistic but timid instead of socialistic but bold. It now only +remains to be decided whether Mr. Lewis’s stand-by is Art or God; and +since God was a late-comer in his scheme we can decide in favour of +Art--and Mr. Lewis. + +(_e_) But Art. Art is artists. And what is artists? Artists is a few +superior minds. Artist is short for artists. Mr. Lewis is not short +for artists but long for himself. As between artists and himself, Mr. +Lewis decides in favour of himself; it is therefore still easier for +us to decide in favour of Mr. Lewis. Against artists. What is artists? +For example, Mr. E. M. Forster is artists, as is to be seen in his book +_Aspects of the Novel_. The novel is a ‘spongy tract.’ It is ‘bounded +by two chains of mountains ... Poetry and History....’ The novel tells +a story. The characters are either flat or round. The ‘element of +surprise’ ... is of great importance in a plot. Then Fantasy. (Here +compare Mr. Lewis’s treatment of _Ulysses_ with Mr. Forster’s and you +will understand perhaps why Mr. Lewis is not artists.) Then prophecy: +‘In Dostoevsky the characters and situations always stand for more +than themselves; infinity attends them; though they remain individuals +they expand to embrace it and summon it to embrace them; one can apply +to them the saying of St. Catherine of Sienna, that God is in the +soul and the soul is in God as the sea is in the fish and the fish is +in the sea.’ D. H. Lawrence is ‘the only prophetic novelist writing +to-day ... the only living novelist in whom the song predominates, +who has the rapt bardic quality, and whom it is idle to criticize.’ +(Compare Mr. Lewis’s criticism of Lawrence with Mr. Forster’s, and you +will understand further why Mr. Lewis is not artists.) Then Pattern +and Rhythm. _Thais_ is the shape of an hour-glass. _Roman Pictures_, +by Percy Lubbock, is shaped like a grand chain. Also Henry James. But +a pattern must not be too rigid. If it is, ‘beauty has arrived, but +in too tyrannous a guise.’ For ‘the novel is not capable of as much +artistic development as the drama: its humanity or the grossness of +its material hinder it.... Still, this is not the end of our quest. +We will not give up the hope of beauty yet. Cannot it be introduced +into fiction by some other method than pattern? Let us edge rather +nervously towards the idea of “rhythm.”’ We then learn that ‘rhythm +is sometimes quite easy.’ And so to bed and pleasant dreams about the +development of the novel mixed up with the development of humanity +(‘the interminable tape-worm,’ as Mr. Forster had called it earlier +in the day when it was ‘wriggling on the forceps’). No, Mr. Lewis is +not artists. He is not an aristocrat, but a distracted and disaffected +rough-neck. He has no more real connection with aspects of the novel +than Nietzsche with any of the numerous ‘æsthetic revivals’ of his +time. Like Nietzsche his politics and philosophy are æsthetic only in +the sense that they are personal. His few ‘superior minds’ are himself. +If he had made this clear in the very beginning he would have saved +himself and those who have been good enough to follow him a great deal +of unnecessary distraction. Politeness, God, reality--these are all +Mr. Lewis in kid gloves embracing himself. His rightness consists in +his embracing himself, his wrongness in his wearing kid gloves. For +anarchism is not enough. It is obviously not enough for Mr. Lewis. +The kid gloves which enabled him to rush into society confused the +dualism on which selfhood certainly depends. When he takes them off +(as it is probable he will in time, for he does not seem happy in +them) and shakes himself by the bare hand, his enthusiasm over his +own unreal individuality will have a bare-handed social concomitant +more like Bolshevism than anarchism. Or rather, Mr. Lewis will find +that not even Bolshevism is enough. What is enough? Nothing is enough. +And until Mr. Lewis finds this out he will go on celebrating more and +more ferociously his ferocious pangs of hunger, seconded by dozens of +famished æsthetic revivalists. + + + + +HOW CAME IT ABOUT? + + +How came it about that Mrs. Paradise the dressmaker is here to dress +me, and Mr. Babcock the bootmaker to boot me and a whole science of +service to serve me, and that I am precisely here to be served? Do not +speak to me of economics: that is merely a question of how we arrange +matters between us. And do not speak to me of genesis: I am discussing +the question of Mrs. Paradise and Mr. Babcock and myself and the others +as immediate causes of one another, I am not discussing creation. +Personally, I do not believe in creation. Creation is stealing one +thing to turn it into another. What I _am_ discussing is existence, +uncorrupted by art--how came it about, and so forth. Do not speak to me +of love: Mrs. Paradise and Mr. Babcock and myself and all the others +do not like each other, in fact, we dislike each other because each of +us is most certainly the cause of the other. I am the reason for Mrs. +Paradise’s making frocks and Mrs. Paradise is the reason for my wearing +frocks. If it were not for each other we should be occupied only with +ourselves; we should not exist. How then came we to exist? I ask +this question. Mrs. Paradise asks this question. I am Mrs. Paradise’s +answer. Mrs. Paradise is my answer. As for Mr. Babcock, he has hair on +his nose and I never look at him. As for all the others, I must put up +a notice asking them to ring the bell gently. + + * * * * * + +There is a woman in this city who loathes me. There are people +everywhere who loathe me. I could name them; if they were in a book I +could turn to the exact page. People who loathe me do so for one of +two reasons: because I have frightened them because I have loathed +them (that is, made my death-face at them, which I shall not describe +as it might in this way lose some of its virtue) or because they are +interested in me and there seems no practical way of (or excuse for) +satisfying their interest. As to love, that is another matter--it has +nothing to do with either interest or fear. Love is simply a matter of +history, beginning like cancer from small incidents. There is nothing +further to be said about it. + +But as to loathing: I feel an intense intimacy with those who have this +loathing interest in me. Further than this, I know what they mean, I +sympathize with them, I understand them. There should be a name (as +poetic as love) for this relationship between loather and loathed; it +is of the closest and more full of passion than incest. + +To continue about this woman. What is to her irritation is to me +myself. She has therefore a very direct sense of me, as I have a very +direct sense of her, from being a kind of focus of her nervous system. +There is no sentiment, no irony between us, nothing but feeling: it is +an utterly serious relationship. + + For if one eat my meat, though it be known + The meat was mine, the excrement is his own. + +I forget in what context these words were used by Donne--but they +express very accurately how organic I feel this relationship to be. The +tie between us is as positive as the tie between twins is negative. +I think of her often. She is a painter--not a very good painter. I +understand this too: it is difficult to explain, but quite clear to +myself that one of the reasons I am attached to her is that she is +not a good painter. Also her clothes, which do not fit her well: this +again makes me even more attached to her. If she knew this she would be +exasperated against me all the more, and I should like it; not because +I want to annoy her but because this would make our relationship still +more intense. It would be terrible to me if we ever became friends; +like a divorce. + + + + +HUNGRY TO HEAR + + +Hungry to hear (like Jew-faces, kind but anticipating pain) they sit, +their ears raw. The conversation remains genteel, of motor cars: her +brother bought a car, he was having a six months’ vacation from an +Indian post, he should have known better than to buy an American car, +the value depreciates so, and _she_ (his sister) should not have lent +it to _her_ (her friend) even though it wasn’t her fault that the car +only did fifteen miles to the gallon after she returned it. A clear +situation like this, in which life is easy to understand, is cruel +to them. It leaves no scratches in the mind around which opinions, +sympathies, silly repetitions can fester and breed dreams and other +remote infections--too remote always to give serious pain. They long +to be fumbled, to have confusion and uncertainty make a confused and +uncertain end of them. There they sit, having pins-and-needles of +obscurity which they mistake for sensation. They open their newspapers: +‘I suppose it is foolish to spend all this time reading newspapers? +They are lying and dishonest and devoted to keeping a certain portion +of the population in ignorance and intellectual slavery? Or is it +foolish to take it so seriously? I shall go on reading them out of +sophistication?...’ Oh, go to hell. + + + + +IN A CAFÉ + + +This is the second time I have seen that girl here. What makes me +suspicious is that her manner has not changed. From her ears I should +say she is Polish. If this is so, is it not dangerous to drink coffee +here? Does anyone else think of this, I wonder? Yet why should I be +suspicious? And why should her manner not remain unchanged? She has +probably been cold, unhappy, unsuccessful or simply not alive ever +since I saw her last. Quite honestly I wish her success. The man who is +making sketches from pictures in the Art Magazine may find her little +Polish ears not repulsive. For good luck I turn away and do not look +at her again. I, who am neither sluttish nor genteel, like this place +because it has brown curtains of a shade I do not like. Everything, +even my position, which is not against the wall, is unsatisfactory and +pleasing: the men coming too hurriedly, the women too comfortably from +the lavatories, which are in an unnecessarily prominent position--all +this is disgusting; it puts me in a sordid good-humour. This attitude +I find to be the only way in which I can defy my own intelligence. +Otherwise I should become barbaric and be a modern artist and +intelligently mind everything, or I should become civilized and be a +Christian Scientist and intelligently mind nothing. Plainly the only +problem is to avoid that love of lost identity which drives so many +clever people to hold difficult points of view--by _difficult_ I mean +big, hungry, religious points of view which absorb their personality. +I for one am resolved to mind or not mind only to the degree where my +point of view is no larger than myself. I can thus have a great number +of points of view, like fingers, and which I can treat as I treat the +fingers of my hand, to hold my cup, to tap the table for me and fold +themselves away when I do not wish to think. If I fold them away now, +then I am sitting here all this time (without ordering a second cup) +because other people go on sitting here, not because I am thinking. +It is all indeed, I admit, rather horrible. But if I remain a person +instead of becoming a point of view, I have no contact with horror. If +I become a point of view, I become a force and am brought into direct +contact with horror, another force. As well set one plague of cats +loose upon another and expect peace of it. As a force I have power, as +a person virtue. All forces eventually commit suicide with their power, +while virtue in a person merely gives him a small though constant pain +from being continuously touched, looked at, mentally handled; a pain by +which he learns to recognize himself. Poems, being more like persons, +probably only squirm every time they are read and wrap themselves round +more tightly. Pictures and pieces of music, being more like forces, are +soon worn out by the power that holds them together. To me pictures and +music are always like stories told backwards: or like this I read in +the newspaper: ‘Up to the last she retained all her faculties and was +able to sign cheques.’ + +It is surely time for me to go and yet I do not in the least feel like +going. I have been through certain intimacies and small talk with +everything here, when I go out I shall have to begin all over again in +the street, in addition to wondering how many people are being run over +behind me; when I get home I shall turn on the light and say to myself +how glad I am it is winter, with no moths to kill. And I shall look +behind the curtain where my clothes hang and think that I have done +this ever since the homicidal red-haired boy confided his fear to me +and I was sorry for him and went to his room and did it for him. And my +first look round will be a Wuthering-Heights look; after that I shall +settle down to work and forget about myself. + +I am well aware that we form, all together, one monster. But I refuse +to giggle and I refuse to be frightened and I refuse to be fierce. Nor +will I feed or be fed on. I will simply think of other things. I will +go now. Let them stare. I am well though eccentrically dressed. + + + + +FRAGMENT OF AN UNFINISHED NOVEL + + +What could I do but treat my secret as if it did not exist, that is, +as my mother did hers until she confided it to me? which was not +confiding, but a necessary explanation of the curious gift or curse +(you will decide which for yourself before many pages) that I had +from her (the flesh only knows how) when she put me into this world +fifty-four years ago in a carved bed made of an old sea-chest that she +had of her father (together with many other things) who was a Dutch Jew +of a family that had fled from Spain and made its fortune as merchants +and traders and in African mines and which disinherited him when he ran +away to sea from school and saw things in China which neither white man +nor Jew might see without death, but which long afterwards recalled him +when he was in America and too proud to accept the portion denied him +in his youth, which my mother never forgave him but continually during +her lifetime besought me to apply for in my own person, which was +pleasing and persuasive. + +My mother, I say, broke her secret to no one, excepting me, and this +was not breaking it, since I had the same secret, and I broke my secret +to no one, which was either wise or foolish (I can’t say which) but not +wicked, for had I wished it was a thing that could go against no one +but myself (as you shall see). How my mother had it, she did not know, +although she was of the opinion that she caught it from a travelling +bookseller who secretly sold romances to the pupils of the French +convent in New Orleans where her father kept her--over the garden +wall. It could not be the books, she said, for they were as innocent +as the Bible, with no more rapes and indeed fewer mysteries. The +contamination, if it was such, must have been from his eyes, if at all, +which were long-lasting ones, she remembering them many days after each +visit and for a long time seeing through them, as it were. She knew +nothing about him but that he was Mexican, of a poor breed but of such +charm (he dressed in the Mexican manner) that she would have run away +with him had not her strange possession come over her at about this +time and changed the whole course of her life. + +‘Perhaps,’ I suggested, when she told me this, ‘he used a charm against +you. It is known there are certain herbs to be found in Mexico which +may be used to cunning ends.’ + +‘That may indeed be so,’ my mother said, ‘for I remember he once gave +me a fine gold chain to wear on which was suspended an image of a pale +blue stone, and I could never make out what it represented, as it was +all twisted and seemed a different thing each time I looked at it, now +like a snake, now like a clenched hand or like a troll’s face.’ + +‘Surely,’ I cried, ‘it was this charm that brought the thing upon us.’ +For I thought, if it was a charm that brought this thing on my mother, +it might be a charm that would take this thing from me; and for this +reason I have ever been one easily affected by superstitions of all +kinds and ready to put my faith in what is but circus farce to others, +a weakness that has been as great a source of misfortune to me as my +possession. + +‘It might indeed have been so,’ replied my mother, ‘but I cannot be +sure. At about the same time Sister Mathilde began praying for me, as +if God had sent her against this journeyman for my sake. She prayed in +my room and soon she slept in my bed the better to protect me, and I +began strongly to dislike it for she sweated powerfully and loved me +more tenderly than is good for girlish sleep. Wherever I was between +these two I shall never know. If one was of God and the other of the +Devil, then there is a third power which exists to save the human soul +from both, I hesitate to say with what intentions or effects. For as I +was one morning sitting on my pot and enjoying innocent conversation +with myself, suddenly I looked up, feeling myself not alone. Think +how my modesty fainted to behold the room full of people all looking +intently (and kindly) at me. I covered my face with my hands. I dared +not rise. + +‘“Never mind, child,” said a shrill voice at my ear that sounded like +an aunt’s, “it will soon be happily over.” + +‘“Happily over!” I tried to shriek but could not, trying to rise and +button myself. + +‘“Leave your dress alone, chicken, you could not look better,” said +another voice at my nose, a third cousin’s by its sound. Nor could I +have--I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror just then, and I was a +bride! This is how I found myself married to Mr. Pink, whose calling +was jobs for which no name could be found, and could ask no questions +for shame, since the last I knew of myself was on a chamber-pot, but +only pretend to be possessed, as seemed reasonable in the principal +party of the event, of full knowledge of what was going on about me.’ + +This martyr’s discretion in my mother has ever been a noble example to +me in my own endurance of that cruel idiosyncrasy which she, to her +everlasting grief, passed on to me. ‘Never lose self-possession,’ she +continually besought me, ‘or contradict circumstances, which cannot +lie and which know you better than yourself.’ Dearest Mother! Shall +I blame her for that inheritance she gave me against her heart and +will and by which I had the blessing of her eternal (so long as she +lived) solicitude? Not to mention (petty recompense and enjoyment) the +liberty she gave me beyond all reasonable expectation I could have had +of remorseful indulgence from her, which included the privacy of her +papers which I could not read since she wrote always in bed and upon +brown paper, from sombreness of spirit, and the treasures her father +gave her out of spite to her mother, for bearing him a black child by +perfidy of blood or whoring, it exasperated him not to know which, and +of which, though all were mine from childhood, I loved and attached +to me but one shabby trifle, a totem six inches long that did me for +a doll while I remained a child and for a child when I became a woman +and dared not breed, confide, form honourable attachments or soften my +heart save to that which, being wooden, could not soften its heart to +me. + +My mother, as I said, having once grasped her unspeakable peril, +resolved to protect herself with the means at hand, that is, to remain +Mrs. Pink, if she could, until she found herself something else. And +to further her security in this she formed a second painful resolve, +never while she could help it to leave her bed, thinking that she might +thus restrain her visitations or at least govern the place in which +they seized her. Alas! restrain them she could not, and alas! a bed (as +she learned too late) was more ungovernable than a chamber-pot, for in +this bed she got me, in a cruel lapse when Mr. Pink her husband was in +the Argentine collecting the names of common tropical plants for the +Secretary of State known in private life as a gifted maker of South +American tales, and when she must undoubtedly have been visited by +hundreds of Mr. Pink’s friends and relatives, Mr. Pink, who understood +my mother’s infirmity and never blamed it except as such, insisting +that it was his uncle the Chicago photographer who had nearly an +artist’s appreciation of the human form, of which my mother being half +Jew and perhaps a dash negro, was an exotic and irresistible example. + +This unavoidable slip, of which I was a living and growing reminder, +never prejudiced Mr. Pink my mother’s husband against me, but on the +contrary seemed to stimulate his curiosity in me. He was a thin man, +but I think of a passionate imagination, and I wanted nothing. Nor was +he quite certain that it was his uncle the Chicago photographer, but in +the wistful hope that it might have been Prince Moredje, the famous +Balkan adventurer whom he used to decorate official banquets of which +he was responsible for the seating plan, he provided me with a riding +master though we lived in an unimproved flat in the rear and bought me +when I was quite young a green plumed hat from an auctioneer friend +of his who specialized in theatrical costumes. Himself he dressed +shabbily, as his profession required. I never knew him otherwise than +in his black and white checked suit and red tie, and it was one of the +sorrows of his life that he could not wear black, for he was a quiet +man, since his greatest attraction to his clients was that he was not +genteel, by which he seemed more efficient, mysterious, quaint and +criminal. My mother required very little beyond bed shawls, of which +she kept two, one for company and one for private, the company one +being pure white, that she might be thought of by visitors as a pale +object martyred to her bed and so not excite experiences; I have this +very shawl to thank for myself, which she was wearing when her sense +was suddenly transported in time and she found herself with me in her +womb and could make no denial or protest, and her white shawl on her +shoulders though in private, that is, alone with her husband Mr. Pink +who had just let himself in at the door from the Argentine, whence he +had come in all haste to embrace her, having been made anxious by +certain reports which his friends and relatives maliciously wrote +him of my mother. Her private shawl, a red cashmere, she consoled +herself in; she only wore it when she felt safe. In this shawl too +she consented to rise for her needs and melancholies. How often have +I come upon her standing in her shirt at the window, only half of her +decently covered, the rest of her naked and unhappy--a pair of pretty +buttocks that she could scarcely trust as far as the door and ready +to betray her at the least winking of her eye and plant her where she +must acknowledge her position by that she sat in it with them. It was +to our further mortification that our sad affliction only came over +my mother and me when we were sitting, an attitude that by its ease +soothes suspicion, and that we have never come to ourselves except in +this attitude, which may try dignity painfully, as I have reason to +know. ‘To find one’s feet’--how well, alas, do _I_ know the tragic +significance of that phrase.... + + + + +WILLIAM AND DAISY: FRAGMENT OF A FINISHED NOVEL + + +William and Daisy lived in Cemetery Street. They had no connection +with each other except that they were not attracted by life or death; +so they lived in Cemetery Street. William was pessimistic because he +disliked life a little more than death, Daisy was optimistic because +she disliked death a little more than life. William had two memories: +one, that he had been familiar with harlots; two, that he had been +familiar with famous writers. These two memories mixed and he could +make nothing of them. Daisy had two memories: one, that she had once +been a harlot; two, that she had in her time known several famous +writers. These two memories mixed and she could make nothing of them. +They could make nothing of their memories except that they both felt +dignified and did not wish to end their days in a workhouse. So they +lived in Cemetery Street. + +Every night Daisy went for a walk down Cemetery Street and said ‘What +a lovely night,’ and passed William on her walk and said ‘What a +coincidence’; and every night William, too, said ‘What a lovely night’ +and ‘What a coincidence.’ They began to know each other’s thoughts and +were more bored with each other than ever. + +They had their shoes mended by the same shoemaker. Each knew the +shoemaker had taken a girl to live with him behind the shop and then +thrown her into the street when his wife had learned about it. Yet each +continued to think him a nice man because they could not be bothered +to think him a mean man. They became more and more absolute in their +thoughts and habits until ... + +I do not know what happened to them, nor do they. + + + + +AN ANONYMOUS BOOK + + +§1 + +An anonymous book for children only was published by an anonymous +publisher and anonymously praised in an anonymous journal. Moreover, +it imitated variously the style of each of the known writers of the +time, and this made the responsibility for its authorship all the +more impossible to place. For none of the known writers could in the +circumstances look guilty. But every one else did, so this made the +responsibility for its authorship all the more difficult to place. +The police had instructions to arrest all suspicious-looking persons. +But as every one except the known writers was under suspicion the +department of censorship gave orders that the known authors should be +put in prison to separate them from the rest of the population and that +every one else should be regarded as legally committed to freedom. ‘Did +you write it?’ every one was questioned at every street corner. And as +the answer was always ‘No’, the questioned person was always remanded +as a suspect. + +The reasons why this book aroused the department of censorship were +these. One--it imitated (or seemed to imitate) the style of all +the known authors of the time and was therefore understood by the +authorities to be a political (or moral) satire. Two--it had no title +and was therefore feared by the authorities to be dealing under the +cover of obscurity with dangerous subjects. Three--its publisher could +not be traced and it was therefore believed by the authorities to have +been printed uncommercially. Four--it had no author and was therefore +suspected by the authorities of having been written by a dangerous +person. Five (and last)--it advertised itself as a book for children, +and was therefore concluded by the authorities to have been written +with the concealed design of corrupting adults. As the mystery grew, +the vigilance of the police grew, and the circulation of the book +grew: for the only way that its authorship could be discovered was by +increasing the number of people suspected, and this could only be done +by increasing the number of readers. The authorities secretly hoped to +arrive at the author by separating those who had read the book from +those who had not read it, and singling out from among the latter him +or her who pretended to know least about it. + +All the stories in the book were about people who did not like the +world and who would have been glad to be somewhere else. Some were +irreligious, some were ungrateful, some were scornful, some were openly +rebellious, some were secretly rebellious, some were merely ironical, +some were merely bored. Many were too good, many were too bad. All were +disobedient, and all wanted to go away. Wanting to go away to somewhere +else did not mean wanting to go away to somewhere else with the rest +of the entire population of the world. It meant in all the stories +wanting to go away alone. All the stories in the book were about people +who wanted to go away to somewhere where they would be, no matter how +many other people they found there, the only one. All the people in the +book thought the world fit only for light, heat, moisture, electricity, +plants, the lower animals, and perhaps for occasional parties, +excursions, commemoration days, Sunday afternoons, exhibitions, +spectacles, concerts, sight-seeing and conversation. But none of them +thought it fit for higher creatures to live in permanently, because all +who were in it, they said, were the only one, and were thus objects of +hate, ridicule or mock-adoration for one another, being each by his +mind freakish and uncommon but by his brain natural and common. + +Such was the philosophical import of this book. But its philosophical +import was got only if the reader had a taste for, a passion for, +a suspicion of, an obsession with, or instructions to look for +philosophical imports. Or if he shrank from stories. What was plain and +comprehensible before all philosophical imports was just stories. The +four upon which most suspicion was fixed were _The Flying Attic_, _The +Man Who Told Lies To His Mother_, _The Woman Who Loved an Engine_, and +_The Woman Who Was Bewitched By a Parallel_. + +It was impossible to say particularly which story was written in the +style of which author. The effect of imitation that the book gave +was rather a mixed one; that is, it was generally and throughout a +witty, energetic, beautiful, simple, earnest, intricate, entertaining, +ironic, stern, fantastic, eloquent, modest, outspoken, matter-of-fact +and so-forth book, so that generally speaking it could not be read +but as a conglomerate imitation of the noted literary manners of the +time, of the well-known author who wrote so wittily, of the well-known +author who wrote so energetically, of the well-known author who wrote +so beautifully, of the well-known author who wrote so simply, of the +well-known author who wrote so earnestly, of the well-known author +who wrote so intricately, of the well-known author who wrote so +entertainingly, of the well-known author who wrote so ironically, of +the well-known author who wrote so sternly, of the well-known author +who wrote so fantastically, of the well-known author who wrote so +eloquently, of the well-known author who wrote so modestly, of the +well-known author who wrote so outspokenly, of the well-known author +who wrote so matter-of-factly, and of the well-known author who wrote +and-so-forthly. + +It is not the object of this account, whose purpose is chiefly +historical, to transcribe in detail all or even many of the stories +of which the book was composed, or to analyse, criticize, praise or +condemn the few that shall be reproduced (in whatever way seems most +economical) here. It is rather intended to give an honest, accurate, +elementary notion of the book from which the reader may form a +scholarly opinion of its character that shall be in restrained harmony +with his own. Several of the stories (those cited above, for example) +will be elaborately summarized, according to the degree of eccentricity +they possess in comparison with other stories which fall more naturally +into a group-significance or classification. Some will appear only in +a table of constructional correspondences; others as interesting or +corroborative or contradictory points of reference: still others as +problems of too fine difficulty for the moment, here put aside and +marked out for the future specialist. + + +§2 + +_The Flying Attic_ is the first of the miscellaneously significant or +dangerous stories. The central character is a cook who had never in +her life been guest to anyone and who had never in her life ascended +above the kitchen floor of any house. No description of the character’s +appearance, age or parentage is given, so that the atmosphere of +the story, intentionally or unintentionally, is one of allegory, or +morality, or symbolism--as you like. This creature, the story tells +us, conceived the fantastic ambition of living permanently in a guest +attic, descending only at the new moon, and then to find herself each +time in a different house, each time guest to a different host or +hostess. + +The realization of this ambition is made technically possible by the +dismissal of the cook for serving a custard made from a manufactured +pink powder, instead of from original ingredients. No complaint seems +to have been made against the excellence of taste or quality of the +custard. Its very excellence in fact is what arouses suspicion. And so +after coffee the cook is dismissed. The family chats, finally goes to +bed. Then the cook steals out of the kitchen and up to the attic, at +the moment unoccupied but in a state of preparation for a guest who +is expected to arrive the following day. The cook draws the curtains, +lights a candle, gets into bed. The beams are made of old ship’s +timber; the sharp-ribbed roof suggests an inverted ship’s bottom. The +candlelight, the drawn curtains, the architectural irregularities of +the attic, the distorted, ship-like sense of motion faintly conveyed +by the crazy contour of the attic in candlelight to the mind of the +cook now floating in the unreality of the fulfilment of an impossible +ambition--all these factors contribute to what must count--in the story +at any rate--for a genuine disturbance of forces: the attic moves, the +cook’s mind swoons with pleasure, day and night the curtains remain +drawn (otherwise the problem of _locale_ would seriously interfere with +the narrative device), she passes her time in a passive delirium of +satisfaction, and at the morning of new moon punctually descends. The +first and last descents will be given in detail, the intervening ones +only listed. + +First descent: as the breakfast bogy, in the costume of a German +peasant--green jacket, flat, ribboned hat; into the house of a country +lady, mother of three young children, recently widowed. Cook unlatches +the attic door and walks slowly downstairs--a heavy male step. Cultured +and terrified children’s voices are heard as the steps pass the night +nursery: ‘Oh mother, the breakfast bogy--we are afraid to get up.’ +‘Nonsense, children,’ the mother calls back, ‘come down immediately.’ +The steps continue, Cook enters the dining-room, sits down at the table +in the chief chair as master of the house. The mother enters from the +kitchen with large porridge basin, sees Cook, screams. Children come +running down. ‘The breakfast bogy, the breakfast bogy!’ they cry. +‘We told you so, Mother.’ Cook says: ‘I am master here now. We will +all have breakfast together and you will pay me every respect. After +breakfast I shall go away and not return till luncheon. The same for +tea and dinner. You must guess what I like to eat and after each meal +thank me for the food. And you must kiss me good night. That is all.’ +It is to be noted that whenever the central character of any of these +tales gives an order, it is always obeyed without question, however +wicked, unreasonable or fantastic it may be. Thus in _The Dishonest +Scales_ the grocer-woman not only cheats her customers in the weight of +what they buy (though the scales whenever tested seem to record quite +honestly), but after taking their money she says firmly ‘Now that is +all,’ and sends them away unprotesting without their purchases. + +After breakfast Cook retires to the attic and appears again at +luncheon. All this happens in the most orderly manner imaginable. +The widow even smiles prettily to Cook after luncheon and ‘hopes the +gentleman finds all satisfactory.’ Cook here nods stiffly. There is no +clue given as to what either Cook or the family do during the intervals +between meals. Only one rather shocking mischance occurs: the oldest +of the children, a boy, spies upon the cook between tea and dinner and +is snatched angrily into the attic. At dinner only two children appear, +and Cook announces quietly: ‘Your oldest child attempted to spy upon +me, so I turned him into an eiderdown to keep me warm.’ To which the +widow replies ‘It serves him right,’ and goes on eating. After dinner +Cook is kissed good night affectionately by the widow and her two +remaining children, goes up to the attic, fastens the door, gets into +bed and tucks herself round with her new eiderdown. + +Second descent: Cook comes down into a prison tower as a captive queen, +murders her warder, takes upstairs with her her warder’s poodle, the +pillow she stabbed him on, and his wife’s lace cap, saying: ‘All this +will contribute to the comfort of my old age.’ + +Third descent: Cook comes down into a full-rigged ship about to sink +in a storm off the Gold Coast, rescues the captain, a villainous +but hearty old man, and carries him off to her attic with great +satisfaction. + +Fourth descent: Cook comes down into a great kitchen as a cook and +carries the whole kitchen up with her in one armful. + +Fifth descent: Cook comes down into a library as a respectable young +working man inquiring from the lady librarian for a book on how to mend +leaking roofs. The lady librarian strongly resembling Cook in her +youth, the young working man is smitten with a great fancy for her, +marries her, takes her up to the attic, where she becomes cook to Cook. + +Sixth descent: Cook opens her attic door to walk out as herself for +a breath of fresh air, steps upon nothing and begins to fall. While +falling she looks up, sees her attic far above her, flying off at great +speed toward the east, where it is growing dark. ‘However will I get +back to it?’ she thinks mournfully to herself. At this point there +is a long passage describing intimately all of her anxieties in her +fall, such as what will happen to her poodle, who will smooth out her +eiderdown, what will her captain have for dinner all by himself, down +to the last, which is, what shall she give them for a pudding to-night? +She decides, since it is so late already (it is now quite dark in the +east and her attic has completely disappeared) to give them a custard +made from a manufactured pink powder, which will take only a moment +to stir up and only fifteen minutes on the window-sill to cool. It +would be impossible without exact quotation from the original (which +is outside the modest scope of the present volume) to reproduce the +delicate transition that takes place just here from one level of the +episode to the next (from the higher to the lower, or the fantastic +to the factual, I might say). Suffice it for our purposes that there +occurs at this point a shock, the contact on the one hand of Cook’s +feet with the ground, on the other of Cook’s right ear with church +clock just striking seven. ‘And there will be a guest to-night,’ she +exclaims to herself, tasting and stirring, chopping and sprinkling. At +last dinner is served, eaten, over. ‘Dear kind Cook,’ Mistress says +to her before retiring, ‘aren’t you going upstairs to-night?’ ‘My +goodness, is it so late?’ replies Cook. ‘I was just cooling myself a +bit’--for Cook was standing on the kitchen doorstep gazing east. So she +goes upstairs to her attic and fastens the door behind her. Upon which +unsatisfactory note this story concludes, leaving the reader uneasy and +somewhat cheated of that general resolution of himself in the story +which it is his right to expect from every upright invention--an effect +all the more disquieting in that it seemed everywhere in this work +arrived at rather by art than by accident or inferiority of execution. + + +§3 + +It would be well at this point to uncover a little of the philosophical +skeleton of this book for the benefit of the reader likely to become +too absorbed in the narrative surface, so to speak. It would also be +well to emphasize, on the other hand, the fact that the anonymous +author was if anything over-precious in the technical brilliance of +his stories: he seemed to wish, by ringing from them a pure, glassy +artificiality, that their perfection as stories should make them as +trivial and false-true as stories, so that they held the moral more +obediently. There is therefore little or no hint of moral in any of +the stories, the sincerity of the narration in every particular being +the best guarantee (according to the principles of his writing) of the +presence of the skeletal sense beneath it. We might, for the purpose +of analysis, call this obsession with fictitious fact an obsession +statistical. And we might likewise call (for the same purpose) the +style of the book the style of curiosity. The effect of this style on +the reader is indeed an effect of curiosity--curiosity in the general +usage of the word. That is, it makes the reader first inquisitive of +the course and conclusion of the narrative, then suspicious of the +philosophical import of the narrative, and finally resolved to track +down angerly (as our Elizabethan might have said) the chief mystery +of each narrative, namely the anonymity of the author: as indeed the +police of his time were angered into doing (without success). The style +of curiosity, itself, however, was of a different order of curiosity +from this. If you will look out this word in any full contemporary +dictionary you will find that while the current meaning is this precise +_effect_ of curiosity, the two first (and previous) meanings have a +more particular application: + +(1) Scientific attentiveness; technical nicety; moral exactness; +religious fastidiousness. Obsolete. + +(2) Honest or artistic workmanship; generous elaboration; charitable +detail. Obsolete or archaic. + +And such, in fact, was the style of curiosity: so that the effect of +curiosity on the reader had in it a touch of quaintness; which is +the reason why, in fact, the anonymous author seemed to his critics, +censors and readers to be imitating the style of all the well-known +writers of the time and yet to be clearly not among them. + +Perhaps I can best illustrate this obsession statistical and this +style of curiosity (both in origination and effect) by a direct +transcription. It is to be found (by those fortunate enough to lay +hands upon the book itself) in the story (untitled) about the man who +could not help stealing his friends’ matches though his father was a +prosperous match-manufacturer, though he had a generous allowance from +him and though he had no interest in the match business: + + ‘He paid his fare exactly, having the scale of fares off by + heart (more thoroughly than the conductor) and having always + in his pocket such a variety of small coins as should make it + unnecessary for him to be given change in his fares, purchases + and contributions to charity. He sat on top, on the left, in the + fourth row from the front, by the rail, a habit so strong and + methodical in him that he never thought (and was never obliged) + to sit elsewhere. He made a minute comment to himself upon the + flower stalls or stands along the route, concluding with the + generalization that the predominating colour among the flowers + sold by the lame or the ugly was mauve. He then went to sleep, + timing himself to awake a minute before the arrival of the bus at + the railway station. He rehearsed his itinerary, which was to miss + his train at the first change and so at the second change and so + to have to wait an hour there and two hours there and to examine + more particularly during this time the generalization regarding + lame or ugly flower-vendors. While asleep he followed his usual + practice of descending from the state of personality to the state + of thingality, and in this dreamy condition of passive matter he + enjoyed the same security that an apple has up to the moment of + its fall. And so upon waking he fell from the top of the bus--as + if blown down by a strong wind--and broke his nose, one leg, two + fingers, cut his left cheek beneath the eye and sustained an injury + to his back that left him upon his recovery with a permanent + thoughtful posture.’ + +From this short extract it will perhaps be clear how he teased his +reader with sincerity and how his statistical straightforwardness +carved out patiently a mysterious block of significance which was not +brought upon the platform of the story but which the reader found +obstructing his exit, as it were, when the curtain had come down and +he attempted to leave the theatre. It was this seemingly innocent +obstructionism of course that aroused the authorities to such a violent +pitch of antagonism to the book; and which remains to this day a +challenge almost impudent (so it sometimes seems) to the endurance of +all scholars, philosophers and simple lovers of knowledge. For often, +at our greatest moments of ingenuity and science, indeed, we find +ourselves suddenly uncertain of our premises and forced to begin once +more at the beginning, yielding our own philosophical curiosity to +the statistical curiosity of the author. It might therefore be wise, +before we entangle ourselves further in scholarly ramifications of +our own, to return to the document itself. In this sober intention +I mean to present, in as unmeddlesome and economical a fashion as I +am capable of, the conspicuous features of one of the most baffling +(though to outward appearance one of the most unaffected) stories in +the collection, _The Man Who Told Lies To His Mother_. + + +§4 + +He was an author. He wrote books one after the other. It was +impossible, we are told, to understand, say, the tenth book without +reading all the preceding nine. And it was impossible to understand +the tenth without the book that followed it. And whatever number the +book was, there was always one following it, so that the author was +continuously being understood by his readers. The chief character in +each of the books was always the same. Half of him was the author +himself, the other half of him was the only son of the author’s +mother. He called the first half I, the second half He. I thought, +wrote books, knew all about everything, did nothing. He knew nothing +about anything but could do everything. I was wise, He was happy. I +was careful to keep himself to himself so as not to have his wisdom +spoiled by He or He’s fun spoiled by his wisdom. I kept himself in his +study, He in the world. I did not permit He to share his study with +him because this would have been like denying that there was a world +outside of his study and, since he knew there was such a world, making +a ghost of himself. I did not want to be a ghost and yet he wanted to +remain in his study, so he supported He in the world on the books he +wrote in his study. This kept up the world, it kept up He, it made I +complete without his having to be complete, that is, to be both I and +He. Moreover, though I supported He in the world, he made no attempt +to track him, curb him or even share occasionally in his activities. +I was continually disciplining himself against such temptations: in +order not to corrupt his wisdom by making it a criticism of He and in +order not to corrupt the fullness of He’s pleasure by making it have +anything to do with sense. The important thing for I, inasmuch as He +existed and the world existed, was to keep them employed in each other, +so that he could be truly, wisely, actually, employed in himself. I +said: I am I, therefore I am true, I am not He, therefore he is false; +but He is He, therefore He is false-true so long as I encourage him in +falsehood. He could not, however, be false by himself--this would have +eventually made him true. To be false he needed something to be false +with, he needed the world, he needed other He’s. For a long time He +and the world conducted each other toward themselves with the closest +and strictest falsehood; so close and strict in fact that the world, +this conglomeration of other He’s, became a single close, strict, false +She. He and She went on loyally enjoying themselves in each other as He +and the world had done, until this falsificatory attachment became so +utter that it reproduced I in his study. It reproduced I, it reproduced +He and She. It did all this without giving to her only son’s mother a +grandchild. + +And so, the story goes on, the books went on. And so we the readers +of the story (story-readers of the books described in the story) +witness how I told lies to his mother without committing a single +falsehood. For he sent his books to his mother in her province in place +of letters, saying: This is a true account of the doings of your only +son. And she read them lovingly as a true account of the doings of her +only son, whom she always thought of as He, taking I to be merely the I +authorial, which it was. And so I told lies to his mother and they were +not lies but a true account of the doings of He. + +Now when the author of the story has trained his reader to understand +the author in the story who was one-half of the chief character of his +own stories, he begins without further explanation a long chronicle of +the experiences of the other half of the chief character of his stories +under the title of _Lies To His Mother_. We do not know whether these +stories are supposed to have appeared in the author-in-the-story’s +books as they appear here in the story: probably not, since there is +in them no mention of I, and I, we must remember, was one-half of the +chief character of these books. Or perhaps so, since it is not unlikely +that everything relating to I in his books was meant to be supposed to +have been described separately, as for example in the form of authorial +interludes between the passages relating to He. At any rate, for our +convenience it may be best to retitle the stories (a few of which are +here summarized) which the author introduces to us under the title of +_Lies To His Mother_, as _What His Mother Believed Of He_. It might +also be helpful for me to announce here that since further analysis +seems hopeless I shall add nothing to these summarizations; except +to say, perhaps, that they all confirm us in what we have already +observed of the temper of the anonymous author of the book that we are +studying: his statisticality, his curiosity and, we might now add, his +falsificality. + +(_a_) That He one day drank water in such a way as to be drunk of it, +and in this condition found himself the hero of an Arabian Nights +Entertainment, bathing, with the privilege of a jokester, in the +women’s pool. And they would not let him come out for a whole day. +They kept him in the water a whole day, a whole long day, during which +they did many things to him, all of which are faithfully recorded in +the original, of which two may with propriety be given here: that they +would at intervals very slowly drain all the water from the pool and +then as slowly let it fill up again; and that they fed him on nothing +but fish, and would not give him drink, forcing him to water himself +from the pool. He was allowed to leave the pool at sunset, on the +promise that he would amuse them with tales for three days, which he +promised. For three days then He amused them with tales, two of which +may with propriety be outlined here: the first, of a man bewitched +in such a manner that he would do on every occasion the opposite of +what it was his will to do; the second, of a far-off city in which +the people were silent and their clothes spoke, and of how a quarrel +arose between two identical black lace frocks, as to which was which, +and of how in anger they tore themselves off their wearers, and became +confused in the broil that followed, so that their owners were also +confused and uncertain, when the frocks were put on once more, whether +their speech matched their silence. + +(_b_) That He another day woke to find himself speaking a strange +language, in which everything was known and clear--as if all +difficulties of the intelligence were difficulties of language alone: +in this language He had but to speak to discover, as, for instance, +the word for _horse_ here not only stood for horse but also made plain +the quality of horseliness, what it was. He woke to find himself +speaking this language, he was a boy, he was in a classroom, he had +blue eyes (they were actually grey), his teacher was a remarkable +woman in a pompadour and a large hat who was fond of him, fixing +her gaze on his blue eyes when she entered the room and keeping it +there until she left; who knew everything and recited it without +pause, without sympathy, without antagonism, so that whatever she +said meant all and nothing--history, the uses of waste paper, the +traditions of pawnbrokers, anything, everything. Then He woke up +again to find himself no longer speaking the strange language but as +dumb, in his ordinary language, with dumb memory of it. So when He +spoke his ordinary language he found it all twisted of sense, which +made him abandon it: he uttered only expressive sounds, which others +disregarded as nonsensical, composed as they were of soft and shrill +shrieks, whistlings, bellowings and blowings. So He went mad and in his +madness began speaking his ordinary language again, all nonsensical, +but conceived sane by others because it was the ordinary language. +And so He was discharged from the madhouse raving and only by slow +stages came to regard himself, since others did so, as sane. The theme +of a language of complete intelligence, it is to be remarked, occurs +in two other stories in the book--in one there is even an attempt, +impossible to reproduce here, to give specimens of the language. To +all appearances indeed it is the ordinary language in which he (the +anonymous author) wrote, with perhaps an outlandish twist due merely +to an increase of his usual severity--the authorities explained it by +reading it as an imitation of the style of the most wilfully ingenuous +author of the time. But it might very well have meant something to the +author it could not mean to the reader, which is not at all improbable, +since to myself, after long study and, I may say, an application +it would be difficult to surpass, it meant only what it said--and +this only with the greatest imaginative stretch possible to me in my +liveliest moments of inquiry. The story, for the benefit of those few +who may have access to the book, is, of course, _The Whisper_. + +(_c_) That He one day woke to find himself Professor in Time at the +University of Colour: he was addressing a class of old, old men on the +principle of greenishness. ‘For example,’ he said, ‘there are many +modern artists who will not use green at all in their pictures: it is +a foreign colour, an outside colour, an extra colour--the colour of +conclusion. Therefore the colour of haughty youth, which is final, and +of weird old age, which is beyond finality. The modern painter who +banishes green does so from ambition: he means to show that he can +give his pictures an effect of conclusion without making use of the +wittiness of green. Primitive people make use of green with religious +brutality to clinch any argument in colour. Flowers, on the other +hand, never use green, nor the sky; unless unwholesome--an eccentric +avoidance of a banal they-know-not-what. Earth-green is the symbol of +time overcoming time. Green is a colour of sophisticated crudeness +and of crude sophistication. A brute thing is in its heart of hearts +green, and a casuistical mind is in its heart of hearts green. The +grave mathematical most is green, and the silly poetical least is +green. The new-born baby is green and the newly-dead person is green. +And the extreme of tragedy is green, and the extreme of comedy is +green.’ + +At this moment the oldest of the old, old men got up and shrieked, +smilingly through his three teeth, saying: ‘I spent my whole fortune +in one night in music and food on a girl whose mother was a singer and +whose father was a chef. “Trrup,” she said, snapping her fingers, “you +are an old man, and I love a boy who blacks my boots.”’ ‘Trrup,’ he +shrieked, smiling through his three teeth, ‘I am green, I am green, and +this is my life’s story.’ And ‘Trrup,’ shrieked all the old men, ‘we +are green, we are green.’ Until He could not bear the noise and stopped +his ears with his fingers, and closed his eyes. + +When He removed his fingers from his ears and opened his eyes, he was +sitting by his own fireside, and his cat was on the hearth-rug and She +was near him, knitting him a green jacket. ‘Trrup,’ said the cat’s +eyes, ‘what a fool you are to dream such sense,’ and ‘Trrup,’ said She, +‘what a dear silly you shall be napping in my green jacket.’ + +‘I,’ said He to himself, ‘must tell this story to my mother, it will +amuse her.’ + +And it was told, and it did, and she believed it of He, and everything +else that was told of him, and put another lump of sugar in her tea, +near the bottom of the cup, saying to herself: ‘Is it not so? Sometimes +I like Mrs. History, and sometimes I do not. Sometimes I pity her, and +sometimes I wish her worse trouble. And what does it matter, since she +is all this, and I am all that, and each of us always, no matter what +happens, a bit of herself? When I am angriest I am nearest to kindness, +and when I am clearest in my head I am nearest to confusion. Is it not +so? I am sure I never know what I am going to do next. For instance, +there are those wicked loves who follow a certain red flag: I am sure +I should forget myself and join them if it were a green one.’ For she, +taking after her own son, was also a liar. + + +§5 + +The most curiously integrated of the groups of stories which may be +classified as a single dramatic (or philosophical) unit of the book +is the queen-group. Indeed it is possible to discuss this group as +if it were but one story, the episodic variations seeming no more +than caprices of style--the same story told in different degrees of +earnestness and so in different personalities, as it were. The one +fixed personality of the group is the Queen herself; the others are +all stylistic personalities. The Queen began as a photograph used by a +newspaper at discreet intervals to represent the female bandit of the +moment or the murder-victim or the fire-heroine or the missionary’s +bride. By experience and variety she became a personality, and a fixed +personality. It is quite remarkable in fact how under our very eyes +this anonymous author should be able to transform a fiction into a +fact: for the Queen is as true for always as the photograph is each +time false. Indeed, the whole transformation is merely a matter of +style. To illustrate: ‘As Maxine, the world’s sleeplessness champion, +the photograph had great momentary importance but did not know it +because it was part of a newspaper dynamic in which everything happened +with equal fatalistic effect, everything was accident, in the moment +succeeding accident it was always clear that nothing had happened. As +photograph therefore the photograph saw all this; it was permanently +unimportant but it knew this. And as it had a knowledge of its +unimportance, it also had a knowledge of the importance of accident; +and as the first knowledge made it insignificant so the second +knowledge made it Queen. The Queen, the photograph without identity, +this anonymous particularity, did in fact dwell in a world in which +she was the only one and in which the world of many was only what she +called “the chaotic conversation of events.” So she resolved to put +her queendom in order, not by interrupting the conversation, which +would only have increased the chaos, but by having minutely recorded +whatever “happened,” whatever “was.” Nothing then in her queendom +contradicted anything else, neither the argument nor its answer, +neither the burglar-proof lock nor the burglar against whom it was not +proof: everything was so, everything was statistical, everything was +falsification, everything was conversation, and she was an anonymous +particularity conversing with herself about her own nothingness, so she +was outside the chaotic conversation of events, she was Queen.’ + +Her three chief statisticians (we learn) were publishers. They were +all pleasant fellows, each with a touch of the universal in him, and +came and went without suspicion everywhere in the queendom because of +their peoplishness: they too, like all the rest, were statistical, +so statistical indeed that they were statisticians. They went about +preaching the gospel of the communal ownership of events. They said: +‘Primitive man believed in things as events. As civilized man it is +your duty to believe in events as things.’ And the people did. And they +permitted the statisticians (or publishers) to know what happened to +them and what they did with what happened to them as faithfully as they +reported their possessions each year in the great Common Book. In this +queendom there was no loss and no mystery and no suffering, because +everything was reported as conversation and nothing therefore thought +about. All was automatic spontaneity, even their love for their Queen. +As for the Queen, she would walk (we are told) through the dark rooms +of her palace at night, having each room lit only upon her leaving +it, until she reached her own small chamber, which remained unlit all +night while the others shone; until morning, when in her own small +chamber the curtains were drawn, the lamps lit, while in all the other +rooms of the palace there was daylight. The meaning of this is plain: +that in the anonymousness of the Queen lay her non-statistical, her +non-falsificatory individuality. She is the author, the queendom is +her book. She is darkness and mystery, the plain, banal though chaotic +daylight is her unravelling. By making the unravelling more methodic +and so more plainly banal she separates in people the statistical from +the non-statistical part, the known from the anonymous. She shows +herself to be a dualist of the most dangerous kind. + +For a long time the authorities from the internal evidence of the +queen-stories suspected the anonymous author of being a woman. +They said that it was not improbable that the book was the Bible +of an underground sect devoted to educating female children to be +statistical queens. But this view had to be abandoned as unscholarly, +even ungentlemanly, because in nothing that the Queen said or did was +there any accent of disorder or ambition: she merely, with miraculous +patience and tact, saw to it that records were kept of everything. +The authorities eventually concluded that she was a Character of +Fiction, and so stainless, and could not help them. For some time +their suspicion was fixed on a character in one of the stories with +whom the Queen fell in love. But as he was Minister of Pastimes to +the Queen it was thought that it might prove generally disrespectful +to State officials to pursue the matter further (as when, in the +story _Understanding_, suspicion was fixed on the character who +bribed the magistrates to convict him, the inquiry was stopped by +the authorities--the detectives even put on the wrong scent--as too +metaphysical and cynical). + +It must now be clear that the strain of my task is beginning to tell on +me. I have become very nervous. In the beginning my emotions were all +scholarly, my task was a pleasure, I had the manner of calmness with +an antiquity. Toward the end fear has crept upon me. I must speak, and +after that go on till I can go on no longer: till I am prevented. I say +_prevented_. For I am haunted by the obsession that the authorities +are still watching. They do not suspect the Queen. She was or is a +fixed personality, so anonymous as to be irreproachably a Character of +Fiction. The others vary in earnestness; in anonymity; they are, as I +have suggested, personalities of style; they point to the probability +that the author was not or is not a Character of Fiction. I dare go no +further. I have become very nervous. I shall nevertheless attempt to +continue my task until--I am prevented. + +One of the three publishers was a Jew. He was tall, his ears +outstanding, his grin long, his voice loose in his mouth. He had +been financial adviser to a charitable organization and had had much +general statistical though humane experience. He was gross but kind +and therefore in charge of all sentimental records: his grossness +assured accuracy, his kindness, delicacy. He had the historical genius, +and several specimens of his work are given--though with a touch of +dryness in the author himself which makes it impossible to enjoy +them as we might have were the book without an author. Indeed, they +were not meant to be read at all, but merely written to satisfy the +political instincts of the Queen, who never read them herself. I find +it difficult to pass over them myself, for aside from their part in the +book they are very interesting. There are several small extracts that +might be used here with complete propriety and even in a scholarly +way. And after all, the author wrote them down himself, did he not? But +he was writing and not reading. But am I not writing and not reading? +My position becomes more and more uncertain. I shall hurry on. + +I shall give one of the Queen’s monologues, to tide us over this +difficult period. The monologue does not appear in the book itself: it +would have been a piece of naturalism contrary to the theory on which +the book was built. Therefore I give it here, as reading. No questions +must be asked of me, for as a scholar I should feel obliged to answer +them; and the passage would then become writing; and I should have +produced a piece of naturalism. Here then is, shall I say, a variety: +which is not the anonymous author’s writing but we might almost say his +reading, and after that my writing but of his reading, which remains +reading for all my writing. My conscience is in your hands: the burden +of curiosity and falsification falls upon you. With you rest also +the rights of anonymity, the reputation of style, the fortunes of +publication, the future of philosophy and scholarship and the little +children, for whom these contrive sense. Sense, I say, not satire. + +And now for the Queen’s monologue, which the anonymous author did not +write and which for this very reason requires, as the reader’s part, +sense, I say, not satire, even more immediately than what he did +write. Furthermore, you will have to discover for yourself where it +begins and where it ends: were I to mark it off it would become writing +and so a piece of naturalism and so bely sense and give encouragement +to satire. I mean: restraint, statistics, falsification, is more +accurate than courage, reality, truth, and so truer. For the Queen’s +monologue, since the anonymous author did not write it down, is true; +had he not statistically, falsificatorily, restrained himself from +writing it down it would have become a piece of naturalism and so a +subject of satire. To tide us over a difficult period I set myself the +difficult task of writing down the Queen’s monologue without turning +it into writing, and so defying satire (if I succeed, which depends on +you). The important thing is to defy satire. Satire is lying: falsity +as opposed to truth and falsity as opposed to falsification. It is +betwixt and between; against sense, which, whatever it is, is one thing +or the other--generally the other, it being for practical purposes +impossible for it to be perpetually one thing. By practical purposes +I mean of course the question of boredom, as truth finding truth +monotonous. Therefore things happen. Sense, I say, not satire. Imagine +a woman has her heart broken and imagine a man breaking it, then her +heart heals and he ceases to be a villain, and then they meet again +and her heart is whole and he is not a villain. Does she weep because +her heart was once broken and does he blush because he once broke it? +This would be satire. No, they both smile, and she gives him her heart +to break again, and he breaks it. This is sense. Or they both smile +and turn away from each other, and this, too, is sense, but sense too +academic to survive the strain of academically enforcing itself. The +One Thing must be saved from itself, it must not be allowed to overwork +itself or go stale. That is why sense is one thing or the other and +generally the other: falsification to relieve truth, broken hearts to +protect whole hearts, weakness to spare strength. Fact is fancy and +fancy is desire and desire is puff! puff! everything that satisfies +it and which must be carefully recorded in spite of contradictions +and lengthiness. Desire is the other things, in great number. And +what is satisfaction? Not the other things, that satisfy, but the one +thing, that cannot satisfy or be satisfied, and so, though but one +thing, equal to desire, and so to all the other things. Fact is _it_ +not _me_; fact is fancy and fancy is desire and desire is the other +things. Satisfaction is _me_, which _it_ calls Queen. _It_ is a lot +of him’s, _it_ is a queendom, _it_ is desire speaking the language of +satisfaction, _it_ is a great looseness and restlessness of fact and +confusion of eyesight and costume, into which the Queen brings sense +through order. And what is order? Order is observation. Her first +publisher (or statistician) is a gross, kind Jew. Her second is a +subtle, cruel Turk, who brutally forced events: he has the political +genius. But the people do not mind, since the events happen anyhow: +they shrug their shoulders good-naturedly and say ‘Old Hassan Bey +smiling with Turkish teeth,’ and call on the first publisher to take +notice how smilingly they wince back. Her third is a Christian, and +he does nothing: he has the philosophical genius. His idleness and +talkativeness exasperate the other two into efficiency. His favourite +harangue is: ‘Let the people create their own order.’ + +‘But how, their own order?’ + +‘Let them think.’ + +‘But if they think, they will all think differently, and not only +differently--some will think more powerfully than others.’ + +‘Exactly: those who think more powerfully than others will create +order.’ + +‘But this would not be real order, rather the disorder of a false order +created by the most powerfully thinking individual or individuals of +the moment. This would be anarchism, and anarchism is not enough.’ + +‘I have heard that said before, but how is the order created by the +Queen not anarchism?’ + +‘The Queen does not create order, she observes methodically, she +creates _her_ order. That is why _it_ is _her_ queendom.’ + +‘But is this not merely a refined form of anarchism?’ + +‘No, it is more than anarchism. The Queen is not the chief individual +of her queendom; she is the _me_ of the _it_; she is the one thing, +her queendom is the other things; she is satisfaction, her queendom is +desire, a lot of _him’s_. The more _me_ she is, the more _it_ it is, +and the more anonymous she is, and the more she and her queendom are +diplomatically indistinguishable. The domestic situation is of course +another affair. But to carry the distinction beyond the boundaries of +the book is to fall betwixt and between, into satire.’ + + +§6 + +Therefore the time has come to close. I am discovered, or rather I +have discovered myself, for the authorities lost interest in me when +they saw that I would discover myself before I could be officially +discovered, that I would in fact break through the pages and destroy +the strongest evidence that might be held against me, that is, that +‘An anonymous book----’ etc. I understand now that what they desired +to prevent was just what has happened. You must forgive me and believe +that I was not trying to deceive, but that I became confused. I +over-distinguished and so fell into satire and so discovered myself +and so could not go on, to maintain a satiric distinction between +authorship and scholarship. + +And what of the woman who loved an engine? I cannot say. And the woman +who was bewitched by a parallel? I cannot say. They come after the +place where I left off. + + + + +THE DAMNED THING + + +§1 + +‘Sex’ is crude sex, resembling other crude appetites which similarly +lose significance as soon as satisfied; and it is translated sex--sex +surviving the satisfaction of the appetite. As the first it applies to +the mechanics, as the second to the sentiment of sex. + +The child begins with crude sex alone. It innocently indulges itself in +sensual pleasures. It loves kissing and to be kissed, stroking and to +be stroked, fondly contemplating its excretions. The civilized society +into which it is born magnifies the importance of these insignificant +local sensations, gives them intellectual depth. It creates a handsome +receptacle, love, to contain the humours of this unnaturally enlarged +instinct. + +So much at any rate for the male child: parental care nurtures +masturbation into love and marriage. Sex may stop short of love at +lust. It may be anything it pleases, so long as it satisfies the +standard measurements for social impressiveness. + +The female child has a different history. She shares a short period +of sexual casualness with the male child, at the end of which she +immediately becomes a candidate for the recipience of masculine love; +while the sexual training of the male child is intensified at this +point. This difference accounts for the so-called early maturity of +the female child. For at the time when her male contemporary is only a +first-year man she is already a graduate without benefit of education; +and her proper mate is therefore a graduate. + +Although intelligent people are generally aware of the equivocal +background of love and marriage, they nevertheless go on marrying for +the relaxation and social ease that comes of doing what every one +else is doing. Any other course would be socially unintelligible; and +explanations are indecent. Imagine a man and a woman both undeformed by +sex tradition and that an intimacy exists between them. The intelligent +major part of their intimacy incorporates sex without sentimental +enlargement: it is an effect rather than a cause. And it is eventually +absorbed, it undergoes a diffusion, it is the use of an amenable +physical consciousness for the benefit of mental consciousness. + +But traditionally sex would be the cause not the effect of such an +intimacy. The conventional language of love could scarcely express +it otherwise; the only diffusion recognized would be the verbal +substitution of commendable emotions for gross passions. When the +lover said ‘I love you’ it would be socially impossible for him to +mean: ‘Our personalities have an intense and irresistible sympathy. I +am so conscious of you and myself together that sometimes my sexual +glands are stimulated by the very thought of you.’ It would be +impossible for him not to mean: ‘My sexual glands, by the ingrowing +enlargement of my sex instinct since childhood and its insidious, +civilized traffic with every part of my mental and physical being, +are unfortunately in a state of continual excitement. I have very +good control of myself, but my awareness of your sexual physique and +its radiations was so acute that I could not resist the temptation to +desire to lie with you. Please do not think this ignoble of me, for I +shall perform this act, if you permit it, with the greatest respect +and tenderness and attempt to make up for the indignity it of course +fundamentally will be to you (however pleasurable) by serving you in +every possible way and by sexually flattering manifestations of your +personality which are not strictly sexual.’ + +The diffusion which modern society calls love is the colouring of sex +with sentiments which have no connection with sex, sentiments which +are not served by sex but serve sex, by making attractive to the +finical civilized mind an instinct naturally repulsive to it. They are +literary. Sex, in the imagery of Stendhal, is the naked branch which, +when introduced into the salt mine, comes out covered with crystal +formations: love is the imaginative crystallization of naked instinct. +The naked instinct is the monstrous male instinct. The crystallization +is an aphrodisiac for the female, in whom sex is comparatively casual: +the sparkling branch creates in her an appetite for love equal to the +male’s tremendous sexual offering, which she would otherwise shrink +from accepting. By this stratagem the male himself does not seem to +the female to be touching her; in love virginity remains spiritually +undamaged. It is like the doll in a recent Oxford smoker. Whenever the +doll was touched, the young person of the piece, who had a psychic +connection with the doll, was affected, though untouched herself, +so the nun conceals carnality from herself by washing herself in +dollish instalments. Love is Masoch’s stately and marble-like Demon of +Virginity (‘the deeply rooted fear of existence every creature feels’), +a lewd and prudish Shepherdess. + +The only courses possible in sex then are love and marriage, misconduct +and perversion. Misconduct is masculine brutality, the male’s refusal +to dress up the overgrown branch; and feminine indelicacy, the female’s +willingness to accept the overgrown branch in spite of its unromantic +nakedness. Perversion varies in character. It may be mere animal-like +sexual levity. Or the biological cynicism of the species. Or it may +occur in the male when love and marriage or ordinary misconduct seem +insufficient to his exaggerated sex instinct, which can only be +satisfied by an instinct as exaggerated as his own. Or it may occur in +the female as a feministic improvement on man-made sex, nevertheless +imitating it in its mechanism from an irrepressible sexual nostalgia. +Or it may occur, as also in the male, through deprivation of normal +sex life--though more rarely than in the male, since her sex instinct +is less demanding. Active Lesbianism is a form of sexual derangement +resulting from the female’s mistaken effort to become sexually +equivalent to the male: passive Lesbianism is a romantic substitution +of the feminine branch for the masculine branch in the forced absence +of the latter, the crystallization remaining the same. + +There is an intellectual side to masculine homosexuality that is never +very strong in Lesbian alliances. Homosexuality in men indeed is more +often intellectually induced than in women: it is ascetic, whereas +women are not sexually fanatic enough for sexual asceticism. The +disgust of homosexual men with civilized heterosexual love becomes a +disgust with the crystalline aggressiveness of the female body. If a +woman is attractive to a homosexually minded man it is because she +seems what he calls ‘pure and virginal’--aloof, that is, from her +sexual uses. The disgust is really with the aggressive male sexuality +which is responsible for the crystallization. Wherever there is great +cynicism about sex, in Islam, say, or in France, homosexuality is +connived at as an intellectual supplement to heterosexual life. The +classical type of homosexuality was far less exclusive and severe than +the modern type: it was sophistication rather than specialization. + +Whether or not homosexuality is found a satisfactory intellectual +supplement, it is at any rate so that it is easier for male than for +female mentality to escape from socialized sex. Woman has been too +much under the necessity of self-preservation to lay down the weapons +of feminine personality and risk the disarmed independence of sexual +impersonality. She is the object, or prey, of male sexuality, and +her strength lies in the pride and in the obstacles with which she +conditions her capture. Much modern feminism is only a sentimental +enlargement of this pride, only a shrewder insistence on her value as +a prize. For the most part the feminist still has the mentality of +the recipient in sex demanding compensation for the indignity of her +position; feminism is an unnatural preoccupation in woman with her +sexual self. + +Woman’s case is nearly hopeless, then. Man is just a little better off: +his position affords him the relief, if he is intellectually capable of +taking it, of sexual suicide. + + +§2 + +Often we spend hours disposing of some small thing not worth five +minutes’ thought. We have had it a long time, it is occasionally +useful, some one has given it to us, it would be a pity to throw it +away, it has become quite a part of us, and so on. And yet it is in +the way. Yielding to the tyranny of the trivial hanging-on thing +is adaptation. Outwardly we seem to make the thing adapt itself to +us. Actually we are adapting ourselves to the thing--a grotesque +adaptation. Such a thing is sex, the small physical thing; such an +adaptation is the ceremony with which it is decently installed in the +opinion. + +With sex there seems to be nothing between masturbation (throwing +the damned thing out) and romance (grotesque adaptation). Even +the scientific attitude is romantic: the implied title of every +learned book on sex is _De l’Amour_. The cases in such series as +Havelock-Ellis’s books on sex belong to romance; they are the +scientist’s storification of sex. After the reader has grown used +to the laboratory manner of the scientist he continues to read from +sentiment not science; and the author himself continues, like any +romantic author, only from the growing morbid fascination of the +subject--a tediously energetic mind unhinged by the baffling triviality +of sex. Every psychologist of sex is a psychologist of sex because he +suffers from a sex-fixation. He is the principal case of his work. + +Masturbation is reckoned disgraceful only because it debases sex +to less than what it is; the damned thing is passionately shoved +out of sight instead of granted pious functional importance in the +household of the mind. There is much less disgust felt toward venereal +disease than toward masturbation simply because the former is a large +subject, the latter a small one. The campaign against masturbation +in homes, boys’ schools and sex books is much more intense than the +campaign against prostitution. Masturbation cannot be sentimentalized. +Prostitution, ‘the oldest profession in the world,’ has an honoured +ritual of obscenity and an equally honoured ritual of commerce. + +So great is the importance of accepted sex symbolism--the authorized +poetry of sex--that any departure from it is classified as a +perversion, as ‘erotic’ symbolism. ‘Normal’ symbolism does not even +go by its name: it is love. It is not recorded among the cases of +erotic symbolism that so-and-so continually wrote of women’s lips, or +so-and-so of women’s breasts. But several pages (fine print) must of +course be devoted to a few notorious cases (French) of foot symbolism, +and of course to the national case of China, a horrible example +to the Western sexual mind of perverse symbolism. Lip-worship and +breast-worship are normal because they are generalizations: the kiss +has become so poetically diffuse in meaning that it does not represent +the precise local excitement which is its actual sexual rôle, but a +vague spiritual lippishness; the breasts, likewise, are officially not +part of the sexual apparatus, but the semi-divine sensual equivalent of +that heart-bosom-and-chest sentiment into which humanity has glorified +mean sex-feeling. + + ‘And up the rosy pathway to her heart + The uncapped pilgrim crept.’ + --_Byron._ + +Foot-worship is unnatural because it is local and particular; it +connects sex with a physical triviality. It is nearly as disrespectful +to romance as if the sexual parts themselves were worshipped. + +Sexual energy, if left alone, would adapt itself instead of forcing +adaptation, be diffused instead of diffuse. The social mechanism +for disposing of sex makes sex as large and complicated as itself, +intensifies its masculinity. Its femininity reduces merely to an +abstract, passive principle of motion in the great moving masculine +machine; without separate social personality. The social self is +the sexual self, and the sexual self is the male sexual self: the +dramatic pleasure which woman feels in sex romance is masculine +pleasure; in witnessing sexual embrace on the screen or on the stage +she adopts the emotions of the male. Her innate sexual impersonality +if not philosophized, would wreck the solemn masculine machine; +it is therefore socially interpreted as mechanical receptiveness, +metaphysical unconsciousness, social helpfulness. In self-defence +woman becomes sentimentally attached to this rôle: the sexual machine +so elaborately concentrated on her confers on her an indignity loaded +with prerogatives. Slavish sex modesty is converted into sex vanity. +Militant (feministic) woman can do no more than piously emphasize +the negative, obstetrical instrumentality of female sex; pretending +that motherhood is a rational social end instead of a bigoted natural +idiosyncrasy. + +This grotesque of socialized sex comes of the stupid attempt of +intelligent man to make nature intelligent. Society is the genteel +human version of nature. It is based on the assumption that man is a +product of the refined integration of nature by time and that it is +therefore a superior, evolved nature. A constant forced transference +thus takes place from the slums of nature into the respectable terraces +and squares of society. + +But the very existence of society, of an improved nature, proves +rather that man is a product of the refined disintegration of nature +by time; that society is in fact a defensive alliance by conscious, +contradictory nature against unconscious, consistent nature. And +man stands in deformity between them, a creature part social, part +natural; but also something else, himself. What is social is unreal. +What is natural is unreal. What is himself is also unreal; but unreal +intrinsically, not from deformity. + +Reproductive sentiment, for example, is an emotional screen to conceal +how little we belong to nature. For were we to appreciate this little +we should soon appreciate how little we belonged to society. Sex is +even more separate from reproductive instincts in human beings than in +animal beings. Society therefore strengthens the sympathetic connection +between them, this last crucial bond with nature. + +But what is this sex that society has raised from a state of nature +to a state of respectability among the intelligent passions? A myth +in which people half believe to keep up appearances of which they are +half ashamed. Only in the private consciousness is it not a fraud; and +here, an eccentric mark of physical loneliness, a sort of memory of +belonging; when actualized, a momentary extinction of consciousness, +as it means momentary consciousness to beasts that belong much to +nature. As a public ceremony sex is constantly in need of artificial +stimulation; its technique is scarcely more than the technique of +costume. It persists through the illusion of numbers, which perform a +gross sex-masque, a lascivious fancifying of nature. + +Sex is the tribal totem through which society sues Nature for +protection and recognition, and through which Nature is ritually +flattered. To the Church sex is the essence of flesh. Man is afraid to +admit that he lives largely outside of nature, that his body is only a +soul, a myth. Instead, he uses the myth to re-establish flesh; God is +the authentication of the body. + +Sex is the chief religious mystery of man, his most theatrical +exhibition of reality. Parents lie in wait for their children, to +change their little sexual sillies into portentous symbols. Either +they significantly do not ‘tell’ them but work their transformations +by a dark force of silence and suggestion; or they significantly and +poetically ‘tell’ them. Is the child expected not to see that what is +perhaps pretty in flowers is rather ridiculous in people, who for the +most part have other interests besides seed-making and seed-scattering? +Or to treat as religious truth the crazy information that baby comes +out of mother? Unprompted, it finds this just a third-rate curiosity. +If it hears its mother shrieking in labour it will report without +malice but without sentiment that mother squealed like a pig. +Naturally without a sexual conscience, it is gradually bullied into +superstitiousness, reverence or horror of sex. Shelley, on being read +the passage about Geraldine’s breast in _Christabel_, saw a vision of +a woman with eyes instead of nipples. The child’s sight is poetically +twisted to see the nipples either so or as sacred knobs of coral. The +only way a child can be initiated into socialized sex without deformity +of his comic sense is through obscenity, the cynical and painful adult +version of the child’s sexual insouciance. + +Psychology is the modern church of sex, provoking an obscene Tolstoyan +piety. Havelock-Ellis says: ‘We must, as Bölsche declares, accustom +ourselves to gaze on the naked human body exactly as we gaze at a +beautiful flower’; and quotes the following account of a totem mystery +from Ungewitter’s _Die Nacktheit_: ‘They made themselves as comfortable +as possible, the men laying aside their coats, waistcoats, boots and +socks; the women their blouses, skirts, shoes and stockings. Gradually, +as the moral conception of nakedness developed in their minds, more +and more clothing fell away, until the men wore nothing but bathing +drawers and the women only their chemises. In this “costume” games were +carried out in common, and a regular camp-life led. The ladies (some +of whom were unmarried) would then lie in hammocks and we men on the +grass, and the intercourse was delightful [sic]. We felt as members of +one family, and behaved accordingly [sic].’ And Havelock-Ellis himself +again: ‘The nose receives the breath of life; the vagina receives the +water of life.... The swelling breasts are such divinely gracious +insignia of womanhood because of the potential child that hangs at them +and sucks; the large curves at the hips are so voluptuous because of +the potential child they clasp within them.’ The juvenile delinquent of +the streets reacts to this no more obscenely by singing ‘Mother caught +her titties in the mangle.’ + +Lofty reverence of the female sexual organs conceals a fundamental +disgust with them. Woman is the symbol to man of the uncleanness of +bodily existence, of which he purifies himself by putting her to noble +uses. She thus has for a him a double, contradictory significance; +she is the subject of his bawdry and the subject of his romance. The +sex totem is made in her image and embodies for him the conflict +between suicide and immortality. Man himself is unreal. On woman he +gets physical reality. She is his nature, the realistic enlargement of +his own small sexual apparatus. She is the morphological supplement +of his phallus. Through her he can refine, ritualize and vary his +monotonous and trivial appendage. She is the means by which he adapts +himself to what he is unable to assimilate mentally, to the absurd +physical remnant which pursues him in his pilgrimage to extinction and +which he appeases by turning aside to reverence. Sex is a perfidious +intellectual digression into physical reminiscences. + +How does woman play her part as the sacred animal of the sex totem? +With ease, since she is quantitatively more sexual than man, more +literally sexual; therefore more impersonally sexual. Sex in woman +is unemotional, constitutionally well-blended--apart, that is, from +the ritualistic education in love that she is subjected to by a +masculine society. Sex in man is emotional; it is segregated; it is +the last touch of nature in him that haunts and torments him and that +he propitiates with pompous and evasive rites. Although, like man, +woman is largely not of nature, what nature remains in her satisfies +itself without pomp or pathos. That civilized woman is slower than +man in arriving at sexual climaxes is due to the fact that her native +sexual ease had been perverted by man’s tortuous psychology into a +self-stupefying philosophical passivity. + +Woman, indeed, is so nearly complete in herself, except for the +phallus, that it is difficult to see how it happened, if one sex +must instrumentalize the other, that she rather than man became the +auxiliary apparatus. Phallic worship in man is not pious but politic +(unless he is homosexual, which is another matter); an institution for +advertising the phallus to woman, hypnotizing her with it, protecting +her from the knowledge that she holds the strategical sexual position. +It is perhaps fair to say that as a consciousness man is woman’s +equal. As a physical apparatus he is a clumsily devised gadget. From +the point of view of their fertilizing powers there are millions and +millions more men alive than necessary. With proper husbanding of +sperm (an economy already practised with prize bulls and stallions) +one man might conceivably maintain the world-population if a somewhat +smaller figure than the present were agreed upon as more reasonable +and if birth-control were somewhat relaxed. All propagandist display +of physical and mental superiority on man’s part, all Rabelaisian +gizzard and brain tickling, is an attempt to detract attention from his +obviously incidental character as a physical apparatus. + +But it is unkind and even irrelevant to over-press the point. What +is relevant is that we are in a state of semi-conscious transition +between nature and nothing, and the more conscious we grow, the nearer +we are to nothing. In this passage sex comes quietly along, obligingly +diminishing itself except when man, in panic of annihilation, whips it +up and tries to ride himself back to nature upon it. But the passage +continues, his hobby-horse is a phantom. + +Panic of annihilation, resistance to sexual diminution, is a social +emotion. Resistance to sexual enlargement is a personal emotion, the +fear of a more brutal kind of annihilation. Sex brings shock; to some +rudimentary forms, simple death; to human beings, intricate death, +death of self, death of death. Homosexuality is an oblique escape from +the violence of this shock. Polygamy and polyandry distribute the +frightening physical solidarity of monogamy. Monogamous couples are +always hungry for company: to dilute sex. This hunger for dilution is +one-half of parenthood; the other half is the regressive hunger for +solidarity. + +This natural difference between creatures intellectually like is the +real perversion. Man is a poetic animal; what is natural in him is +pathological. Poetically he is unisexual; when he attempts to make the +nature in him poetic he becomes bisexual or homosexual not poetic. It +is impossible that through sex nature should approve of man or man of +nature. The only way to prevent sex from being a greater source of +discomfort than need be is to recognize it as an anomalous hanger-on +in man’s journey away from nature and to make it reveal its presence +by behaving naturally: bringing about a literal diffusion of physical +nature in human nature instead of a monstrous hermaphroditism or a +monstrous monomania. + + +§3 + +Sex as a petty eccentricity of the individual can be easily disposed of +by the individual. As a social symptom it assumes large metaphysical +proportions; it becomes a crux between matter and mind. It demands +legal control, giving society an excuse for power; economic control (as +a medium of exchange), giving society an excuse for motion; ceremonial +control, giving society an excuse for language, manners, communication. +That is, it gives society an excuse for society. + +Society keeps control of sex by so embroidering it with sentiment that +the individual scarcely realizes that he is serving society instead +of society him. Every one knows, in the abstract, for instance, that +monogamy is an economic expression; yet individuals participating in +monogamy would be horrified at the suggestion that they were confirming +an economic expression. Marriage is not an economic expression, but +a ‘sacrament.’ Havelock-Ellis says: ‘Since marriage is not a mere +contract, but a fact of conduct, and even a sacred fact, the free +participation of both parties is needed to maintain it.’ And not only +is the economic significance of monogamous marriage concealed by an +argument of spiritual significance, but by a biological argument +as well. Havelock-Ellis further says: ‘Monogamy, in the fundamental +biological sense, represents the natural order into which the majority +of sexual facts will always naturally fall, because it is the +relationship which most adequately corresponds to all the physical and +spiritual facts involved.’ (Compare Shelley’s argument that polygamy +was a biological necessity because the noble horse was polygamous.) + +There develops, as a counterpart to public sex, not private sex but +academic sex, sex the tradition rather than sex the practice. Sex shows +itself proudly as an art. It _is_ art. And as it is the male not the +female who tends to express himself traditionally as _man_, art is male +art. It is therefore foolish to point out that there have been very few +great women artists: why should one look for women artists at all in +male art? Art is to man the academic idea of woman, a private play with +her in public. It is therefore foolish to point out that many artists, +perhaps the best, are homosexual. They are not homosexual. Art is their +wench. + +By man’s abstractness of mind is meant his personal anonymity; he is a +public creature, only mathematically existent. By woman’s concreteness +of mind is meant the individuality (man calls it ‘reality’) he +recognizes in her and which he attempts under cover of love, to +steal. Woman wears clothes, man wears a social uniform. Woman is +individual-power (brain); man is mass-power (brawn). Therefore man, +though individually a negative force, is as a unit a positive force; +defeating woman as a unit, since the fact that she is individually a +positive force makes her collectively a negative force. Here is the +secret of man’s power over woman and of a woman’s power over a man. + +The mysterious ‘reality’ of woman is responsible for her mysterious +position. The only way to correct this position is for her to make +a mystery of man, to flatter, cajole, bully him into individuality. +Feminism’s great mistake is in concentrating on woman rather than on +man. Concentration on woman can only increase the mysteriousness of her +position. + +The antithesis between intellectual and intuitional faculties is +really an antithesis between conventionality and unconventionality. +Mrs. Willa Muir, is a short essay on _Woman_, says: ‘Unconscious +life creates, for example, human beings: conscious life creates, for +example, philosophy.’ Human beings are not created by woman’s intuition +(Mrs. Muir should know this), but by the fertilization of the female +ovum by the male sperm. What is meant is that philosophy springs from +the conventional male mind; but that human beings spring from the +unconventional female body; and that the female mind is therefore also +unconventional. + +The male mind is conventional because the male body is a mere +convention. The female body is unconventional because it is +individualistic: man gets somewhat socially and vaguely just children, +woman gets personally and precisely _a_ child. The female mind is +therefore unconventional because it is individualistic, that is, +because woman is physically an individual to a degree to which man +is not. Therefore man is intellectual, woman is intuitional: man is +unconquerable monotony, woman conquerable variety. He has a formal, +vacant simplicity, she has an informal, experimental complexity. +Therefore, since he cannot be entrusted with creating human beings and +she can, she must not be entrusted with creating philosophy, which is +all he can be entrusted with. She is not good enough to be entrusted +with creating philosophy because she is intuitional: she is too good to +be entrusted with creating philosophy because she is unconventional. + +It is fair to generalize about man because he is a generalization, +unfair to generalize about woman because she is not. Man is male, +man is ‘the sex,’ not woman; woman is temperamentally unisexual, a +person; for this reason perhaps a mystery. Her sex play is literal, +hard, matter-of-fact, truly theatrical; the rest is unconventional, +a mystery. With man, all is sex; he cannot easily grasp the dualism +necessary to any real individual sense. His play is symbolical, +realistic; it is ‘the reality,’ protracted by a tiresome, childish +patience that never wears out. Woman, to save herself from boredom, +is obliged to enliven the scene with a few gratuitous falsetto turns, +which he interprets as co-operation. Even at his boldest man cannot +get beyond a conventional anarchism. He cannot see that he is on a +stage and therefore he cannot see that it is possible to get off; so +that his performance is continuous. And he will perhaps never learn +that anarchism is not enough. His fine phallus-proud works-of-art, +his pretty masterpieces of literature, painting, sculpture and music, +bear down upon woman’s maternal indulgence; she is full of admiration, +kind but weary. When, she sighs, will man grow up, when will he become +woman, when will she have companions instead of children? + + + + +LETTER OF ABDICATION + + +I have done all I could for you, but the only consequence is that you +are the same as always. I had the alternative of ordering a general +massacre, but I should then have had to go away anyhow. It is simpler +to abdicate. It certainly makes no difference to the situation whether +I leave you behind dead or alive. Therefore I will leave you behind +alive, to afford myself the bitter satisfaction of telling you what I +think of you. You will not listen any more than you would if you were +dead, but I should not address you if you were dead. Therefore I will +leave you behind alive, to afford myself the bitter satisfaction of +telling you what I think of you. + +You are not gay. You are sticky instead of rubbery. You represent +yourself with priggish sincerity instead of mimicking yourself +with grotesque accuracy. Because you are photographs you think the +photographs are originals. You think seeing is being. + +You do not know what you are. I will tell you, though it will not +make the least difference to you, since you do not know what you +are. You are a conceit. You are what you are not. You are a very fine +point of discrimination. But since you do not discriminate, since you +are not gay, since you think what you are is what you are, therefore +you are not: this indeed is why massacre was unnecessary. You are +blind, from seeing; you cannot appreciate the identity of opposites. +You are feeble, from a loutish strength of doing; so that you cannot +surpass doing, let doing instead of yourselves do; so that you cannot +repose. You are cowards, afraid to be more than perfect and more than +formal; so that you are only what you are; you have the perfection of +mediocrity, not the irregularity of perfection. You are superstitious; +you will season the dish with salt, but you will not taste salt +itself. You are ignorant; not only do you not know what you are; you +do not know what you are not. You are lazy; you will do only one thing +at a time; you will act; but you will not act and not act. You are +criminal; what you do is all positive, wicked, damaging; you make no +retractions, contradictions, proofs of innocence. You are without +honour; over-sincere; hypocritical. + +I will tell you a story which is in my mind at the moment and may +therefore have some bearing on the question. There was once a woman +whose mind was as active as her body. And there was once a man who was +constituted in the same way. And the combination of them produced a +child which was all mind and no body. And no one knew about it. She +was, naturally, a woman. Her parents gave her no name but referred +to her in a historical manner as ‘The Deliverer.’ Whenever anything +went wrong in any part of the world she put it right because she was +all mind. But no one knew about it and so it made no difference. When +they became quite hopeless her parents referred to her merely as ‘The +Angel.’ In the end she was plain ‘she’ to them. At her death she became +all body, and her parents, frenzied with disappointment, drove her out. +And no one knew about it. Her parents gave her no name but referred to +her in a historical manner as ‘The Destroyer.’ Whenever anything went +right in any part of the world she put it wrong again because she was +all body. But no one knew about it and so it made no difference. When +they became quite hopeless her parents referred to her merely as ‘The +Beast.’ In the end she was plain ‘she’ to them. At her death she became +all mind, and her parents, frenzied with disappointment, took her in +again. And no one knew about it. + +This is the story which was in my mind and which may have some bearing +on the question. The point of it is, I think, that we are all in an +impossible position; which you handle by making less, myself more, +impossible. For example, it is unlikely that the story that I have +just told you would ever have occurred to you. Or if it had, you would +have broken down in the middle and called it the end. You stop half-way +round the circle in order to spare yourself the humiliation of missing +the true end, which is not perceptible in the ordinary way. Indeed if +it is not perceived, it makes no difference, the circle goes round and +round upon you. On the other hand, it makes no difference even if it +is perceived, except the difference of perceiving it, which makes the +position, as I have said, more rather than less impossible. So do as +you like. + +But I shall abdicate if you do, and since you do, I abdicate. You are +all asleep, because being awake means being dreamless, and you can only +be awake by dreaming to be awake, by dreaming to be dreamless. You turn +your back on your own non-existence and are therefore non-existent. +When you love, you turn your back on what you love. When you sweep, +you turn your back on the dirt. When you think, you turn your back on +your mind. Well, keep looking the other way so that I can kick you +where you deserve to be kicked. And you will not turn on me but flatter +yourselves that you are having spasms of profundity. + +Anyway, this is how it is, little wise-bottoms. There is Cleopatra, +Rome, Napoleon and so forth on one side, and there is the future on +the other side, and there you are in the middle alive. There is that +great churning, that continuous tossing up and making of a middle, +that bright ferment of centrality; and it is you. My o my o my o, what +a thing! But when it was Cleopatra, Rome, Napoleon or any of them of +then, or when it will be who it will be, my o my o my o, what a thing. +It was not, it will not be you. And what was you and what will you be? +You was and you will be dead. And why? Because you are alive now. But +come a little closer, darlings, that I may kick you a little harder. +Listen: if you was dead and if you will be dead, each of you, then you +must be dead now, each of you, you must be dead and alive. Now o now +o now o, pumpkins, don’t cry. For just think: there is that great big +live middle and it is nice and warm and it is you. But it may also be +it. And what would become of you then out in the cold if you didn’t +take yourselves in, if you weren’t also you, if you weren’t each of you +dead as well as alive? And what difference does it make? None whatever, +pets, except the difference of a difference that makes no difference. + +I will argue further against what I am arguing for. The you which is +you is only you, and not only dead but invisible. And you can never be +this you unless you see the you which is it and every one hard round +the circle to the end, where you can no longer see, and are you alone. +And the result, if you do this? You will be so alive that you will be +deader than ever; you will have achieved the identity of opposites; you +will have brought two counter-processes to rub noses, the you which you +are not, which is you alone, and the you which you are, which is it, +every one, not you--and much good may it do you, except to make you +deader than ever. And the result, if you do not do this? You will save +that much life from death, and much good may it do you--enough to wipe +your nose on, when it runs with nervousness at the thought that you +will have to die anyway. + +Yes, I once knew a woman who spent all her time washing her linen, in +order to be always fresh and sweet smelling. But as she was always +washing dirty linen and thus making the linen she wore dirtier than +it might have been if she had washed less, she smelled of nothing but +dirty linen. Any why? Because she was over-sincere and a hypocrite. She +got stranded in the fact of clean linen instead of moving on to the +effect of clean linen, which is the end of the circle. And you are all +like that. + +And again. Believing it to be you alone and that you are only what you +are, think what a small, mean, cosy, curly, pink and puny figure you +cut when you set out to be it at a party of it’s, naked as in your own +bath. Whereas, ladies and gentlemen, if you understood the identity of +opposites, your nakedness would be an invisibility which you would +have to dress large, from the point of view of visibility. And to +this it-ish rather than you-ish exterior you would add an even larger +and looser-fitting social skin, a house in most it-ish order, a most +it-ish interior, in fact. But you do not understand. ‘Boo-hoo!’ you +cry. ‘What, hide our naked hearts, paralyse our heroic breasts, sit +upon our grave bottoms, swallow back our great acts?’ ‘Hush-a-bye,’ I +reply, ‘there is enough going on for you forrard without your great +acts: drinks free, if you will only drink, scenery on view, if you will +only look, music keeping step for you if you will only supply the feet. +Instead of spending money on what you can only get for nothing. Life, +lads, is a charity feed the fun of which is in everybody pretending +to be a swell and everybody treating everybody else like a swell and +everybody knowing everybody is a fraud and no matter. No matter because +of death, in which each may be rich and proud, and no fooling. And +your great acts? When you are bursting with fraud and charity and can +stand no more, sneak aft and do your great acts, like private retchings +and acts of death. If they will not come on, repeat to a point of +mechanical conviction some formula of dreary finality, such as, “The +fathers of our girl friends are lecherous,” or “Philosophy is teetotal +whisky.”’ + +But you are all sluts, your efforts are not biggish, and so your fine +points are only untidy and trivial. If you would neatly calculate, you +must calculate grossly the whole pattern of it, which is the making +of the middle; you must conceive first tremendously, then accurately; +you must grasp the general initiative which is it not you. From this, +if your application be fine enough, the fine points will resolve +themselves. But remember you are no fine small point yourself; you +are more and less than one; you are the littlishness of biggishness; +you are no fine small point but a fine small point of discrimination. +My o my o my o, what a thing, poor beastie, to be but dainty when +you would be statistical. The best of you are the worst of you: they +over-discriminate, put their hand to their chin, stand upon taste, pick +the highest and most delicately scorched plum, and then choke over the +stone, dying the death of an æsthete. For what is a single plum, too +fine for the eye and not fine enough for the throat? + +I might advise you to think; but you are over-eager, all for gain. And +thought is just a power of potentiality; as you are of it; as death is +of life; without gain. You would make potentiality where there is none, +in order to have more thought than is possible; you would turn the +future into a bank, as you now do the past, from greed of time. + +Or I might say: ‘Have shame.’ But you would only expose yourselves +a little more outrageously and hang your heads a little lower. You +would not understand that only truly abandoned boldness breeds truly +abandoned decorum. Your interpretations are ignoble and indecent. +You begin with contradictions instead of ending with them; efface +them instead of developing them. As, for example, with sex: you seize +upon it at the beginning, tease it, worry it, transform it, until you +think you have ironed it out thoroughly, whereas you have only ironed +yourselves out thoroughly. While if you had not seized upon it, you +would have found it at the end of the circle, had you reached the +end, an achieved confirmation of the impossibility that makes things +possible. + +This is one of my favourite subjects; if I were not abdicating I might +discuss it elaborately, for your good. Since I am abdicating, I will +discuss it simply, for my own good; for it is one of my favourite +subjects. The balance of interest in man, I should say, is with the +making, with it, with life; in woman, with the breaking of the making +into the you which is you alone, into death. Woman is at the end of the +circle, she has only to rearrive at herself; man has first to learn +that there is an end, before he can set out for it. And the learning +he scorns as childish and the setting out as a deathbed rite. Woman +he counts passive because she is at the end, and inferior because, +being there, she turns round and starts all over again, to rearrive at +herself. He adores her when she remains passive, that is his inferior; +and despises her when she becomes his equal, that is, his superior. +Well, they are worthless, both orders, when they are no more than +they are. And when they are more than they are they are of no use to +anyone but themselves; which is right but sudden and perhaps too mean +for these mean times. For myself, I might confess to you, now that we +are parting, that my happiest hours have been spent in the brotherly +embrace of a humbug, not from want of womanliness in me or humbuggery +in him, but because I was queen and needed repose. Ah me ah me ah me, +what is this all about? + +And such stickiness. How am I better than the rest of you? Because I +have converted stickiness into elasticity and made myself free without +wrenching myself free like a wayward pellet of paste. And what of +so-and-so, your popular idol and my late consort? He was a strong +man, powerfully sticky but not elastic; when he moved, he carried you +along with him, he could not have moved otherwise, freely. And so he +had great moments but not free moments. He was terribly alive but too +terribly, never more than alive. He was merely monstrous, without +the littlishness of biggishness. And what of so-and-so, my sometime +lover? He was indeed a darling but an insufferable fop, washing away +the stickiness till there was nothing left of him. And many others were +darlings, of a sticky gracefulness and rhythm. But send me no more +candidates, their embraces are either too heavy or too feeble; and I +am light, hollow with death, but strong, of a tough, lively, it-ish +exterior. + +That is the trouble. You have no comprehension of appearance, what it +is. Appearance is everything, what you are, what you are not. But your +reach is sticky, not elastic; and so you get no further than reality, a +pathetic proportion. Appearance is where the circle meets itself, where +you live and do not live, where you are and are not dead. Appearance is +everything, and nothing; bright and uppermost in a woman, to be sunk +darkly inward; dumb, blind, darkly imbedded in a man, to be thrust +brutally outward. + +No, I am not confused, my blinking intelligences, but understand too +clearly, and that is the trouble. I am unnecessary to you and therefore +abdicate. Nor do I deny that blinking is sufficient for your purposes, +which are sincere rather than statistical. Or that it would be for +mine, for that matter--if I had purposes instead of queenliness. +Which is my weakness, if you like--the tiresomeness of insisting upon +the necessity of what is not necessary. I admit all; I am not wise +but insistent, I am an unpaid hack of accuracy. I was queen from +tiresomeness, and I abdicate from tiresomeness. I am not enjoying +myself. + +But perhaps you would like to know a little of my history, before I +retire finally. My mother imagined that she suffered from bad eyesight; +and to make it worse she wore a stocking round her eyes whenever +possible: at home, a white stocking; abroad, a black stocking; and +occasionally, to depress circumstances completely, a grey sock of my +father’s, fastened at the back of her head with a safety-pin. From +which, our house was full of small oval rugs made by my mother out of +the mates of the stockings which she wore round her eyes and which +she was always losing. And these rugs made by my mother were not well +made, because she imagined that she suffered from bad eyesight. From +which my mother, whose character was all dreariness, acquired in my +mind a hateful oddness. From which, I resolved to outdo her in oddness, +so that I not only imagined that I suffered from good eyesight: I did +actually suffer from it. And with this effect, that by the time I was +of age I had no more than one rug, and this was very large and square, +and it was well made, and not by me, though I suffered extremely from +good eyesight. I lived far away from my mother, having no connection +with her except to insist that she live far away from me; and my rug +was composed of many small squares; and the pattern of each square +was different; and yet the whole harmonious because the stuff was +provided by me--the finest silk and velvet rags that I could command +from others, and which I sorted and returned to them to be made into +squares, a square by each of them. And so each who made a square was +my subject. And so I became Queen. Perhaps now you will understand +me better. But I am determined to abdicate, however you dissuade me. +Before I was in reach of your praise, and liked neither your praise nor +lack of it. It would not improve my feelings to put myself in reach of +your pity. It was not for this that I told you my story. I told you my +story to make my abdication irrevocable. + +Yes, even now, it is painful to leave you. Not because I love you but +because I am still untired; and after I leave you there will be no more +to do. I shall indeed be more untired than ever. For while I was with +you I worked hard (as you will not deny) and achieved a certain formal +queenly tiredness from being unable to tire myself out no matter how +hard I worked. But now concealment will be impossible: my insistence, +that before I tried to make pleasant to myself (and to others) by +trying to interest it in your affairs, will in the future be plainly +horrible, as everything is horrible if sufficiently disinterested, that +is, insistent. But the horror of my insistence will not be known to +you, because I am abdicating. Nor am I to be dissuaded. The stroke that +puts me in reach of your pity puts me out of reach of it as well. + +I have said more than enough to satisfy my contempt of you. But I once +loved you; and I have not punished myself sufficiently for that. What +do I mean when I say that I once loved you? That I knew that being +alive for you and me meant being more than alive. But you were afraid +to admit it, though I was willing to take all the responsibility upon +myself. Then I tried pretending to be just alive, I became for a time +a partisan of timidity, in order to show you that being just alive +was just pretending to be just alive. But when, aside, I reached +for your hand, to press it, you dishonourably misunderstood me, you +put me in the loathsome position of flirting with you. Then I tried +extorting from you everything by means of which you lived, to show you +that when you did not live you still lived. But again you wilfully +misunderstood me and over-exerted yourself to supply me with what you +thought to be my needs and what you assumed to be yours; and stubbornly +refused to not live; and were disappointed when I did not applaud +your inexhaustibility. And then once more I tried. I loaded you with +favours in order to show you that nothing made any difference; that the +most as well as the least that you could endure by belonged to being +just alive; that you were more than alive, dead. But you repulsed me +with praise and gratitude; as you would now with pity and ingratitude +if I permitted. + +Then I said: ‘I will leave them alone. I will content myself with being +queen. Perhaps if I play my part conscientiously, at no time abandoning +my royal manner, they will admit everything of their own accord, +like a good, kind, though stupid, timid people.’ But my grandeur you +interpreted meanly as the grandeur of being just alive, instead of +grandly, as the showy meanness of being just alive. You watched me act +and admired my performance, but credited me with sincerity rather than +talent; you refused to act yourself, paralysed by the emotions of an +audience. My challenge, my drastic insistence, made you if anything +more timid than you already were. You were hypnotized with admiration, +you were, from the vanity you took in watching me, less than just +alive. The men behaved more disgracefully than the women because to be +a woman requires a strong theatrical sense: requires of one who is more +than man to be less than man. For this reason I took many lovers, to +humble back as many as possible into activity. And this brought all of +us to where we were in the beginning. And so I abdicate, leaving you +once more to your heroism. With it you were intolerable to me; without +it you were not only intolerable to me, but you would have eventually +become intolerable to yourselves, especially after I had left you. + +You know only how to be either heroes or cowards. But you do not know +how to outwit yourselves by being neither, though seeming to be both. +‘What,’ you say indignantly, ‘would you have us be nothing?’ Ah, my +dear people, if you could you would all shortly become Queens. + +But perhaps it is best that you cannot. For if you became Queens you +would in time find it necessary to abdicate, as I have; and you would, +like me, be left extremely unhappy, of having succeeded in yourselves +but failed in others. + +Yes, it is true that I concealed from you the colour of my eyes. But +the distance at which I kept you from myself was precisely the distance +between being just alive and being more than alive. I was giving you a +lesson in space, not a rebuff. Since we are at the end of things, you +may come close to me and look well into my eyes; but since you have not +learned your lesson, you will still remain ignorant of their colour. +Good-bye. I am going back to my mirror, where I came from. + + + + +FOOTNOTES + + +[1] Mr. Lewis takes a fierce, acquisitive joy in being right: as +if it were an honour to be right, and his unique honour. But many +people, alas, are right, only with more quietness and less joy than +Mr. Lewis. To be right (to see wrong) is properly a sad, not a joyous +mental condition. To be right in Mr. Lewis’s manner is to become a +self-appointed destroyer of wrong; and so to make oneself a candidate +for destruction, in turn. To be right in his manner--so righteously +right--is to be God; and so to chasten every one into wrong. + +[2] The adultishness of the individual-real is an abhorrence (as Mr. +Lewis shows it to be) of intellectualism (organized fear) in the +up-to-date White mass, which to Mr. Lewis is sentimental Bolshevism, +Bohemianism. But such an abhorrence of intellectualism in the +up-to-date White mass, if one is not careful, becomes (as in Mr. Lewis) +an adultish championship of intellectualism (organized bravado) in a +privileged White few (as any _system_ of individualism must mean by +individualism the individualism of a few)--a sentimental Toryism, in +fact, Academianism. And in what few? The few, of course, swept aside +by the time-current; the few, indeed, who might be truly individual +were they not organized into a system of individualism. Mr. Lewis’s +Toryism would be perhaps apt if he were trying to be only politically, +not philosophically right as well. But in the circumstances his satire +is as irrelevant to his right, which is philosophical, as Swift’s +would have been, had it been philosophical, to his right, which was +political. The only satire relevant to a philosophical right is a +satire like Blake’s: Blake’s faith showed the people who were wrong +to be enemies, it was not a system organizing himself into an enemy. +Mr. Lewis does not like Blake because he said that the roads of genius +(right) were crooked: Mr. Lewis believes that the roads of right should +be systematic, that the person who is right should be an enemy, a +righteous, sentimental Tory rather than a sad though angry spirit. + +[3] The symbolism of the individual-real in its scientific aspects is +best explained in C. K. Ogden’s and I. A. Richards’ _The Meaning of +Meaning_. In this confused mixture of philosophy, psychology, ethnology +and literature it is just possible to distinguish between what is meant +by ‘bad’ and ‘good’ symbolism. To begin with, the assumption must +be made for both varieties of symbolism that words mean nothing by +themselves. Bad symbolism is apparently the use of words for collective +propagandist purposes which distort the ‘referents’ (original objects +or events) of which the words are signs; good symbolism makes language +not an instrument of purposes but of the ‘real’ objects or events for +which it provides a sort of mathematic of signs. Words in this reformed +grammar are thus not vulgar stage-players of images; they are certified +scientific representatives of the natural objects, or constructions of +objects called events, which man’s mind, like a dust-cloud, is assumed +to obscure from himself. To Mr. Ogden and Mr. Richards language is +ideally a neutral region of literalness between reality and its human +perception. Signs (of which language is this precise mathematical +grammar), being the closest the perceiving mind can come to reality, +must for convenience be regarded as reality itself; the more faithfully +they are defined as signs, the more literally they represent +reality. There is no evidence anywhere in this book that perception +is properly anything other than a slave of reality. Disobedient +perception--language by itself--is an ‘Enchanted Wood of Words.’ There +is no hint that individual perception, instead of making a separate +approximation of the general sign conveying the object, does in fact +where originality is maintained experience a revulsion from the object +or event concerned. No hint that the very genesis or _utterance_ of a +sign is an assertion of the independence of the mind against what the +authors call the sign-situation. Or that the mind is a dust-cloud only +when perceptively organized to define reality. Or that language is only +an Enchanted Wood of Words when the dragon Reality is searched for in +it. Or that words are literal man, not ‘main topics of discussion,’ not +literal perception or the science of reality. + +The conclusion of this study, if one has patience to extract a +conclusion from this science-proud collation of verbal niceties, is +that man has no right to meaning: meaning is the property of reality, +which is to be known scientifically only through symbols, which in +turn are to be regulated as to interpretation by limitations on the +use of symbols, called definitions. ‘But in most matters the possible +treachery of words can only be controlled through definitions, and the +greater the number of such alternative locutions available the less +is the risk of discrepancy, provided that we do not suppose symbols +to have “meaning” on their own account, and so people the world with +fictitious entities.’ + +But what, then, in this stabilizing of the scientific or symbolic use +of words, is to happen to poetry, which is assumed as the deliberately +unscientific use of words? Poetry, it appears, deals with evocative +as opposed to symbolic speech. ‘In evocative speech the essential +consideration is the character of the attitude aroused.’ The corollary +to this proposition, which the authors imperfectly and insincerely +develop, is that there is no true antithesis between evocative +(partisan) speech and symbolic (logical) speech. We deduce that +evocative speech is in fact not an independent speech of its own but a +persuasive quality that may be added to symbolic speech: the ‘attitude +aroused,’ that is, is an attitude toward _something_--evocative +(poetic) speech is false _by itself_ (in opposition to symbolic +speech), it is scientifically admissible only where it shows close +dependence on symbols meaningless in themselves but showing close, +scientific dependence on reality. + +This deduction we find confirmed in a little book by Mr. I. A. +Richards, _Science and Poetry_. ‘The essential peculiarity of poetry as +of all the arts is that the full appropriate situation is not present.’ +The fact that poetry is evocative rather then symbolic gives it a +freedom from the hard-and-fast laws of reality that often enables it +to convey a more faithful impression of the ‘real thing,’ by a sort of +loyal lying, than would painfully truthful symbolic speech. Thus, by +making symbolism the purpose of science rather than of art (as it is +in the vulgar collective-real) Mr. Richards is able to allow poetry +(always by scientific leave, of course) certain aristocratic latitudes +of expression--a certain rhetorical _finesse_--that it lacks when it +is erroneously used as symbolic (pseudo-scientific) speech. Poetry as +symbolic speech is only figurative speech; it invents a fairy-story +of reality. Poetry as evocative speech takes its clue from external +(scientific) symbols of reality rather than from internal (imaginative) +symbols of reality--it means, in Mr. Richards’ words, ‘The transference +from the magical view of the world to the scientific.’ + +In the magical view the ‘pseudo-statements’ of poetry were connected +with belief. In the scientific view they are disconnected from belief; +we are returned to the assumption scattered through the pages of +_The Meaning of Meaning_, that man has no right to meaning. The poet +armed with the scientific view accepts the ‘contemporary background’ +as tentative meaning: so that ‘the essential consideration is the +character of the attitude aroused.’ This attitude has literary licence +according to the degree of scientific acceptance: the more complete the +acceptance, the greater the ‘independence’ (meaninglessness) of the +poetry. + +Poetry is according to such criticism, therefore, a socially beneficial +affirmation of reality by means of a denial, or phantasization, of +individual mind. In symbolic (magic) poetic speech reality itself is +the principal of the fairy story; in evocative (scientific) poetic +speech the principal of the fairy-story is the individual mind. In both +cases the one belief from which the poetic mind must not disconnect +itself is the belief in reality; which proves itself in either case to +be only the most advanced ‘contemporary background’ appreciable. + +[4] Except here! + +[5] As instead of opposing a fine sexual indifference to the sexual +impotence or sentimental feminism that he finds in modern life he +flaunts a sentimental Spartan masculinity. + +[6] Deity to the collective-realist is reality as symbolic oneness; to +the individual-realist, reality as rationalistic oneness. To the former +therefore personality is an instrument for conceiving emotionally +the mass character of this oneness; to the latter, an instrument +for corroborating intellectually the individualistic character of +this oneness. (Intellectual democracy as opposed to intellectual +anarchy.) Mr. Lewis says: ‘We have a god-like experience in that only’ +(personality). The collective-realist would say: ‘We have a god-like +experience in that only’ (personality). The only difference between +these two expressions is political. ‘Evidences of a oneness seem +everywhere apparent,’ Mr. Lewis says. ‘But we _need_, for practical +purposes, the illusion of a plurality.’ The ‘practical purposes’ are, +presumably, the necessity of protecting this democratic oneness from +the democratic mass: ‘plurality’ here means the plurality of the +few. It is comprehensible, then, that Catholic thought should, by +its scholasticism, appeal to Mr. Lewis--the political wisdom of an +institution that keeps a small body of well-paid intelligentsia to +administer Godhood to the not so individualistic, the not so well-paid +worshipping mass. And Mr. Lewis is here at one with his rather more +scholastic colleague in individualism, Mr. Eliot, who with his French +co-littérateurs phrases the conflict between symbolic oneness and +rationalistic oneness, or symbolic personality and rationalistic +personality, more elegantly as the conflict between intuition and +intelligence (between the feeling whole and the thinking whole, in +Mr. Lewis’s language). Individuality to the individualist is thus an +intellectual fiction, as to the collective-realist it is the oneness +which is the fiction (‘Human individuality is best regarded as a +kind of artificial Godhood’--Mr. Lewis. And again: ‘We at least must +_pretend_ not to notice each other’s presence, God and ourselves to be +alone.’)--the difference here being merely the difference between a +sentimentalized Tory absolute and a sentimentalized Communist absolute. + +[7] Spenglerism is male religiosity and symbolism of the vulgar +romantic as opposed to the refined classical kind. ‘The Faustian +soul looks for an immortality to follow the bodily end, a sort of +marriage with endless space ... till at last nothing remains visible +but the indwelling depth-and-height energy of this self-extension.’ +The historical mind (the ‘Faustian soul’) overcomes its perpetual +temporariness by a perpetual give-and-take between itself and the Great +Mother reality, whom it honours with its philosophical erections (what +Herr Spengler calls third-dimensional extension) and from whom it +receives sensations of infinity--the Great Mother’s gratitude for this +masculine ‘conquest’ of herself. To the Spenglerist (the modernist) +this infinity is vague, collective, metaphorical: ‘somehow we are in +nature’; somehow ‘the “I” overwhelms the “Thou.”’ The scientific world, +the Great Mother, is dead; it is the fairy-tale brought to life in each +fresh embrace of it by the historical world. To the individual-realist +(the classicist) the masculine extension is actual and personal rather +than metaphorical and collective: the fairy-tale individual mind +acquires an immediate ahistorical liveliness from its intercourse with +the Great Scientific Mother. Herr Spengler despises the classical +ahistorical attitude to reality. But overstudiously; for it is rather +more than less than modern; it is based on the minute of the moment, +not on the age of the moment. Both the collective-realist and the +individual-realist function by sexual phantasia; the only difference +between them being that the latter claims to be able to have closer +contact with the Great Mother than the former--one merely historically, +through the experience of the time-group to which he belongs, the other +scientifically, through _his_ experience _now_. + +[8] These positions might perhaps be more clearly illustrated in their +respective attitudes to place. The collective-realist is poetically +attached to the idea of the _there_; reality is romantic, far-away, +collective--superior to the personal _here_; it is the eternally old +fountain of eternal youthfulness. From this feeling comes the morbid +fondness of Western man for other races, so severely condemned by +Mr. Lewis. The individual-realist is poetically attached to the idea +of the _here_; reality is classical, local, individual--superior to +the collective _there_; it is the eternally old fountain of eternal +adultishness. The first attitude ends in doctrinaire universalism, +the second in doctrinaire provincialism: both the collective-realist +and the individual-realist believe in the social significance of +locality, differing only in their location of locality. Both, in +fact, suffer from this obsession with social significance. Take, for +example, niggerish jazz: its real strength and attraction is that it +is movement free from significance; pure, ritualistic, barbaric social +pleasure that can only be properly understood and enjoyed by those who +understand and enjoy the civilized individuality of significance. To +the romantic universalist niggerish jazz is a religious devotion of the +sensations to eternal youthfulness. To the classical provincialist it +is a depraved, democratic infantilism. Both emotionalize it, the one +as elevation, the other as degradation: to one the jazz nigger is the +angel-symbol, to the other the devil-symbol. While the only one able +to intellectualize it properly is the jazz nigger himself--generally +an individual, unreal, paleface Jew with a dusky make-up of social +clownishness. + +[9] Or again, these positions might be illustrated in their respective +attitudes to size. The collective-realist thinks of society as a +big, symbolical unit, the individual-realist as a small, concrete +unit. The unreal self does not think of size, or of society, as +significant concepts at all. The collective-realist makes the +individual emotionally as large as the many. The individual-realist +makes the individual intellectually as large as himself--that is, +of a standard realistic size. The unreal self gets rid of even the +fractional reality of the self of the individual-realist: it is not the +quantitative nothing derided by Mr. Lewis, but a sizeless invisibility +from reality. Mr. Lewis disapproves of nothing; and he disapproves of +Bradley’s Absolute because ‘he did not succeed in relieving it of a +certain impressive scale and impending weight.’ What he seems to imply +is an Absolute temperately placed between all and nothing--a sort of +safely quantitative qualitative absolute; a short, certain, academic +eternity as opposed to a vulgar, tentatively eternal eternity; a small, +well-bred, provincial church in which to worship a congregationalist +Absolute as opposed to a popular arena erected to a universalist +(demogogic as opposed to pedagogic) Absolute. + +[10] We observe the same aristocratic bias in Mr. Lewis. The universal +mind (the artist’s or seeing mind) is not lodged in a collective +all but in a selected few for all: individual-real (cultured +anarchism) opposed to collective-real (cultured democracy) and to +individual-unreal (anarchism is not enough). The anarchistic, artistic, +critical mind is not interested in individuality as individuality but +as superior individuality, as reason: it is an expert in reality, it +sees what is ‘here.’ It is a poetic common-sense seeing (through its +monocle) a vision ‘classical,’ ‘geometric,’ ‘severe’ (‘“Classical” is +for me anything which is nobly defined and exact, as opposed to that +which is fluid’--Mr. Lewis). It does not believe in lower-class doing +but in upper-class thinking: _laissez-faire_ anarchism. It is against +violent sympathies and antipathies; it is provincial but informed. +Reason is aloof, courteous prejudice (‘we should grow more and more +polite’--Mr. Lewis); intelligent conventionality, haughty submission +to reality. For example, Mr. Lewis’s objections to Bolshevism only +apply to it where it is in action, not anarchistic; not to Bolshevism +as a polite ‘vision’--that is, in so far as it is the gospel of an +uncultured many rather than the dogma of a cultured few. + +[11] Again we perceive the same emphasis on superior as opposed to +plain, ordinary individuality. The man of reason is an aristocrat of +race-individuality; the race, of course, being a superior race--if it +were not superior it would be unendowed with reason. But (and this is +a point for which we must be grateful to Mr. Lewis) race-superiority +(individuality) is administered for the whole race by only one class in +the race; so that while ‘char-lady’ is lady by race, she is not lady +by class (lady of reason). Char-ladies who confuse race with class +and forget their place do so ‘to their undoing.’ Their undoing is +apparently a muddy-watery, unladylike laughter that is not, of course, +reason. What is reason? Mr. Lewis tells us: ‘Let us rather meet with +the slightest smile all those things that so far we have received with +delirious rapture.’ The change is not so much from laughing rapture to +haughty smiling as from one we to another kind of we--a democratic we +to an aristocratic we. Thus, the true we of the Machine Age is not, +according to Mr. Lewis, the mob but the capitalistic, anarchistic +individualists--the Mr. Ford’s. Mr. Ford admits, Mr. Lewis points out, +that he could not live the life of one of his workmen. While in a +ruthlessly democratic scheme (Bolshevism or Spenglerism) there is only +a mob-life disguised as Culture. Spengler would be the ideal romantic +mob-historian; Tacitus, possibly, the ideal classical, urbane polite, +smiling, anarchistic, _laissez-faire_, perspectiveless, ahistorical, +geometric individualist-historian. To the collective-realist the mob +moves, to the individual-realist it is static (‘The Russian workman +and peasant under the Bolshevik is the same as he was under the Tsar, +though less free and minus the consolations of a religion’--Mr. Lewis). +Mob-philosophy (mob-individualism, liberty, organized _laissez-faire_) +is ‘against human reason, motiveless and hence mad’ (again Mr. Lewis). +What is human reason? Mr. Lewis’s ‘young catholic student’ tells us: +‘not that some bank-clerk on a holiday has discovered that trees +have something to say for themselves.’ But when some bank-president, +superman or Saint ‘traverses a wood with complete safety’--that is with +proud, rational, individualistic submission, with sedate, conventional, +geometric curiosity. Human reason is Authority, authority received and +authority administered; and it is interesting that both Mr. Lewis and +his young catholic student emphasize this sexual duality of reason. +To Mr. Lewis reason is the quiet, conventional, slightly smiling she +availing herself of her feminine privilege to remain seated, and also +the conventional, brainy, impressive, standing-up he, viewing the +general situation with brilliant restraint. The young catholic student +outlines Baron von Hugel’s definition of authority: ‘By it, the force +and light of the few are applied to the dull majority, the highest in a +man to his own average.’ Baron von Hugel’s own words on this Church of +Individualism (for the few), quoted by him, are: ‘The Church is thus, +both ever and everywhere, progressive and conservative; both reverently +free-lance and official; both, as it were, male and female, creative +and reproductive....’ + +[12] Mr. Lewis’s predominant emotion is disgust and he is therefore +snobbishly old-fashioned; Mr. Eliot’s is moral anxiety, and he is +therefore snobbishly ‘advanced’--what seems old-fashioned or mediæval +or Thomist in Mr. Eliot is really his greater (than the silly +emotional orthodox mob’s) strictness in keeping up-to-date, in time +with the universe of reason. He is at pains to discover the right +side and to fight on it. Mr. Lewis is so disgusted with everything +that he has abandoned all positive questions of right, and like a +Swiss, retained nothing but his fighting conscience, a haughtiness of +bearing in which alone he finds himself in sympathy with Mr. Eliot. In +matters of faith they must certainly disagree. Mr. Eliot’s Toryism is +modern, intellectual, in sober perspective. Mr. Lewis’s is petulantly +old-fashioned, sentimental, ‘geometric’: the good, Swiss stern old days +when everything happened anyhow, without historical significance or +morality, are his fighting, anarchistic slogan against the presumptuous +mob-consciousness of modern life. What Mr. Lewis fails to see is +that if he devoted his energy to individualism (cultivating his own +individuality) instead of anarchism (knocking the mob on the head +with his individuality) the mob might develop a social regularity, an +automatic geometricity that even he might share in without disturbance +to his individuality; that it is the anarchism of a few that gives +false historical significance to the days of man, not the co-operative +unanimity of the many. + +[13] See, for example, in Mr. Lewis’s _Time and Western Man_, the +chapter _The Object as King of the Physical World_. + +[14] To Mr. Lewis, Science, popularized magic, rather than Reason, +the artist’s personal magic. (Compare, similarly, New Testament +pseudo-primitive communism, with properly modernized Old Testament +individualism.) + +[15] ‘I, of course, admit that the principle I advocate is not for +everybody.’--Mr. Lewis. + + + + +Transcriber’s Notes + + + The book cover image that accompanies some ebook formats was made by + the transcriber and is placed in the public domain. + Surrounding characters have been used to indicate _italics_. + Inconsistent use of hyphens has been retained save as noted below. + Footnotes have been moved to the end of the book. + The following changes to the original text are noted: + p. 36 added period following ‘And it is.’ + p. 86 changed single quotes to double quotes around “the constant + and sacred harmony of life.”; added close single quote immediately + after + p. 98 retained spelling of ‘esthetic’ + p. 109 added close parenthesis in ‘(Mr. Read’s phrase).’ + p. 109 added hyphen to ‘the individual-real’ + p. 128 added hyphen to ‘re-inforce’ in ‘space-men re-inforce’ + p. 155 capitalized ‘To’ in ‘_The Man Who Told Lies To His Mother_’ + p. 178 uncapitalized ‘queendom’ + p. 196 changed ‘role’ to ‘rôle’ + p. 199 changed ‘Bölshe’ to ‘Bölsche’ + p. 204 added close quote following ‘maintain it.’ + p. 209 joined unhyphenated ‘sincerity’ + p. 215 changed single quotes to double quotes around “The fathers of + our girl friends are lecherous,” and “Philosophy is teetotal + whisky.”; added close single quote immediately after + p. 216 changed ‘æsthlete’ to ‘æsthete’ + footnote 3 changed ‘considerations’ to ‘consideration’ in ‘the + essential consideration is’ + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78380 *** diff --git a/78380-h/78380-h.htm b/78380-h/78380-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e78cdb7 --- /dev/null +++ b/78380-h/78380-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,6881 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1"> + <meta name="format-detection" content="telephone=no,date=no,address=no,email=no,url=no"> + <title> + Anarchism is not enough | Project Gutenberg + </title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .5em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .5em; +} + +hr { + width: 33%; 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*/ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + font-style: normal; + font-weight: normal; + font-variant: normal; + text-indent: 0; +} /* page numbers */ + + +blockquote { + margin-top: 0; + margin-bottom: 0; + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +.center {text-align: center; text-indent: 0;} + +.right {text-align: right;} + +figcaption {font-weight: bold;} +figcaption p {margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: .2em; text-align: inherit;} + +/* Images */ + +img { + max-width: 100%; + height: auto; +} + +/* Footnotes */ + +.footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + +.footnote .label {position: absolute; right: 84%; text-align: right;} + +.fnanchor { + vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: + none; +} + +/* Poetry */ +/* uncomment the next line for centered poetry */ +.poetry-container {display: flex; justify-content: center;} +.poetry {text-align: left; margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%;} +.poetry .stanza {margin: 1em auto;} +.poetry .verse {text-indent: -3em; padding-left: 3em;} + +/* Transcriber's notes (includes pagebreak before) */ +.transnote {background-color: #EAFEEA; + color: black; + font-size:small; + padding:0.5em; + margin-bottom:5em; + font-family:sans-serif, serif; + page-break-before: always; +} + + +.right {text-align: right; padding-right: 0em;} + +/* TOC */ +.toc-container { + display: flex; + justify-content: center; +} + + +/* faux-h2 for front matter */ +.front { + font-size: x-large; + font-weight: bold; + text-align: center; + page-break-before: avoid; +} + +/* faux-h2 centered */ +.fh2 { + display: block; + font-size: x-large; + font-weight: bold; + text-align: center; +} + +/* faux-h3 centered */ +.fh3 { + display: block; + font-size: 1.17em; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + margin-left: 0; + margin-right: 0; + font-weight: bold; + text-align: center; +} + +/* Poetry indents */ +.poetry .indent0 {text-indent: -3.0em;} + + </style> +</head> +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78380 ***</div> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h1><i>ANARCHISM</i><br> +<span class="front">is not enough</span></h1> +<br> +<br> +<p class="front">Laura Riding</p> +<br> +<br> +<p class="center">JONATHAN CAPE<br> +London +</p> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p class="center">FIRST PUBLISHED MCMXXVIII</p> +<br><br> +<p class="center">PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY<br> +BUTLER & TANNER LTD<br> +FROME +</p> +</div> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[p. 5]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CONTENTS"> + CONTENTS + </h2> +</div> + +<div class="toc-container"> +<table class="autotable"> +<tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#THE_MYTH">THE MYTH</a></td> + <td class="tdr">Page 9</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#LANGUAGE_AND_LAZINESS">LANGUAGE AND LAZINESS</a></td> + <td class="tdr">13</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#THIS_PHILOSOPHY">THIS PHILOSOPHY</a></td> + <td class="tdr">15</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#WHAT_IS_A_POEM">WHAT IS A POEM?</a></td> + <td class="tdr">16</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#A_COMPLICATED_PROBLEM">A COMPLICATED PROBLEM</a></td> + <td class="tdr">19</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#ALL_LITERATURE">ALL LITERATURE</a></td> + <td class="tdr">20</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#MR_DOODLE-DOODLE-DOO">MR. DOODLE-DOODLE-DOO</a></td> + <td class="tdr">22</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#AN_IMPORTANT_DISTINCTION">AN IMPORTANT DISTINCTION</a></td> + <td class="tdr">25</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#THE_CORPUS">THE CORPUS</a></td> + <td class="tdr">27</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#POETRY_AND_MUSIC">POETRY AND MUSIC</a></td> + <td class="tdr">32</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#POETRY_AND_PAINTING">POETRY AND PAINTING</a></td> + <td class="tdr">37</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#POETRY_AND_DREAMS">POETRY AND DREAMS</a></td> + <td class="tdr">39</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#JOCASTA">JOCASTA</a></td> + <td class="tdr">41</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#HOW_CAME_IT_ABOUT">HOW CAME IT ABOUT?</a></td> + <td class="tdr">133</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#HUNGRY_TO_HEAR">HUNGRY TO HEAR</a></td> + <td class="tdr">136</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#IN_A_CAFE">IN A CAFÉ</a></td> + <td class="tdr">138</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#FRAGMENT_OF_AN_UNFINISHED_NOVEL">FRAGMENT OF AN UNFINISHED NOVEL</a></td> + <td class="tdr">142</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#WILLIAM_AND_DAISY">WILLIAM AND DAISY: FRAGMENT OF A FINISHED NOVEL</a></td> + <td class="tdr">150</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#AN_ANONYMOUS_BOOK">AN ANONYMOUS BOOK</a></td> + <td class="tdr">152</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#THE_DAMNED_THING">THE DAMNED THING</a></td> + <td class="tdr">187</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#LETTER_OF_ABDICATION">LETTER OF ABDICATION</a></td> + <td class="tdr">209</td> +</tr> +</table> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p class="fh3">ANARCHISM IS NOT ENOUGH</p> +</div> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[9]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_MYTH"> + THE MYTH + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>When the baby is born there is no place to +put it: it is born, it will in time die, therefore there +is no sense in enlarging the world by so many miles +and minutes for its accommodation. A temporary +scaffolding is set up for it, an altar to ephemerality—a +permanent altar to ephemerality. This altar is +the Myth. The object of the Myth is to give happiness: +to help the baby pretend that what is ephemeral +is permanent. It does not matter if in the +course of time he discovers that all is ephemeral: so +long as he can go on pretending that it is permanent +he is happy.</p> + +<p>As it is not one baby but all babies which are laid +upon this altar, it becomes the religious duty of each +to keep on pretending for the sake of all the others, +not for himself. Gradually, when the baby grows +and learns why he has been placed on the altar, he +finds that he is not particularly interested in carrying +on the pretence, that happiness and unhappiness +are merely an irregular succession and grouping +of moments in him between his birth and his death. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[10]</span>Yet he continues to support the Myth for others’ +sake, and others continue to support it for his. The +stronger grows the inward conviction of the futility +of the Myth, the stronger grows the outward unity +and form of the Myth. It becomes the universal +sense of duty, the ethics of abstract neighbourliness. +It is the repository for whatever one does without +knowing why; it makes itself the why. Once given +this function through universal misunderstanding, +it persists in its reality with the perseverance of a +ghost and continues to demand sacrifices. It is +indifferent what form or system is given to it from +this period to that, so long as it be given <i>a</i> form and +<i>a</i> system by which it may absorb and digest every +possible activity; and the grown-up babies satisfy it +by presenting their offerings as systematized parts +of a systematized whole.</p> + +<p>The Myth may collapse as a social whole; yet it +continues by its own memory of itself to impose +itself as an æsthetic whole. Even in this day, when +the social and historical collapse of the Myth is +commonly recognised, we find poets and critics with +an acute sense of time devoting pious ceremonies +to the æsthetic vitality of the Myth, from a haunting +sense of duty which they call classicism. So this +antiquated belief in truth goes on, and we continue +to live. The Myth is the art of living. Plato’s censorship +of poets in the interests of the young sprang from +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[11]</span>a realization of the fact that poetry is in opposition +to the truth of the Myth: I do not think he objected +to poetry for the old, since they were nearly through +with living.</p> + +<p>Painting, sculpture, music, architecture, religion, +philosophy, history and science—these are essentially +of the Myth. They have technique, growth, +tradition, universal significance (truth); and there +is also a poetry of the Myth, made by analogy into +a mythological activity. Mythological activities +glorify the sense of duty, force on the individual a +mathematical exaggeration of his responsibilities.</p> + +<p>Poetry (praise be to babyhood) is essentially not +of the Myth. It is all the truth it knows, that is, +it knows nothing. It is the art of not living. It +has no system, harmony, form, public significance +or sense of duty. It is what happens when the baby +crawls off the altar and is ‘Resolv’d to be a very +contrary fellow’—resolved not to pretend, learn to +talk or versify. Whatever language it uses it makes +up as it goes and immediately forgets. Every time +it opens its mouth it has to start all over again. +This is why it remains a baby and dies (praise be +to babyhood) a baby. In the art of not living one +is not ephemerally permanent but permanently +ephemeral.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[12]</span></p> + +<p>Because most people are not sufficiently employed +in themselves, they run about loose, hungering for +employment, and satisfy themselves in various +supererogatory occupations. The easiest of these +occupations, which have all to do with making +things already made, is the making of people: it is +called the art of friendship. So one finds oneself +surrounded with numbers of artificial selves contesting +the authenticity of the original self; which, +forced to become a competitive self, ceases to be +the original self, is, like all the others, a creation. +The person, too, becomes a friend of himself. <i>He</i> +no longer exists.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Words have three historical levels. They may be +true words, that is, of an intrinsic sense; they may +be logical words, that is, of an applied sense; or they +may be poetical words, of a misapplied sense, untrue +and illogical in themselves, but of supposed suggestive +power. The most the poet can now do is to +take every word he uses through each of these levels, +giving it the combined depth of all three, forcing +it beyond itself to a death of sense where it is at +least safe from the perjuries either of society or +poetry.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[13]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="LANGUAGE_AND_LAZINESS"> + LANGUAGE AND LAZINESS + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>Language is a form of laziness; the word is a +compromise between what it is possible to express +and what it is not possible to express. That is, +expression itself is a form of laziness. The cause of +expression is incomplete powers of understanding +and communication: unevenly distributed intelligence. +Language does not attempt to affect this +distribution; it accepts the inequality and makes +possible a mathematical intercourse between the +degrees of intelligence occurring in an average +range. The degrees of intelligence at each extreme +are thus naturally neglected: and yet they are +obviously the most important.</p> + +<p>Prose is the mathematics of expression. The word +is a numerical convenience in which the known and +the unknown are brought together to act as the +meeting-place of the one who knows and the one +who does not know. The prose word accomplishes +no redistribution of intelligence; it merely declares +the inequality, and so even as expression it has no +reality, it is an empty cipher.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[14]</span></p> + +<p>Poetry is an attempt to make language do more +than express; to make it work; to redistribute intelligence +by means of the word. If it succeeds in this +the problem of communication disappears. It does +not treat this problem as a matter of mathematical +distribution of intelligence between an abstract +known and unknown represented in a concrete +knower and not-knower. The distribution must +take place, if at all, within the intelligence itself. +Prose evades this problem by making slovenly +equations which always seem successful because, +being inexact, they conceal inexactness. Poetry +always faces, and generally meets with, failure. +But even if it fails, it is at least at the heart of the +difficulty, which it treats not as a difficulty of minds +but of mind.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[15]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="THIS_PHILOSOPHY"> + THIS PHILOSOPHY + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>This philosophy, this merchant-mindedness: +how much have we here? what sum? And of what +profit? Somewhere, in the factories of reality, all this +has been produced which now floods the market of +wisdom, awaiting its price-ticket. What is science? +yard-measure and scale to philosophy, expert-accountant, +bank clerk. What is poetry? miserable, +ill-fed, underpaid, ununionized labourer, pleased to +oblige, grateful for work, flattering himself that +poverty makes him an aristocrat.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Only what is comic is perfect: it is outside of +reality, which is a self-defeating, serious striving to +be outside of reality, to be perfect. Reality cannot +escape from reality because it is made of belief, and +capable only of belief. Perfection is what is unbelievable, +the joke.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[16]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="WHAT_IS_A_POEM"> + WHAT IS A POEM? + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>In the old romanticism the poem was an +uncommon effect of common experience on the +poet. All interest in the poem centred in this +mysterious capacity of the poet for overfeeling, for +being overaffected. In Poe the old romanticism +ended and the new romanticism began. That is, +the interest was broadened to include the reader: +the end of the poem was pushed ahead a stage, from +the poet to the reader. The uncommon effect of +experience on the poet became merely incidental +to the uncommon effect which he might have on the +reader. Mystery was replaced by science; inspiration +by psychology. In the first the poet flattered +himself and was flattered by others because he had +singular reactions to experience; in the second the +object of flattery makes himself expert in the art of +flattery.</p> + +<p>What is a poem? A poem is nothing. By persistence +the poem can be made something; but then +it is something, not a poem. Why is it nothing? +Because it cannot be looked at, heard, touched or +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[17]</span>read (what can be read is prose). It is not an effect +(common or uncommon) of experience; it is the result +of an ability to create a vacuum in experience—it is +a vacuum and therefore nothing. It cannot be looked +at, heard, touched or read because it is a vacuum. +Since it is a vacuum it is nothing for which the poet +can flatter himself or receive flattery. Since it is a +vacuum it cannot be reproduced in an audience. A +vacuum is unalterably and untransferably a vacuum—the +only thing that can happen to it is destruction. +If it were possible to reproduce it in an +audience the result would be the destruction of the +audience.</p> + +<p>The confusion between the poem as effect and the +poem as vacuum is easily explained. It is obvious +that all is either effect or it is nothing. What the old +romanticism meant by an uncommon effect was +a something that was not an effect, an over-and-above +of experience. Although it was really not an +effect, it was classified as an effect because it was +impossible to imagine something that was not an +effect. It did not occur to anyone to imagine +nothing, the vacuum; or, if it did, only with abhorrence. +The new romanticism remedied this inaccuracy +by classifying the poem as the cause of an +effect—as both cause and effect. But as both cause +and effect the poem counts itself out of experience: +proves itself to be nothing masquerading as something. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[18]</span>As something it is all that the detractors of +poetry say it is; it is false experience. As nothing—well, +as nothing it is everything in an existence +where everything, being effect of effect and without +cause, is nothing.</p> + +<p>Whenever this vacuum, the poem, occurs, there is +agitation on all sides to destroy it, to convert it into +something. The conversion of nothing into something +is the task of criticism. Literature is the storehouse +of these rescued somethings. In discussing +literature one has to use, unfortunately, the same +language that one uses in discussing experience. +But even so, literature is preferable to experience, +since it is for the most part the closest one can get +to nothing.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The only productive design is designed waste. +Designed creation results in nothing but the destruction +of the designer: it is impossible to add to what +is; all is and is made. Energy that attempts to +make in the sense of making a numerical increase +in the sum of made things is spitefully returned to +itself unused. It is a would-be-happy-ness ending +in unanticipated and disordered unhappiness. +Energy that is aware of the impossibility of positive +construction devotes itself to an ordered +using-up and waste of itself: to an anticipated unhappiness +which, because it has design, foreknowledge, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[19]</span>is the nearest approach to happiness. Undesigned +unhappiness and designed happiness both +mean anarchism. <i>Anarchism is not enough.</i></p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="A_COMPLICATED_PROBLEM"> + A COMPLICATED PROBLEM + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>A complicated problem is only further complicated +by being simplified. A state of confusion +is never made comprehensible by being given a plot. +Appearances do not deceive if there are enough of +them. The truth is always laid out in an infinite +number of circles tending to become, but never +becoming, concentric—except occasionally in +poetry.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[20]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="ALL_LITERATURE"> + ALL LITERATURE + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>All literature is written by the old to teach the +young how to express themselves so that they in +turn may write literature to teach the old how to +express themselves. All literature is written by +mentally precocious adolescents and by mentally +precocious senescents. How not to write literature, +how not to be precocious: cultivate inattention, do +not learn how to express yourself, make no distinction +between thoughts and emotions, since precocity +comes of making one vie with the other, mistrust +whatever seems superior and be partial to +whatever seems inferior—whatever is not literature. +And then, if you must write yourself, write +<i>writing-matter</i>, not <i>reading-matter</i>. People will think +you brilliant only if you tell them what they know. +To avoid being thought brilliant, avoid knowing what +they know. Write to discover to yourself what you +know. People will think you brilliant if you seem +to be enjoying yourself, since they are not enjoying +themselves. To avoid being thought brilliant, avoid +pretending to be enjoying yourself. Make it clear +that you know that they know that nothing is really +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[21]</span>enjoyable except pretending to be enjoying yourself.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>People may treat themselves as extraneous phenomena +or as fundamental phenomena—it does +not matter which. It does not matter, so long as +they behave consistently as one or the other. What +discredits character is not self-importance or self-unimportance, +but the adjustment of personal +importance according to expediency.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[22]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="MR_DOODLE-DOODLE-DOO"> + MR. DOODLE-DOODLE-DOO + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>Mr. Doodle-Doodle-Doo, the great mathematician +and lexicographer, then put aside his +work and said: ‘<i>adultery</i> and <i>adulteration</i> can wait +until I return.’</p> + +<p>For Mr. Doodle-Doodle-Do was at one thing or +the other by turns, and this particular morning he +felt his mathematical genius complaining: it was +undoubtedly true that it was a long time since he +had been out to get Numbers. So, leaving <i>adultery</i> +and <i>adulteration</i> to take care of themselves, he +walked out into the Square, and from the Square +into the Gardens; and in the Gardens he sat down +on a bench near the rockery and began to think +with the mathematical half of his brain.</p> + +<p>‘Let me see. I left off with <i>honey</i> last time. Now +the problem will be to show that honey as a purely +mathematical symbol is equivalent to honey as a +philological integer. If I can do this I have once +more proved that 2 × 2 = 4 is the equivalent of +“two times two is four.” For it’s not enough to +show a thing is true: you must also show that true +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[23]</span>is true. By being a mathematical lexicographer and +a lexicographical mathematician, I am therefore +able to check the truth with the truth. My last +words are never “that’s true” but “that’s correct,” +which explains how I can be a philosopher and a +gentleman at the same time.’</p> + +<p>With this Mr. Doodle-Doodle-Doo crowed three +times: once for lexicography (Doodle), once for mathematics +(Doodle), and once for himself (Doo), wherein +the truth was checked by itself and found correct. +The immediate matter in hand, however, was honey. +So he left off crowing and proceeded with his calculations, +which went so quickly that it is very difficult +to record them. But they were something like this:—</p> + +<table class="autotable"> +<tr> + <td class="tdl">H O N E Y</td> + <td class="tdc">=</td> + <td class="tdl">HONE + Y</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdl">G O N E + Y</td> + <td class="tdc">=</td> + <td class="tdl">GONEY (sailors’ term for albatross)</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdl">L O N E + Y</td> + <td class="tdc">=</td> + <td class="tdl">LONE(L)Y</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdl">B O N E + Y</td> + <td class="tdc">=</td> + <td class="tdl">BONEY</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdl">O N E + Y + M</td> + <td class="tdc">=</td> + <td class="tdl">MONEY</td> +</tr> +</table> + +<table class="doo"> +<tr> + <td class="tdcb">BONEY</td> + <td class="tdcb">GONEY</td> + <td class="tdcb">HONEY</td> + <td class="tdcb">LONE(L)Y</td> + <td class="tdcb">MONEY</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdcb">1</td> + <td class="tdcb">2</td> + <td class="tdcb">3</td> + <td class="tdcb">4</td> + <td class="tdcb">5</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdcb">H</td> + <td class="tdcb">O</td> + <td class="tdcb">N</td> + <td class="tdcb">E</td> + <td class="tdcb">Y</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdcb">1</td> + <td class="tdcb">2</td> + <td class="tdcb">3</td> + <td class="tdcb">4</td> + <td class="tdcb">5</td> +</tr> +</table> + + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[24]</span></p> + +<p>At this point he stopped following him. But that +his researches must have reached some happy conclusion +was obvious from the enthusiasm with +which he later returned to his lexicography. His +calculations then ran something like this:—</p> + +<table class="tleft"> +<tr> +<td class="tdc">1</td> +<td class="tdc">2</td> +<td class="tdc">3</td> +<td class="tdc">4</td> +<td class="tdc">5</td> +<td></td> +<td></td> +<td></td> +<td></td> +<td></td> +<td></td> +<td></td> +<td></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdc">H</td> +<td class="tdc">O</td> +<td class="tdc">N</td> +<td class="tdc">E</td> +<td class="tdc">Y</td> +<td></td> +<td></td> +<td></td> +<td></td> +<td></td> +<td></td> +<td></td> +<td></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdc">1</td> +<td class="tdc">2</td> +<td class="tdc">3</td> +<td class="tdc">4</td> +<td class="tdc">5</td> +<td></td> +<td></td> +<td></td> +<td></td> +<td></td> +<td></td> +<td></td> +<td></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdc">A</td> +<td class="tdc">D</td> +<td class="tdc">U</td> +<td class="tdc">L</td> +<td class="tdc">T</td> +<td class="tdc">[</td> +<td class="tdc">E</td> +<td class="tdc">R</td> +<td class="tdc">Y</td> +<td></td> +<td></td> +<td></td> +<td></td> +</tr> +<tr class=lowht><td></td><td></td><td></td><td></td><td></td><td></td><td></td><td></td><td></td><td></td><td></td><td></td><td></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdc">1</td> +<td class="tdc">2</td> +<td class="tdc">3</td> +<td class="tdc">4</td> +<td class="tdc">5</td> +<td></td> +<td></td> +<td></td> +<td></td> +<td></td> +<td></td> +<td></td> +<td></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdc">H</td> +<td class="tdc">O</td> +<td class="tdc">N</td> +<td class="tdc">E</td> +<td class="tdc">Y</td> +<td></td> +<td></td> +<td></td> +<td></td> +<td></td> +<td></td> +<td></td> +<td></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdc">1</td> +<td class="tdc">2</td> +<td class="tdc">3</td> +<td class="tdc">4</td> +<td class="tdc">5</td> +<td></td> +<td></td> +<td></td> +<td></td> +<td></td> +<td></td> +<td></td> +<td></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdc">A</td> +<td class="tdc">D</td> +<td class="tdc">U</td> +<td class="tdc">L</td> +<td class="tdc">T</td> +<td class="tdc">[</td> +<td class="tdc">E</td> +<td class="tdc">R</td> +<td class="tdc">A</td> +<td class="tdc">T</td> +<td class="tdc">I</td> +<td class="tdc">O</td> +<td class="tdc">N</td> +</tr> +</table> +<p class="center">∴ H O N E Y E R Y ∵ H O N E Y E R A T I O N</p> + +<table class="autotable"> +<tr> +<td class="tdc"></td> +<td class="tdc">1</td> +<td class="tdc">2</td> +<td class="tdc">3</td> +<td class="tdc">4</td> +<td class="tdc">5</td> +<td class="tdc"></td> +<td class="tdc"></td> +<td class="tdc"></td> +<td class="tdc">1</td> +<td class="tdc">2</td> +<td class="tdc">3</td> +<td class="tdc">4</td> +<td class="tdc">5</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdc">But</td> +<td class="tdc">H</td> +<td class="tdc">O</td> +<td class="tdc">N</td> +<td class="tdc">E</td> +<td class="tdc">Y</td> +<td class="tdc"></td> +<td class="tdc">=</td> +<td class="tdc"></td> +<td class="tdc">S</td> +<td class="tdc">W</td> +<td class="tdc">E</td> +<td class="tdc">E</td> +<td class="tdc">T</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdc"></td> +<td class="tdc">5</td> +<td class="tdc">4</td> +<td class="tdc">3</td> +<td class="tdc">2</td> +<td class="tdc">1</td> +<td class="tdc"></td> +<td class="tdc"></td> +<td class="tdc"></td> +<td class="tdc">5</td> +<td class="tdc">4</td> +<td class="tdc">3</td> +<td class="tdc">2</td> +<td class="tdc">1</td> +</tr> +</table> +<p class="center">∴ S W E E T E R Y ∵ S W E E T E R A T I O N</p> + +<p>Which went far enough to persuade him that in +lexicography he was, if anything, even more skilled +than in mathematics.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[25]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="AN_IMPORTANT_DISTINCTION"> + AN IMPORTANT DISTINCTION + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>The important (but infrequently drawn) distinction +between what is gentlemanly and what is +dull in poetry. Most people read poetry because it +makes them feel upper-class, and most poetry is +written by people who feel upper-class; at least by +people who take pleasure in describing themselves +as upper-class; for instance, by men who make +themselves feel upper-class by holding gentlemanly +feelings toward woman, and by women who make +themselves feel upper-class by acknowledging these +feelings. This poetry is idealistic poetry: it dramatizes +a non-existent emotional life and seems real +because it is not real. It also seems ‘interesting’ +because it is not real.</p> + +<p>Practical poetry is written by people who do not +feel upper-class: who do not feel anything. It +describes themselves, but not as upper-class, not, +in fact, as anything. It is real and therefore not +dramatic and therefore seems unreal. It therefore +seems (and is) dull. The only reason that people ever +read dull poetry (such as some of Shakespeare’s) is +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[26]</span>that they mistake it for gentlemanly poetry (such as +all of Browning’s). For few people are really interested +in anyone else’s description of himself except as +it makes them feel upper-class. They mistake it for +gentlemanly poetry because of their inability to distinguish +between the interestingness of dull poetry +and the dullness of ‘interesting’ poetry.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[27]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_CORPUS"> + THE CORPUS + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>The first condition was chaos. The logical +consequence of chaos was order. In so far as it +derived from chaos it was non-conscious, but in so +far as it was order, it had an increasing tendency +to become conscious. It therefore may be said to +have had a mind of which it was unconscious and +of which it remained unconscious in its various +evolutionary forms until the mind developed to +a point where it in turn separated from order and +invented the self. The occasion of the self was a +stage in the most anarchic evolutionary form, man, +coeval with the general transformation of chaos into +a universe. A consciousness of consciousness arose +and at the same time divided between order, in +which mind was the spirit of cohesion, and the +individual, in whom mind was the spirit of separation. +In the ensuing opposition between these two, +order yielded to the individual by allowing him to +call it a universe, but triumphed over him since, +by naming it, the individual made the universe his +society and therefore his religion. Order was the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[28]</span>natural enemy of the individual mind. To conciliate +it order appealed to the individual mind for +sanction. This sanction, the original social contract, +was not between man and man, but between man +and the universe as men, or society. Although the +sanction was given on the basis of natural instinct, +or the non-conscious identity of man and the +universe, society has always claimed authority over +conscious thought and purpose. In incorporating +the man it attempts to incorporate the mind and in +turn to give the mind its sanction through the +sanction which it first had from the man: it constitutes +itself the parent past and the mind present +memory of it.</p> + +<p>The social corpus is tyrannically founded on the +principle of origin. It admits nothing new: all is +revision, memory, confirmation. The individual +cosmos must submit itself to the generalized cosmos +of history, it must become part of its growing +encyclopædia of authorities. Such a generalized +cosmos, however, must have been formulated more +by the desire of people to define themselves as a +group than to account for the origin of their personal +existence. Origin, indeed, is properly the preoccupation +of the individual and not a communal +interest. The group is only interested in the formal +publishing of individuals for the purpose of establishing +their social solidarity. Art, for example, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[29]</span>is record not creation. The question of origin is +only emphasized in so far as it proves the individual +a member of the group, as having a common pedigree +with the other members of the group. Thus +God, the branding-iron of the group idea, does +not appear in societies where as yet there is imperfect +differentiation between the individual and the +type; where as yet there is no need for branding. +Once the distinction between the group mind +and the individual mind could be made the group +mind really ceased to exist. The distinction, however, +could only be made by minds complete in +themselves, and as such minds have always been +extremely rare, the fiction of a group mind has been +maintained to impose the will of the weak-minded +upon the strong-minded, the myth of common origin +being used as the charter of the majority. The +tyranny by which this majority can enforce its will +may be either democratic or oligarchic. The only +difference is that in the first case, provided that the +democracy is a true democracy (which it very rarely +is), the group mind is so efficient that it acts despotically +as one man; in the second case the group +mind is less efficient and, by a process of blind +selection, the most characteristic of the weak-minded +become the perverse instruments of unity.</p> + +<p>Both the individual mind and the group mind are +engaged in a pursuit which may be described as +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[30]</span>mind-making or, simply, truth. The object of +group truth is group-confirmation and perpetuation; +while individual truth has no object other than +discovering itself and involves neither proofs nor +priests. In order, however, to win any acceptance +it must translate itself into group truth, it must +accommodate itself to the fact-curriculum of the +group. But not only is such truth forced to submit +to group terminology and order, but the group +conscience demands that the individual mind serve +it by working with the purposes of the group. The +group, indeed, tries to preclude all idiosyncratic +thought-activity and to use what intelligence it can +control against it. This civic intelligence is found +simplified in the catechism instructing children +‘to order themselves lowly and reverently before +their betters and to do their duty in that state of +life unto which it has pleased God to call them.’</p> + +<p>The confirmation of the candidate as a member +of the group establishes the superiority of group +opinion over individual opinion and the authority +of the group to define this relationship as one +governed by civic duties. It is the nature of these +duties which determines the categories into which +civic intelligence falls. The group can never be +anything more than a superstition, but the categories +assemble all available material into a textual +Corpus. There being no real functional group surviving, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[31]</span>this Corpus of group texts is used as the +rallying point of the group, the counterpart of +the primitive clan totem, the outward and visible +sign of a long-extinct grace.</p> + +<p>The Corpus, in making categorical demands upon +the individual, thus limits the ways in which works +may be conceived and presented. These demands +become the only ‘inspiration’ countenanced, and +theoretically all creative supply has its source in +them. This seems a fairly plausible view of the +status of the arts and sciences in human society. +The occurrence of a supply independent of +Corpus demands, its possibility or presence, is a +question that the social limitations of our critical +language prevent us from raising with any degree +of humane intelligibility.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>We live on the circumference of a hollow circle. +We draw the circumference, like spiders, out of +ourselves: it is all criticism of criticism.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[32]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="POETRY_AND_MUSIC"> + POETRY AND MUSIC + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>There is a weakling music and a weakling +poetry which flatter each other by making critical +comparisons with each other: there is a literary +criticism of music in which words like ‘wit’ and +‘rhetoric’ excuse musical flabbiness, and a musical +criticism of poetry in which words like ‘symphonic’ +and ‘overtone’ excuse poetic flabbiness. This mutual +tenderness leads to false creative as well as false +critical analogies between poetry and music; to +the deliberate effort to use the creative method +of one art in the other.</p> + +<p>I am not distressed by the poeticization of music +because I do not much care what happens to music; +it is a nervous and ostentatious performance, and +little damage remains to be done to it. I am, on +the other hand, distressed by the musicification of +poetry because poetry is perhaps the only human +pursuit left still capable of developing antisocially. +Musicified or pictorialized it is the propagandist +tribal expression of a society without any real +tribal sense. We get a ‘pure’ poetry, metaphysically +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[33]</span>musical, that reveals a desire in the poet for a +civilized tribal sense and for poetry as an art intellectually +coördinating group sympathies: and we get +a sort of jazz poetry, politically musical, that reveals +a desire in the poet for a primitive tribal sense and +for poetry as an art emotionally coördinating group +sympathies.</p> + +<p>Art indeed is a term referring to the social source +and to the social utility of creative acts. Poetry I +consider to be an art only when the poet consciously +attempts to capture social prestige: when +it is an art of public flattery. In this sense Beaumont +and Fletcher were greater artists than Shakespeare—better +musicians. Shakespeare alternated +between musical surrenders to social prestige and +magnificent fits of poetic remorse.</p> + +<p>To explain more precisely what I mean by this +distinction between what I believe to be poetry and +what I believe to be art I shall set down a number +of contrasts between poetry and music.</p> + +<p>1. All real musicians are physically misshapen as +a result of platform cozening of their audience. +They need never have stood upon a platform: there +is a kind of ingratiating ‘come, come, dear puss’ in +the musical brain that distorts the face and puckers +up the limbs. All real poets are physically upright +and even beautiful from indifference to community +hearings.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[34]</span></p> + +<p>2. The end of a poem is the poem. The poem is +the only admissible test of the poem; the reader gets +poetry, not flattery. The end of a musical work is +an ear, criticism, that is, flattery.</p> + +<p>3. A musical work has a composer; it is an invention +with professionally available material and +properties. A poem is made out of nothing by a +nobody—made out of a socially non-existent element +in language. If this element were socially existent +in language it would be isolated, professionalized, +handed over to a trained craft. Rhyme and rhythm +are not professional properties; they are fundamentally +idiosyncratic, unavailable, unsystematizable; +any formalization of them is an attempted imitation +of music by poets jealous of the public success +of music.</p> + +<p>4. Music is an instrument for arousing emotions; +it varies only according to the emotions it is intended +to arouse and according to the precision with which +these emotions are anticipated in the invention +of the music. Emotions represent persons; not persons +in particular but persons in general. Music is +directed toward the greatest number of persons +musically conceivable. It is a mass-marshalling +of the senses by means of sound. Poetry is not an +instrument and is not written with the intention +of arousing emotions—unless it is of a hybrid musico-poetical +breed. The end of poetry is not to create +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[35]</span>a physical condition which shall give pleasure to +the mind. It appeals to an energy in which no distinction +exists between physical and mental conditions. +It does not massage, soothe, excite or entertain +this energy in any way. It <i>is</i> this energy in +a form of extraordinary strength and intactness. +Poetry is therefore not concentrated on an audience +but on itself and only produces satisfaction in the +sense that wherever this energy exists in a sufficient +degree of strength and intactness it will be encouraged +by poetry in further concentration on itself. +Poetry appeals only to poetry and begets nothing +but poetry. Music appeals to the intellectual disorganization +and weakness of people in numbers +and begets, by flattering this weakness (which is +sentimentality), gratifying after-effects of destructive +sociality. The end of poetry is not an after-effect, +not a pleasurable memory of itself, but an +immediate, constant and even unpleasant insistence +on itself; indeed, it has no end. It isolates +energies in themselves rather than socially dissolving +one in another.</p> + +<p>5. Music provides the hearer with an ideal +experience, a prepared episode. Poetry is not idealistic; +it is not experience in this episode or programme +sense. There is an entertaining short-story +variety in music; a repellent, austere monotony in +poetry. Poetry brings all possible experience to the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[36]</span>same degree: a degree in the consciousness beyond +which the consciousness itself cannot go. Poetry is +defeat, the end which is not an end but a stopping-short +because it is impossible to go further; it makes +mad; it is the absolutism of dissatisfaction. Music +brings not the consciousness but the <i>material</i> of +experience to a certain degree, always to different +degrees. It makes pleasantly happy or unhappy. It +is the vulgarity of satisfaction.</p> + +<p>6. Music disintegrates and therefore seems active, +fruitful, extensive, enlarging. Poetry isolates all +loose independencies and then integrates them into +one close independency which, when complete, has +nothing to do but confront itself. Poetry therefore +seems idle, sterile, narrow, destroying. And it is. +This is what recommends it.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[37]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="POETRY_AND_PAINTING"> + POETRY AND PAINTING + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>Painters no longer paint with paint except in +the sense that poets write with ink. Paint is now only +a more expensive, elegant ink. What do painters +paint with, then? They paint with poetry. A picture +is a poem in which the sense has been absorbed +by the medium of communication of sense. It is +not an intelligible series of hieroglyphics, but the +poem itself forced into a kind of outrageous, unnatural +visibility: as if suddenly the thing mind +were caught in the hand and made to appear painfully +and horribly as a creature. The development +of painting is toward this poetic quality; the better +(the more literal, the less realistic) it gets, the more +horrible. So much for the so-called abstractness +of painting: the sense is made identical with the +medium by forcibly marrying it to the medium. +Medium and sense are a legally fictitious One in +which the medium, the masculine factor, forces the +sense, the feminine factor, to bear his name and do +honour to his bed and table. <i>She</i> is all meek, hopeless +amicability, <i>he</i> is all blustering, good-humoured +cynicism.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[38]</span></p> + +<p>This poetic progress of painting influences the +pictorial progress of poetry. There is a great response +in modern poetry to the demand by painters +that it should be more poetic. See for yourself how +many of the newest poems have not their names +lettered in aluminium on their doors, with a knocker +designed by the latest French abstract sculptor +(master also of golf), humanly visible furniture +within (all primary colours), and nobody home.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[39]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="POETRY_AND_DREAMS"> + POETRY AND DREAMS + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>I do not believe there is any more relation +between poem-making and dream-making than +between poem-making and child-making. The +making of poems, dreams and children is difficult +to explain because they all somehow happen and +go on until the poem comes to an end and the +sleeper wakes up and the child comes out into the +air. As for children, there are so many other ways +of looking at the matter that poetry is generally not +asked to provide a creative parallel. As for dreams, +they are the dregs of the mind, anxious to elevate +themselves by flattering comparisons. As for poems, +they are frequently (more often than not) concocted +in the dregs of the mind and therefore happy in an +understanding of mutual support between themselves +and dreams.</p> + +<p>The only real resemblance between poetry and +dreams is that they are both on the other side of +waking—on opposite sides. Waking is the mind in +its mediocrity. Mediocrity is of such large extent +that it pushes off into obscurity the mental degree +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[40]</span><i>beyond</i> mediocrity, in a direction <i>away from</i> sleep. +The mental degree <i>before</i> mediocrity, <i>toward</i> sleep, +is the dream. So the stage before the lowest degree +of mediocrity and the stage beyond the highest +degree of mediocrity are bracketed together by +mediocrity because they are both outside of mediocrity—the +mind at its canniest intelligence and +the mind at its canniest imbecility.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[41]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="JOCASTA"> + JOCASTA + </h2> +</div> + + +<h3>§1</h3> + +<p>The pathetic differences between wrong and +right are well illustrated in the persons of Otto Spengler +and Wyndham Lewis. Herr Spengler is a pessimist +who has succeeded in cheering himself up +with a romantic view of Decline. Mr. Lewis is an +optimist because he is right, forced into pessimism by +the general prevalence of wrong. He sees wrong +(rightly) as Time, Romance, Advertisement (forced +optimism), Righteousness, Action, Popular Art +(Time, Romance, Advertisement, Righteousness, +Action, united in an inferiority complex). Since he +is right his right quarrels with the various manifestations +of wrong he is able to distinguish: the more +he is able to distinguish the more corroborations he +has of his rightness. Herr Spengler, being wrong, +has this advantage therefore over Mr. Lewis: whereas +Mr. Lewis’s success must be confined to seeing +wrong in the most unorganized (that is, various) +manner possible, <i>his</i> success depends on his being +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[42]</span>wrong in the most organized manner possible—the +more organized he seems, the more right he seems. +Unfortunately this situation brings about a competition +between Herr Spengler and Mr. Lewis: Mr. +Lewis feels obliged to organize his unorganized view +of wrong, which cancels the potency of his rightness, +which is only valid so long as it is unorganized (that +is, commentarial instead of systematic). So he becomes +a colleague of Herr Spengler in righteousness, +the advocate of a vocabulary. We find him, as he +himself admits, trying to give ‘compendious’ names +to what is wrong: which places him immediately in +Herr Spengler’s class.⁠<a id="FNanchor_1_1" href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a>⁠</p> + +<p>To be right is to be incorruptibly individual. +To be wrong is to be righteously collective. Herr +Spengler is a collectivist: he believes in the absorption +of the unreal (right) individual in a collective +reality (History or Romance)—by which the individual +becomes functionally (as opposed to morphologically) +really-real. Mr. Lewis is an individualist +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[43]</span>in so far as he is opposed to organized functional +reality. But he is unable to face the final conclusion +of individualism: that the individual is morphologically +as well as functionally unreal, and that herein +alone (in this double withdrawal from both nature +and human society, or history) can he be right. How +does Mr. Lewis come to believe in the morphological +reality of the individual? By devoting himself +so violently to revealing the sham of historical +action in art—the unreality of functional +reality—that he creates by implication a real which, +since it cannot exist in historical romance (society), +which is all sham, must exist in non-historical +romance (nature). Further, both Herr Spengler +and Mr. Lewis think through the same machinery—the +machinery of knowledge. Indeed it appears as +if they thought because they possessed this machinery +and had to use it: this is the constant impression +made by Herr Spengler, the frequent impression +made by Mr. Lewis. I do not think that Mr. Lewis +really thinks because of and by means of knowledge. +I am convinced that he thinks. But I see also +that he is unable to face uncompromisingly the problem +of individualism. He is not content with being +right; he is stung by his irritation with what is +wrong into the desire to be real as well as right. He +therefore organizes the same material that Herr +Spengler organizes—to prove that it is sham, as +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[44]</span>Herr Spengler to prove that it is real. He even uses +the same false organizing system as Herr Spengler—analogy. +Herr Spengler, by proving the analogical +consistency of his views, merely proves that wrong +is wrong. Mr. Lewis, by overstudying the analogical +consistency of wrong, establishes his right by the +same system that Herr Spengler uses in establishing +his wrong. He is making of his right a competitive +Romance to argue with Herr Spengler’s Romance. +With both Herr Spengler and Mr. Lewis I feel in +the presence of realists. Herr Spengler, I feel, is +happy in being a realist, Mr. Lewis, I feel, is not. +He is not, I think, because he is fundamentally +right, but afraid of facing the unreality of rightness. +It is difficult to explain this because it is a difficult +situation; and I wish if possible to avoid compendious +names. It would perhaps be simplest to say +that Mr. Lewis is timid (as he has himself privately +admitted).</p> + +<p>Mr. Lewis attacks the principle which is to Herr +Spengler the right of his wrong. He attacks the +reality of the collective-real. But in doing so he +opposes to it an individual-real. The collective-real +is man in touch with man. The individual-real is +man in touch with the natural in him, in touch with +nature. Neither Herr Spengler nor Mr. Lewis dares +face the individual-unreal: both believe in unity +and integration, Herr Spengler in the unity and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[45]</span>integration of history, Mr. Lewis in the unity and +integration of natural as opposed to historical existence. +‘I am for the physical world,’ Mr. Lewis says. +One of the reasons he is for the physical world is, +apparently, that the historical world, in keeping +up with itself, not only worships the fetich of +Romance, but the fetich of childishness as well. In +pointing this out Mr. Lewis is both wise and courageous; +but he reveals at the same time an important +fetich of the individual-real, adultishness. Nor, +maddened by the vulgar success of the historical +world with itself, can he see that the fetich of childishness +in only a half-clue to the story of Gertrude +Stein, that Miss Stein has one foot in the collective +real and one foot in the individual-unreal—which +is more than can be said of Mr. Lewis, +who has both feet planted in the individual-real.⁠<a id="FNanchor_2_2" href="#Footnote_2_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a>⁠</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[46]</span></p> + +<p>I must next give an illustration of the individual-real +in contemporary literature. This will perhaps +not please Wyndham Lewis and will certainly not +please its author, Virginia Woolf. I can only say that +I do not mean to attack either of them but merely to +explain the individual-real. And Mrs. Woolf’s most +recent book, <i>To the Lighthouse</i>, seems to me a perfect +example of the individual-real. In the first place, it is +individual: not in the sense that it is personal, warm, +alive to itself, indifferent to effect or appreciation, +vividly unreal, but in the sense that it individualizes +the simple reality of nature, gives it distinction—shade, +tone, personal subtlety. In the second +place it is real—meticulously, mathematically like +life: not historical time-life, which is an easy +approximation, but natural flesh-life, which must +be laboriously, exquisitely, irritatingly, painfully +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[47]</span>rendered. To do this language must be strained, +supersensitized, loaded with comparisons, suggestive +images, emotional analogies: used, that is, in a +poetic way to write something that is not poetry—used +to argue, prove, prick the cuticle of sense, so to +speak, in a way that is extravagant, unpleasant, +insincere (since it purports to be pleasant). The +method, in fact, has no creative justification: it +merely drives home the individual-real, which is +physical emphasis of self-individual because it is +physically self, real because as physical it shares in +the simple reality of nature. All this delicacy of +style, it appears, is the expression of an academic +but nevertheless vulgar indelicacy of thought, a +sort of Royal Academy nudeness, a squeamish, fine-writing +lifting of the curtains of privacy. In the +third place, it (the individual-real as illustrated in +this novel) is adultish—advanced but conservative: +it does not belong to childish, democratic mass-art, +but neither does it belong to the individual, non-physical, +non-collective unreal. It is over-earnest +constrained, suppressedly hysterical, unhappy, could +give no one pleasure. Pleasure is doing as one +pleases. In works like this neither the author, who +is obsessed by the necessity of emphasizing the individual-real, +nor the reader, who is forced to follow the +author painfully (word for word) in this obsession, +may do as he pleases. There is only one novel-writer +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[48]</span>who really did as he pleased, let his characters do +as they pleased and his reader to do as he pleased, +and that was Defoe. He could do this because he +was, as Pope said, ‘the unabashed Defoe,’ and he +was unabashed because he was unreal, vividly +unreal—personal, warm, indifferent to effect +(consistency). Mrs. Woolf defends herself from any +such analysis of her work as I have made here by +declaring that there is no such thing as a novel. If +<i>To The Lighthouse</i> is not to be treated as a novel, +then it must, by its language-habits, be treated as a +poem. Analyse it then as a poem: what then? It +proves itself to be merely a novel; and an insincere +novel—the use of the material of the collective-real +to insinuate dogmatically the individual-real. +Defoe used the material of the collective-real as it +could only be used sincerely—to insinuate the +individual-unreal: and so Defoe, if you like, did +turn the novel into poetry.</p> + +<p>I once discussed this point with E. M. Forster and +we found that we had each read <i>Roxana</i> in entirely +opposite senses. Mr. Forster was certain that Defoe +followed Roxana in every word he wrote of her, and +that Roxana likewise followed Defoe, that there was +no do-as-you-please break between her and Defoe +or between her and the reader or between Defoe +and the reader; that all was one intense, physically +compact and consistent exposition of the individual-real. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[49]</span>I pointed out the striking division in, for example, +Roxana’s long feminist declamation against +marriage to her Dutch lover—a division in which +all the <i>dramatis personæ</i>, including author and reader, +are released to accept the declamation with whatever +bias they please. In this division I find Defoe’s +sincerity. Mr. Forster, on the other hand, understands +the declamation as a remarkably unified, +<i>innocent</i>, three-dimensional slice of that individual-real +which is the story. If I thought that Defoe had +written that passage innocently, with realistic consistency, +I should catalogue him as a fine writer and +skilful hypocrite. But I am persuaded he was +neither of these. I am sure that the feminist recital +was wilfully unreal, inconsistent, many-dimensional; +that it was delicate common sense for the +Dutch lover, frank but sentimental expediency for +Roxana, sound doctrine for Defoe and undisguised +storifying for the reader present in the story; and +that none of these was deceived in his bias, but +could if he wished change it for any other without +damaging the consistency of the piece, since there +was none. <i>The Tempest</i> has the same sort of inconsistency +as a Defoe novel; it is the most unreal +of the plays and to me preferable to the more +realistic plays. Others are more poetic, as Mrs. +Woolf’s <i>To The Lighthouse</i> is more poetic than +<i>Roxana</i>. But they do not contain so many poems, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[50]</span>as there is no passage in <i>To The Lighthouse</i> with the +dimensions (the contradictions) of Roxana’s recital +to her Dutch lover. In <i>The Tempest</i> there is not only +a continuous chain of such inconsistencies (poems); +the characters themselves have the same many-dimensional +inconsistency—the unreal Caliban, the +unreal Prospero, interchangeable in their inconsistency.</p> + +<p>Before leaving this question and returning to +Herr Spengler, whose wrong has not in my opinion +been sufficiently disorganized, I must come back to +the suffocating, nearly sickening physical quality of +what I call the individual-real—not a strong, fresh, +casual frankness of flesh, but a self-scented, sensuous, +unbearably curious self-smelling of flesh. The +collective-real is crude, symbolic, sham; the individual-real +is exquisite, more than symbolic—literally, +intrinsically metaphorical. I have in mind, in +connection with <i>To The Lighthouse</i>, a book of E. M. +Forster’s, <i>A Room With a View</i>. Before reading this +book I had met Mr. Forster and found him charming; +the book was recommended to me by my +friends as a charming book. I read it. I could +not deny that it was charming. Yet it was to me +unpleasantly painful to read. It was too charming. +I do not mean to be flippant, or to disgust, or to +alter my original conviction of Mr. Forster’s personal +charm, which I have had an opportunity +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[51]</span>of confirming since reading this book. But the +truth is that it affected me in the same way as +would the sight of a tenderly and exquisitely ripe +pimple. I longed to squeeze it and have done with +it. At the time I could only reproach myself with +this rather shameful morbidity and admit that my +reaction seemed preposterous. It was a simple, +exquisitely written story about simple, unexciting +people; and the unpleasant excitement it gave me +was unnatural. Since then I have come to be able +to identify and understand a little the individual-real, +and it is now perfectly clear to me why Mr. +Forster’s book affected me in that way, although +then I could only feel a vague physical reaction to +its metaphorical realism. That I recognized it as an +essay in metaphorical realism is proved by the persistent +image of the pimple with which the book came +to be associated in my mind. And indeed, if I had +thought a little more closely about metaphorical +realism at the time, I might have arrived very soon +at the same conclusion that I have here arrived +at, <i>via</i> Otto Spengler, Wyndham Lewis, and so +forth.</p> + +<p>In the ordinary time-world or art-world of +the collective-real, symbolism, however romantically +it may be used, never denies that it is symbolism. +Its very effectiveness depends on its being +recognized as such. Further, since symbolism is +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[52]</span>here collective rather than individual, since the +symbol, that is, is <i>chosen</i> to collectivize individual +emotions which would otherwise have separate and +presumably weaker communication with the thing +for which the symbol stands, it is clear that the +symbolic method of the collective-real is selective: it +implies a graded choice of the things which it seems +necessary and important to symbolize. This method, +whose psychology Herr Spengler attempts to discover, +is all that Mr. Lewis says it is (it is really the +symbolic method of the time-world that he attacks). +In the literature and art of the collective-real it is +easy to recognize because they are frankly symbolical: +it is part of their technique to insist on the +symbolic quality of the symbol. This means that +symbolic art is generally bad art, full of double +meanings, vulgar obviousness, facile concessions to +sentimentality, flattery of the mass-emotions which +confirm the relation of the symbol with the thing it +represents.</p> + +<p>Yet there is a proficiency, a vulgar good in this bad +art that gives great and pure pleasure—great because +it has the strength of what is purposively, +defiantly bad, pure because it makes no attempt +to conceal its badness. And there is one further +virtue in the symbolism of the collective-real, that, +being a selective symbolism, it does not symbolize +everything—if it symbolized everything it would +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[53]</span>destroy the time-world, the organ of communication +and author of symbols. Instead, it lets pass +much which it realizes would be proof against symbolism +and thus threaten its prestige: it admits that +there is much that is unreal and, in so far as is +consistent with its authority, leaves it alone. +Poetry, therefore, in the world of the collective-real, +is given a little chance.</p> + +<p>Symbolism, in the nature-world of the individual-real, +denies itself to be symbolism. It uses all the +tricks of the symbolism of the collective-real, but to +insist that it is individually, not collectively real, +that it is, therefore, not symbolic but literal, not +‘artistic’ but natural. It is not selective, since if it +were it would admit itself to be symbolical, but +makes everything it touches equally significant, +physical, real. Its technique is to insist on the +authentic quality of the symbol. This means that it +is only a more ambitious, expert, clever symbolism +than the symbolism of the collective-real. It is +literally instead of suggestively symbolic. It is +morbidly physical instead of merely morbidly sentimental. +It is difficult (not by nature but by art), +adult, aristocratic, <i>better</i>. The difference between +the collective-real and the individual-real as revealed +by their respective methods of symbolism +proves itself to be no more than a snobbish difference +of degree: the art of the individual-real is +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[54]</span>self-appointed good art. And as such it is strained, +unhappy-hypocritical, slave to an ideal of superiority +that I can only properly describe as the ideal +of slickness. There is no opposition here of right to +wrong, only a more academic, individual wrong (or +real) than even the best democratic, collective +wrong. The right (the unreal) remains (as it +should) categorically non-existent.⁠<a id="FNanchor_3_3" href="#Footnote_3_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a>⁠</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[55]</span></p> + +<p>I recall with pleasure an outrageous example of +the vulgarity, sentimentality, proficient badness of +collective-real literature; a novel by Rebecca West. +It is a long time since I read it, and what I can +reproduce of it is from memory. I remember in +particular one passage, in which it was told how +delightful it was to hold an egg in the little hollow +in the front of the neck, and in which baked potatoes +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[56]</span>were charmingly mixed up with cirrus clouds. +It was all so frankly false, so enchantingly bad, so +vulgarly poetical without the least claim to being +poetic, that it was impossible not to enjoy it and not +to find it good: one was being sold nothing that +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[57]</span>was not obvious. After Rebecca West put Katherine +Mansfield, a cross between the collective-real and +the individual-real, a perplexed effort, a vapour. +Then put the development of the individual-real, +culminating in the art of Virginia Woolf, in +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[58]</span>which nothing is thrown out since it admits no +unreal, in which poetry has no chance because the +individual-real itself is so poetic, in which one is +sold poetry without being aware of it; this super-symbolical, +unsufferably slick alchemy that takes +poetry out of the unreal and turns it into the dainty +extra-pink blood by which reality is suffused with +reality:</p> + +<p>‘She looked up over her knitting and met the +third stroke and it seemed to her like her own eyes +meeting her own eyes, searching as she alone could +search into her mind and her heart, purifying out +of existence that lie, any lie. She praised herself in +praising the light, without vanity, for she was +stern, she was searching, she was beautiful like that +light. It was odd, she thought, how if one was +alone, one leant to things, inanimate things; trees, +streams, flowers; felt they expressed one; felt they +became one; felt they knew one, in a sense were +one; felt an irrational tenderness thus (she looked +at that long steady light) as for oneself. There rose, +and she looked and looked with her needles suspended, +there curled up off the floor of the mind, +rose from the lake of one’s being, a mist, a bride to +meet her lover.’</p> + +<p>I submit that this is <i>more wrong</i> than Rebecca +West’s writing because it is better, slicker. It bends +the bow of taste (to use the manner of Mrs. Woolf) +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[59]</span>back into a contorted, disdainful, monotonous, sensuously +bulging circle. The collective-real, when a +revolution takes place in it (when it is threatened +by the unreal and makes a violent gesture of self-assertion), +acknowledges the shadow that has passed +over it, accepts the consequences of pledging itself +to be with time: shortens its skirts, chops an inch off +its hair, puts a cheerful face on its modernity—its +progressive retreat from the unreal. The individual-real, +on the other hand, secure in Nature’s fortress, +insists that no shadow of the unreal can fall upon it. +It is everything—real because it is individualistic, +unreal because it is symbolical: it cannot come to +harm. If it is threatened, it lengthens its skirts, +swishes grandly along the ground, grows its fingernails, +scratches exquisitely the plaster wall that +surrounds it, sharpens its pencil till it has nerves +and writes just a little more finely than is possible. +And whatever it touches turns to spun-silk under it. +It is the delamarish memory-fairy.</p> + +<p>Yet certainly there is much that cannot, except in +the fairy-tale of memory (the individual-real) be +turned into spun-silk. To make everything real, no +matter how unreal, how personal it may have been +in its occurrence, is to symbolize it for the democratic +mass. Thus psycho-analysis is not unacceptable +to the individual-real, thus in individual-real +literature we find grating public exhibitions +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[60]</span>of individuality. Any personal incident may be +stroked, coaxed, maddened by fine torture into +symbolic existence. For example: when I was fourteen +I used to read the <i>New York Times</i> every afternoon +for an hour (for a pittance) to an old man +whose eyesight was poor, a veteran of the Civil War. +He had a most eccentric mispronunciation, which I +had to adopt in reading to him. It was very difficult, +as on the other side, at school, I was being trained +in pronunciation. I concentrated on mispronunciation, +and one day, when I had just about become +expert in it, I knocked at his door to find that he +had died. There I was, with all that mispronunciation +on my hands; and to a certain extent it is still +on my hands. Now, if I were a psycho-analytic +individual-realist, I should symbolically refine this. +I should have a mispronunciation complex, I should +say that life was like that and associate it with +other incidents in which life was like that, I +should have a mental ejaculation every time I +mispronounced, and so on. As it is, it is merely an +incident—what I may call a statistical incident. It +happened, I occasionally mispronounce, it is all +very personal, unreal, illogical, unsymbolical and +poetic to me. I have never told it, poetically, as a +good story to illustrate this or that or to mean this +or that.⁠<a id="FNanchor_4_4" href="#Footnote_4_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a> And in treating it in this way I am +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[61]</span>sure I am closer to the incident as it happened and +as it affected me, though I am not closer to what is +called the reality of the incident. This is perhaps +trivial and even irrelevant to the argument. Yet it +is to me an exposition in life of the always threatening +danger of the individual-real in literature and art.</p> + +<h3>§2</h3> + +<p>I have already said that I considered Herr Spengler +wrong and Mr. Lewis right. To say that Herr +Spengler is wrong is to say that he is wrong. To say +that Mr. Lewis is right is to imply, because I place +his right side by side with Herr Spengler’s wrong, +that I regret the argumentative rightness of his +right: I not only object to Herr Spengler’s systematic +wrongness because it is wrong, but also because +it is systematic. Herr Spengler perceives a +conspiracy and is delighted, Mr. Lewis perceives a +conspiracy and is infuriated. Therefore, though I +admire Mr. Lewis because he is right, I restrict my +admiration in so far as he is systematic: the obsession +with conspiracy is no more wrong in Herr +Spengler than in Mr. Lewis. I regret to see Mr. +Lewis decorating his right with the trappings of +argument: I regret to see him dramatizing his right +realistically to impress the same audience as Herr +Spengler does—emphasizing the individual-real as +Spengler does the collective-real. I should like to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[62]</span>see Mr. Lewis being right, being unreal, being himself, +rather than sending out his right to instruct the +democratic mass on the same stage on to which +Herr Spengler sends out his wrong. It is none of +my business, of course, what Mr. Lewis does with his +right; but in admiring Mr. Lewis and not admiring +Herr Spengler it is only fair to point out that the +former as well as the latter is guilty of realistic +projections.</p> + +<p>By projections I mean saying more, thinking +more, knowing more, observing more, organizing +more than is self. I mean creating the real. In +Herr Spengler’s writing I find nothing unreal; I +find no self. In Mr. Lewis’s writing I find a considerable +unreal projecting itself realistically, organizing +itself against, for example, James Joyce. I do +not speak merely of attacking James Joyce or Sherwood +Anderson or D. H. Lawrence. I speak of +attacking by advocating a system to take the place +of the system which certain aspects of James Joyce’s +work, say, represent to Mr. Lewis. I think this +system should indeed be attacked in so far as it is a +system and in so far as is necessary for a preservation +of integrity. I do not think it should be replaced. I +want the time-world removed and in its place to +see—nothing. I do not want to see the unreal—Mr. +Lewis’s, mine, anyone’s—become more than itself, +become either intellectual (Spengler) or physical +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[63]</span>(Lewis). I want it to remain inhuman and obscure. +Both Herr Spengler and Mr. Lewis make it, the +one in his wrongness, the other in his rightness, +human and glaring. To me the secularistic subjective +softness of the first is no more aggressively realistic +than the secularistic ‘objective hardness’ of the +second. For all Mr. Lewis’s unreal, the question +remains to him ‘whether we should set out to transcend +our human condition or whether we should +translate into human terms the whole of our datum.’ +I agree with Mr. Lewis in discarding the first alternative, +but I submit that the second contains in it +two other alternatives and that in choosing the +<i>wrong one</i> of these (as he does by creating the original +pair of alternatives) Mr. Lewis leans towards rather +than away from transcendentalism. For what he +calls the datum is nothing but the unreal; to call +it the datum and, further, to suggest the necessity of +its translation from the unreal into the real, the personal +(inhuman) into the human (physically collective) +is only to oppose one kind of transcendentalism +to another—the individual-real to the collective-real. +In this he is identifying himself with critics +who, like I. A. R. Richards, wish to find a place for +literature and art ‘in the system of human endeavours,’ +to prove the unreal to be but ‘a finer organization +of ordinary experiences’; that is, in order to +combat the gross romanticism and rhodomontade of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[64]</span>democratic realism, he turns merely to a more +classical, aristocratic realism.⁠<a id="FNanchor_5_5" href="#Footnote_5_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a> He thus reduces the +difference between himself and Herr Spengler to a +difference in taste rather than in principle; the distinction +between right and wrong, unreal and real, +which Mr. Lewis might be one of the few people +able to maintain, becomes, as has already been +pointed out, merely the distinction between good +and bad, between two types of the real or between +degrees in the real.</p> + +<p>Man, as he becomes more man, becomes less +nature. He becomes unreal. He loses homogeneity +as a species. He lives unto himself not as a species +but as an individual. He is lost as far as nature is +concerned, but as he is separated from nature, this +does not matter. He is in himself, he is unreal, he +is secure. This sense of unreality, however, varies +in individuals: it is weakest in the weakest individuals. +These weakest individuals, missing the +physical homogeneity which reality in nature would +give man, construct by analogy an ideal homogeneity, +a history, a reality of time. ‘The means +whereby to identify living forms,’ Spengler says, ‘is +Analogy.’ As systematic analogy with nature becomes +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[65]</span>more and more difficult, the basis of analogy, +parallelism with nature, is removed; but the system +of analogy remains. A transference is made from +what Herr Spengler calls morphological equivalence +to functional equivalence. Instead of being nature-like +(like the species <i>man</i> in nature) he becomes man-like +(like the species man in man). The individual +is like himself collectively, really, not like himself +individually, unreally. It is now possible perhaps to +discuss more clearly the significance of the terms I +have been using: pessimism, optimism; collective-real, +individual-real; unreal. Herr Spengler, I +should say, is pessimistic at the sight of the disintegration +of man as a natural species; he consoles +himself with a vision of man as a consistent analogous +rather than homologous social mass. He has, +we might say, a melancholy, mystical vision of an +eternal structure of decay, whose processes may +be collectively appreciated and participated in. +His vision is the collective-real, by which he +manages to transcend the unreal. Mr. Lewis, I +should say, is fundamentally optimistic at the sight +of the disintegration of man as a natural species. +He is not distressed, I believe, by the fact that there +is a problem of individualism. He would face it +cheerfully if he were not so annoyed by Herr Spengler’s +gloomy evasion of it—by the whole time-philosophy +for which Spengler is but one of many +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[66]</span>spokesmen. But he is distracted from his pursuit of +the problem of individualism into the unreal, where +is to be found its only satisfactory conclusion, by his +annoyance with evasions of it like Herr Spengler’s +or Dr. Whitehead’s. And in his annoyance he +remains permanently distracted; he succeeds in +doing no more than substituting for it another kind +of evasion. I do not say that Mr. Lewis is an official +spokesman of the individual-real in the way in which +Herr Spengler is an official spokesman for the +collective-real. But in opposing him without fully +acknowledging the unreal he seems to me to be +identifying himself with a brand of realism that is +in its way as obnoxious as collective realism.</p> + +<p>Let me elaborate what I consider to be the viewpoint +of the individual-realists. They perceive the +disintegration of man as a species and resent the +philosophical substitute which the collective realists, +with the help of history, make for the natural species—this +analogical instead of homological species. +They recognize that however removed man may +now be from nature, analogies of the individual with +natural history are less false than analogies of the +individual with human history. Analogies of the +individual with nature will become less and less +exact as man becomes more and more removed +from nature. But it is at any rate true that these +analogies will hold as long as it will be possible to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[67]</span>make them. Analogies of the individual with history +will, on the other hand, become more and more +exact, since they are invented rather than discovered +analogies, analogies maintained by a system of +representational cohesion. Historical analogy thus +stands for the tyranny of democracy, while physical +analogy stands for a Toryish anarchy—the direct +communication of a few individuals with the +physical world without the intervention of the symbolic +species.⁠<a id="FNanchor_6_6" href="#Footnote_6_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a> I think that anarchism is very nice; +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[68]</span>but I do not think that anarchism is enough. I agree +that morphological analogy is more literal than +functional analogy; but as morphological analogy +is bound to become less and less exact as the individual’s +memory of himself as a member of a species +becomes more and more shady, it seems to me idle +to maintain it at all (except humorously); especially +idle to maintain it, this individual-real, categorically +against the collective-real, and in doing so to lose +sight of the only quality in which the individual is +secure, in a certain personal unreality not affected +by analogy of any kind. I am not much concerned +about the philosophical invalidity of the individual-real; +I am ready to admit that it is philosophically +a more tenable position than the collective-real. +Philosophical positions have all to do with versions +of the real, and have varying degrees of tenability: +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[69]</span>but if a philosophical position have the maximum +degree of intelligibility it does not alter the fact that +any philosophical position is irrelevant to the individual +and relevant only to a symbolic mass of +individuals. The only position relevant to the individual +is the unreal, and it is relevant because it is +not a position but the individual himself. The individual-real +is more indulgent of the individual-unreal +than any other philosophical position; but +this is a disadvantage rather than advantage to the +unreal, since it actually means an encroachment +upon, a parody of the unreal by the individual-real. +It is about this encroachment and parody as it +takes place in literature that I am really concerned. +To put it simply, the unreal is to me poetry. +The individual-real is a sensuous enactment of the +unreal, opposing a sort of personally cultivated +physical collectivity to the metaphysical mass-cultivated +collectivity of the collective-real. So the individual-real +is a plagiarizing of the unreal which +makes the opposition between itself and the collective-real +seem that of poetic to realistic instead +of (as it really is) that of superior to inferior +realistic; the real, personally guaranteed real-stuff +to a philosophical, mass-magicked real-stuff. +The result in literature is a realistic poeticizing +of prose (Virginia Woolf or any ‘good’ writer) +that competes with poetry, forcing it to make itself +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[70]</span>more poetic if it would count at all. Thus +both the ‘best’ prose and the ‘best’ poetry are the +most ‘poetic’; and make the unreal, mere poetry, +look obscure and shabby. And what have we, of +all this effort? Sitwellian connoisseurship in beauty +and fashion, adult Eliotry proving how individually +realistic the childish, mass-magicked real-stuff can +be if sufficiently documented, ambitious personal +absolutes proving how real their unreal is, +Steinian and Einsteinian intercourse between history +and science, Joycian release of man of time +in man of nature (collective-real in individual-real), +cultured primitivism, cultured individualism, +vulgar (revolutionary) collectivism, fastidious +(anarchic) collectivism—it is all one: nostalgic, +lascivious, masculine, Oedipean embrace +of the real mother-body by the unreal son-mind.⁠<a id="FNanchor_7_7" href="#Footnote_7_7" class="fnanchor">[7]</a>⁠</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[71]</span></p> + + +<h3>§3</h3> + +<p>In showing how the distinction between the +collective-real and the individual-real meant really +no more than a difference of degree—between +degrees of good, for example—I might have carried +the argument further. I might have shown that +in thus revealing themselves as merely differences +of degree, they reduced all oppositions that +might be made between them to differences of +degree. Take the opposition of <i>intellectual</i>, of the +time-world (collective-real), to <i>physical</i>, of the selves-world +(individual-real): <i>intellectual</i> proves itself to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[72]</span>mean based on an emotionally maintained unity; +<i>physical</i> proves itself to mean based on a unity maintained +by reason. The opposition then of <i>intellectual</i> +to <i>physical</i> (of Herr Spengler, say, to Mr. Lewis) +or of intuition to intelligence (of John Middleton +Murry, say, to T. S. Eliot) is a restatement of the +more hackneyed opposition of <i>emotional</i> to <i>intellectual</i>; +which in turn proves itself to be not an opposition +at all but an expression of degrees of historical +advancement.</p> + +<p>Thus to Herr Spengler ‘Soul,’ the felt self, is +an eternal, romantic youthfulness in man; which +expresses itself by comparing itself (analogy) +continually with the world, the not-self, the unfelt +self; which is the permanently aged, self-apprehending, +being self of nature. Herr Spengler does +not see that once having made this opposition he +has placed himself in the position of choosing +between them, that one or the other must represent +the illusion of one or the other. Failing to +do this, by maintaining a communicative opposition +between them, he shows that both are +illusions (mutually, one of the other). To compare +mathematics and logic is to show wherein both +are false, by reason of their resemblance to +each other. If the likeness were true, it would +be a complete likeness, it would be identity, +and one or the other must disappear; and it follows +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[73]</span>that the one in whose terms the likeness is +stated is the most false, the most illusory. The +likeness is maintained by the self’s fear of self, the +fear of personal loneliness. The mathematical unity +of the world sets an example for the historical unity +of the Soul, the time-child of the world; a community +self, a Culture, is invented to keep the self +company. All the values by which this self is organized +are derivative values. ‘Logic is a kind of +mathematic.’ Language is an expression of functional +relationships, it is not just language, the +tongue of a self; it must co-ordinate, <i>express</i> the +members of the community self rather than <i>say</i> each +self; it must be comprehensible, that is, it must +show likeness—if it does not show likeness it is +attacked as obscure. A painter or a composer or a +sculptor is one who demonstrates, through his +medium, this communicative opposition between +the world of reality and the world of self. The poet +is one who, by personal duplicity, takes it upon himself +to prove that the opposition is so and not so; his +poetry is a demonstration of the righteousness of +duplicity. ‘Nature is to be handled scientifically, +History poetically.’ Self is poetic self. Nature, +mathematical life, is the become, the eternally +grown-up; History, logical life, is the becoming, the +eternally childish.</p> + +<p>The time-advocate, whom I shall call the philosopher, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[74]</span>does not see, or is afraid to see, that the +become and the becoming are both mutually illusory +Worlds of reality: that they are self-created +refutations of individuality to which the individual +succumbs from imperfection. He forgets, that is, +that the individual is an <i>unbecoming</i> and that the +categories ‘becoming’ and ‘become’ are really a +derivation from him, a historical reconstruction. +Unbecoming is the movement away from reality, +the becoming unreal. What is called the become +is therefore really the starting point of the unbecoming. +What is called the becoming is therefore +really a hypothetical opposition to the unbecoming. +The become and the becoming are both +oppositions to the unbecoming; the become from +which the becoming is derived is a static order +organized against the unbecoming, the become is +the material of disintegration. The becoming is an +attempt to check the disintegration of the become +from real to unreal by reversing its direction, +turning it from real to more real, making Nature +suggest History. This is done by reading into +Nature a necessity and inventing for the species +man, a digression from Nature, an analogical +Darwinistic Nature. The necessity of Nature is +then called Causality, the necessity of History, +Destiny.</p> + +<p>The philosopher, then, is the formal opponent of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[75]</span>the unreal. To him the individual is a piece, Nature +is a whole, and the individual cannot match the +wholeness, the real of Nature, except by sharing in +a community self, the collective-real. To one who +recognizes the reality of the unreal, each individual +is a positive unit produced by the disintegration of +the reality of Nature. Nature is a process; and +the pieces of this process are the wholes, not +Nature. To the philosopher thought is a reintegration +of the scattered pieces into a symbolic +whole, which may then be related to the literal +whole of Nature; it also brings about a close interrelation +of these pieces among themselves, a +functional conformity. To a believer in the unreal, +thought confirms disintegration. It is not a +collective system. It is each self.</p> + +<p>This opposition of the philosopher to the individual-unreal +remains merely a philosophical +opposition. For it is the nature of the believer in +the unreal to be without a system—a system implies +collective association (it is even impossible to give +him a label, like ‘philosopher’); and the philosopher +could only be opposed by a system. Indeed so +thoroughly ‘unselfish’ is the character of the unreal +self that its just conclusion is a sort of social disappearance. +This is practically impossible because +to the unreal self is attached a physical memory of +the process by which the self was made, a birthmark +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[76]</span>of piecemealness opposing to the complete +unreal self a reconstructed, ideal whole of origin. +The unreal self is forced to indulge this. Sex, for +instance, is an indulgence by the unreal self of +romantic physical nostalgia. To the unreal self this +indulgence is incidental, to the philosopher it is +fundamental. Herr Spengler’s whole inspiration is +nostalgic. (So is T. S. Eliot’s. So is Mr. C. B. +Cochran’s—every ‘Cochran’s Revue’ is a variation +on the theme of the integration of historical +pageantry, an epistemological medley of primitivism, +Shakespeareanism, Charlestonianism, etc.)</p> + +<p>The philosopher has, however, his formal opponent. +His formal opponent is one who resents the +gross personification of man as the ideal individual +of the species; to whom Spenglerish dualism is only +‘bad philosophy’ (Mr. Lewis); to whom good +philosophy is a severe monism, a literal, aware +dwelling in the mathematical (being) self of Nature. +Instead of History we have Criticism: the formal +opponent of the philosopher is the Critic. And, +once more, the difference between them shows +itself to be only a difference of degree; criticism +defines itself as ‘better,’ more intellectual philosophy +than ‘intellectual,’ ‘bad’ philosophy. The +critic (this new, anti-philosophical type that I +am speaking of) dismisses the childish, historical +self as a travesty of the adult self of physical +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[77]</span>reality; as that sick, inner-eyeish, Strindbergian +‘subjective’ self, which has poisoned instead of +nourished itself on reality, that the psychologist, +physician of reality, attempts to redeem from the +subconscious (run-down, pathological reality). For +the philosophical system of logic the critic substitutes +the mathematical system of reason. The +world of Self is not to be deduced from the world of +Nature; there is but one world, and the self is in +this, a like fact with other facts, not a subjective fact +in a shadowy world of analogy. What Mr. Lewis +calls the ‘success of reason’ would permanently +establish self as objective fact, as the individual-real. +The language of the individual-real neither +expresses the members of a community-self nor +isolates each self. It expresses the extrinsic value +of the self for a system in which there are only +extrinsic values; as the language of the collective-real +expresses its intrinsic value for a system in +which there are only intrinsic values, which are +made valid, however, by means of oppositional relation +to a system of extrinsic values. So that for the +individual-realist, the self is also poetic self; rational +instead of intuitive, ‘physical’ instead of ‘intellectual’; +a poetic detail of real reality rather than a real +detail of poetic reality.</p> + +<p>The critic, then, like the philosopher, is an +opponent of the unreal. The unreal self is intrinsic +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[78]</span>self, intrinsic without respect to a system +of extrinsic values; it is without value. It is more +than anarchistic; it does not treat individualistically +with values; it supersedes them. The unreal self is +not poetic self, it is self. It is not a detail of co-ordinated +reality.⁠<a id="FNanchor_8_8" href="#Footnote_8_8" class="fnanchor">[8]</a> It is an absolute, disconnected, hopeless +whole. To the philosopher thought is memory +of Mother-Nature. To the critic thought is thoughts—diverse, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[79]</span>objective, related facts of reality. There is +no antithesis between the position of the philosopher +and that of the critic: the philosopher invents instruments +for observing and measuring reality from afar +and has dream-embraces of reality: the critic says: +‘Sentimental stuff and nonsense! I am <i>in</i> reality.’ +The critic, that is, is a little more sentimental, +ambitious, intellectual, poetic, snobbish than the +philosopher. To both of them thought means connection +with reality. To both of them poetry means +eloquent consciousness of life. To the unreal self, +to whom they are both brother-opponents, thought +is separation from reality, and poetry is the consciousness +(the perhaps ineloquent consciousness) +of what is not life, of what is self. A tree (even this +is doubtful, for it is a late, nearly human form) is +not born; it lives. What is born ceases with birth +to live; it is self, unreal self. For this reason it +is impossible to call the unreal self poetic self: +‘poetic’ and ‘poetry’ are words drunk with reality, +they have indeed become by popular use rhetorical +substitutes for ‘real’ and ‘reality.’ By reality I mean +organized, ‘universal’ reality. It would be possible +to speak of the unreal self as the real self, the self of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[80]</span>separate reality, were it not for the community +sense that belongs to philosophical or critical reality. +I might have said, instead of unreal self, dissociated +self. The problem of the right word is more difficult +in the case of ‘poetic’ and ‘poetry.’ I can point out +that the real self is poetic, and, in opposition to both +real and poetic, put the unreal self. It is painful, +however, to be forced to leave ‘poetry’ to the real +self and to call the poetry of the unreal self unreality. +Poetry is a stolen word, and in using it one must +remain conscious of its perverted sense in the service +of realism, or one suddenly finds oneself discussing +not poetry but realism; and this is equally painful. +But if poetry is a stolen word, so is reality: reality +is stolen from the self, which is thus in its integrity +forced to call itself unreal.</p> + +<p>Poetry may perhaps for the moment be saved for +the poet and for the unreal self if the collective-real, +the individual-real, philosophy, criticism, are +denominated ‘literature.’ Literature then clearly +represents the symbolical, the rational, the romantic, +the classical, the collective, the individualistic +reality of man. Further, if we make it clear to ourselves +that all literature is poetic, then we are +separating poetry from literature and drawing a +sharp line between what is poetic and what is +poetry. Further still, we are discovering that literature +is everything but the unreal self, it is the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[81]</span>society of reality; it is History, it is Nature, it is +Philosophy, it is Reason, it is Criticism, it is Art. +Most of all perhaps literature is Art, the seizure and +confirmation of reality by the senses, the literalizing +of the world of reality. The more ‘abstract’ +Art is (the less symbolical) the more real it is. +Poetry is thus seen to be neither literature nor Art. +Literature is the ladder of reality: the historian +yields to the scientist, the scientist to the philosopher, +the philosopher to the critic, the high-priest of +Reason, of which ‘great works of art’ are the visible +signs: for Reason is Reality.⁠<a id="FNanchor_9_9" href="#Footnote_9_9" class="fnanchor">[9]</a>⁠</p> + + +<h3>§4</h3> + +<p>This has been, so far, the elaboration of a point +of view. From here on will be found various applications +of this point of view. Generally in expositive +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[82]</span>writing there is no distinction made between +what is organically elaborative and what is incidentally +applicative: all is elaborative and therefore +over-elaborative. The argument continues to +elaborate itself even though it has come to an end; +it incorporates the application of the point of view in +the development of the point of view; it does not +distinguish between argument and comment. I wish +to distinguish carefully here between argument and +comment. A certain very small amount of illustration +and instancing is necessary to focus an argument +properly: the smaller the better, since most +specific reference and substantiation is a concession +to the audience, which generally cannot think +purely, that is, without the machinery of learning. +Once the argument is focused, it should not develop +further. It should repeat itself, like an acid test, in +each fresh application. All philosophical or critical +systems are the absorption of an original point of +view by the facts to which it applies itself: the +force of the point of view is lost, it becomes a +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[83]</span>convenience by which facts organize themselves and +eventually dominate the point of view. All philosophical +or critical systems are no more than +learning, a synthesis of instances, and therefore develop +generalizations that mean nothing without +instances. I have no philosophical or critical system +to advance; I am interested in generalizations that +mean something without instances, that are unreal, +since they mean something by themselves. Generalizations +of this sort, when applied to instances, +should not be absorbed by them. The argument +should dismiss instances with comment on instances, +remain meaning in itself. If it does this then it +is capable of maintaining an opposition between +right and wrong. If it does not, it only becomes a +better wrong than the wrong it attacks. It becomes +real.</p> + +<p>By this I do not mean that I am a subjective +critic. A subjective critic is one who converts his +point of view into a system, makes it real: his point +of view must be continually fed by works of art, +otherwise it ceases. I propose here a point of view +that is completely unto itself, that is unreal, that is +independent of instances. When it meets instances +it comments on them by repeating itself. Nor is it +subjective, since subjectivity implies an objective +world of experience from which it must perpetually +derive itself. I speak of a point of view which is self +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[84]</span>and only self, of an unreality which is every one’s +to the extent to which he is able to extricate himself +from quantitative reality and be, instead of a +purse-proud something, a proud and purseless +nothing. What is this I am describing?—the poetic +(a stolen word) self.</p> + + +<h4>1</h4> + +<p>Mr. Herbert Read (<i>Reason and Romanticism</i>).</p> + +<p>‘That the critical spirit, expressed in reason, will +ever evolve a synthesis capable of fulfilling the +functions of religion is evidently impossible. Reason +and emotion only unite in very rare and special +perceptions; such perceptions are not capable of +generalization.... Emotions are too diffuse, too +widely distributed, ever to be unified in reason, +which is an evolved possession, never perfect at +all, and only approaching perfection in the rarest +individuals.’ The impossible, Mr. Read admits, +is attainable in the rare ‘universal mind.’ Universal +in the strict critical sense proves itself to +mean ‘broad’ in the eighteenth-century sense—aristocratic. +So Goethe (both for Herr Spengler and +Mr. Read) is the ideal universal type; so is Leibnitz, +so is Diderot. Mr. Read confirms my description of +the philosophico-critical system in his definition of +universality as ‘a capacity <i>to receive</i> all knowledge +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[85]</span>and events with equanimity and unprejudiced percipience; +and to build up a positive attitude on this +clear and perceptual basis.’⁠<a id="FNanchor_10_10" href="#Footnote_10_10" class="fnanchor">[10]</a> From here we are +gently conducted to the proposition that ‘poetry is, +in short, delectation.’ Poetry is, in short, a game-like, +sporting, snobbish exercise of reason, the most +ambitious display of knowledge possible: ‘and the +greater our knowledge, the more surcharged it is +with the perception of values, the deeper will be the +delight aroused in us.’ What is reason? Reason is +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[86]</span>socialized reality, ‘the sum total of awareness, +ordained and ordered to some specific end or object +of attention.’</p> + +<p>Mr. Read on metaphysical poetry: metaphysical +poetry is ‘emotional apprehension of thought.’ This +means, we discover, individual mind systematically +apprehending reality: ‘... we find in Donne a mind +poised at the exact turn of the course of philosophy +drawing his inspiration right back from scholastic +sources, and yet at the same time eagerly surveying +the new future promised by the science of Copernicus +and Galileo. Chapman, on the other hand, +is in a remarkable degree the forerunner of humanist +philosophy—of Hume and Spinoza in particular. +He is aware, above all things, of “the constant and +sacred harmony of life.”’ In this way criticism classifies +poetry according to the poet’s intelligence of +reality—that is, according to his conventionality, his +politeness; whereas that Donne wrote poetry at all +was because he was able to separate himself rudely +from the reality of which he was in a class sense a +privileged agent.⁠<a id="FNanchor_11_11" href="#Footnote_11_11" class="fnanchor">[11]</a>⁠</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[87]</span></p> + +<p>On Dante and Guido Cavalcanti: ‘Or, more +exactly, all experience, whether intellectual or +sensual or instinctive, was regarded as equally and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[88]</span>contemporaneously the subject-matter of their +poetry. The result was a desirable continuity or +coherence; imagination, contemplation, and sensibility +becoming fused within the perfect limits of +a human mind.’ Mr. Read then quotes from +William Walrond Jackson, D.D., ‘Introduction’ to +his translation of the <i>Convivio</i> (Oxford, 1909), p. 18: +‘The poet was inspired by an overmastering desire +to link the present with the past and with the future, +to blend all knowledge into one coherent system, +and to bring the experiences of life into one harmonious +whole....’ Plainly, this donnish, publicly +fostered service of the poet to reason would be +absorbed, if he were a poet at all, in his essential, +enduring unreality by the time his work reached +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[89]</span>the criticism of four hundred years later. Instead +criticism keeps artificially alive the derived reality +of the work, submerging in it what intrinsic unreality +it may have had. ‘The true metaphysical +poet is conscious of no such dualism: his thought is +in its very process poetical.’ Poetry is reason. +‘Leibnitz has defined an intelligent author as one +who includes the most of reality in the least possible +compass.’ And further ... ‘the poet is in a very +real sense the product of his age—witness especially +Dante’ (‘age’ meaning ‘the most of reality in the +least possible compass’). These two statements comment +sufficiently on themselves. What recommendation +has Mr. Read for the modern poet? He looks +‘to the modern physicists, whose work would seem +to provide a whole system of thought and imagery +ready for fertilization in the mind of the poet.’ This +again, is its own best comment on itself.</p> + + +<h4>2</h4> + +<p>Mr. Lewis is merely a pamphleteer of anarchism, +T. S. Eliot is a serious moralist, bent on professing +rather than on attacking. We therefore look to Mr. +Lewis for explanatory rhetoric and to Mr. Eliot for +explanatory ritual: in many respects his modest behaviour +is more illuminating than all Mr. Lewis’s +language. After years of hard and brilliant service as +a poetical yogi Mr. Eliot suddenly discovered that he +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[90]</span>had all the time been acting on behalf of the universe +of man, of human nature, instead of in behalf of the +universe of reason, of natural nature. So he replaced +religiousness by priggishness; he went from a popular, +mystical cult to an exclusive Thomist club; +from large, symbolical (ironic) outer circle abstractions +to small specific (concrete) inner circle abstractions.</p> + +<p>Instead of attacking the time-mob, like Mr. Lewis, +he withdrew himself from it and left it to carry +on the orthodox, unanimous flux so obnoxious to +Mr. Lewis, yet so necessary to both Mr. Lewis’ and +Mr. Eliot’s anarchism: the basis of anarchistic +individuality is not authentically individualistic, +but snobbish. Mr. Lewis’s incentives to anarchism +are political—‘for the sake of the ride’; Mr. Eliot’s +are moral, that is, self-protective—the ride was for +the sake of running away. He ran away from the +collective-real to the individual-real (the <i>Criterion</i> +furnishes us with a progressive record of Mr. Eliot’s +movements). Like Mr. Lewis he opposed aristocratic +orthodoxy (anarchism) to democratic orthodoxy +(co-operation); he deserted the collective +dogma of periods for the collective dogma of individuals. +‘For those of us who are higher than the +mob, and lower than the man of inspiration, there +is always <i>doubt</i>; and in doubt we are living parasitically +(which is better than not living at all) on the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[91]</span>minds of the men of genius of the past who have +believed something’ (from the <i>Enemy</i>, January, +1927). Mr. Lewis advocates grandiloquently but +vaguely aristocratic orthodoxy in general; Mr. +Eliot is dryly and specifically in pursuit of <i>the</i> or at +least <i>an</i> aristocratic orthodoxy. The difference is +that between irritated rightness and alarmed priggishness. +Mr. Lewis is merely led astray by his +extravagant though praiseworthy fury with democratic +orthodoxy; his worshipful enthusiasm for the +classical man of quiet is not dogma but pique against +the modern romantic man of action (time-flux, +space-motion). Mr. Eliot upholds the man of quiet +from dogma. He is a minority-representative, as +the man of the time-flux is a majority-representative. +Mr. Eliot’s position demonstrates clearly +the relation of the individual-real to the collective-real: +it is a priggish, self-protective minority-attitude +to the same material which is the substance of the +dogma of the collective-real. But he objects to ‘mentalism’ +not only, I should say, because it generally +means mob-mentalism, but equally because it may +mean unreal, unorthodox individuality; his anarchism +is timidity fallen between two stools. Mr. +Lewis, however, objects to mentalism, I feel, chiefly +because it generally means demogogic mob-mentalism. +‘By this proposed transfer from the beautiful +<i>objective, material</i>, world of common sense, over to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[92]</span>the “organic” world of chronological mentalism, +you lose not only the clearness of outline, the static +beauty, of the things you commonly apprehend; +you lose also the clearness of outline of your own +individuality which apprehends them.’ I do not +think Mr. Eliot would have been capable of saying +‘your own individuality’; I do not indeed believe +that Mr. Lewis is naturally an individual-realist, +but that he has been unfortunately stung into a +pose.⁠<a id="FNanchor_12_12" href="#Footnote_12_12" class="fnanchor">[12]</a>⁠</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[93]</span></p> + +<p>Aristocratic (as opposed to democratic) orthodoxy +is not, as I have already indicated, a pose with Mr. +Eliot. I said he had <i>an</i> orthodoxy. It would be +helpful to an understanding of the problem to discover +what the nature of an aristocratic orthodoxy +may be. In Mr. Eliot’s case, this is all too obviously: +a humble, up-to-date respect for the best, internationally +sifted great names. A practical-minded +Toryism, which says, in gently criticizing Mr. +Anthony M. Ludovici’s more journalistic Toryism +(The <i>Monthly Criterion</i>, July, 1927): ‘Mr. Ludovici +is engaged in forming what might be called a myth +or idea for the Tory Party. Such a myth or idea has +much to commend it; and I sympathize with so +many of his views that I may declare at once what +seems to me the great weakness of his construction: +he isolates politics from economics, and he isolates +it from religion.’ What Mr. Eliot’s attitude to +economics is it is difficult to determine; I should +say from various evidences that economics to +him did not mean a human problem but an +academic tradition worthy of study. Mr. Eliot has, +from time to time, spoken more specifically on +religion. In the review from which I have just +quoted, Mr. Eliot further says: ‘Toryism is essentially +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[94]</span>Anglican; Roman Catholicism, which in our +time draws its greatest support from America, is +more in harmony with Republicanism. The problem +of Toryism should be rather to make the Church +of Laud survive in an age of universal suffrage....’ +Further, he ardently seconds Mr. Ludovici in +his recommendation that the Conservative Party +should encourage <i>thought</i>, ‘the activity of men of +thought who are not and who do not desire to be +parliamentarians.’ In such quiet language does Mr. +Eliot phrase his gospel of timid, aristocratic mentalism—a +kind of politico-literary extract of Anglo-Catholicism, +if we may judge by signs. His demands +are familiar to every properly brought-up British +schoolboy: that the Church must have more power, +that the Kingship must be strengthened, and that +Aristotle must be studied, supplemented by an +Anglican reading of St. Thomas if the lad is to enter +literature. Yes, literature. I had nearly forgotten +that Mr. Eliot began his Progress as a Poet. But +Mr. Eliot, finding himself higher than the mob +and lower than the man of inspiration, is modest; +he does not ask to be considered, or consider himself, +as a poet. Unless we are deceived by his modesty, +he would be content to be Bishop or to be Professor +Saintsbury.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[95]</span></p> + + +<h4>3</h4> + +<p>Mr. Roger Fry in <i>Transformations</i> concerns himself +with the distinction between pure and impure +art—‘a distinction which Mr. Richards has the good +fortune to be able to ignore.’ Mr. Richards, we +learn from his <i>Principles of Literary Criticism</i> (published +in 1925, the first text-book of psychologico-literary +criticism) is interested in value rather than +in purity. Criticism is to him a minute and comprehensive +gradation of what T. E. Hulme called the +world of religious and ethical values; purity, a +social rather than æsthetic attribute; a moral term, +by which a work is described as a public act of its +author. To Mr. Fry a work is not conduct, it is a +thing; its purity as a thing depends on its dissociation +from authorship. It is impossible not to +prefer Mr. Fry’s criterion to Mr. Richards’; the +former is plainly trying to discover the laws of goodness +in works, the latter, the laws of goodness in +humanity. The works we have with us; humanity, +the idea of species, must be philosophically evoked.</p> + +<p>But what is the nature of the work as thing? +According to Mr. Fry its nature would seem to be +reality. It is created by a sharp separation of the +author’s personality from the material with which +he works, so that his work, when complete, is to be +classified with nature, the world of mathematical +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[96]</span>reality, rather than with man, to whom reality is +a sentimental objectification of his subjectivity. I +should say that Mr. Fry’s criticism made possible a +clearer sense of a work’s <i>self</i> than Mr. Richards’, +but that it created a misunderstanding of the +nature of this self by identifying purity with reality. +In Mr. Fry’s criticism the homologue of a work +would be a thing. But what is a thing and how is it +pure? Pure means being whole, single in element, +nothing but self, thoroughly new and fresh. Impure +means being more and less than whole, complex +in element, not possessing thoroughly new and +fresh selfhood. The ‘things’ of what is called reality +are mere interpretative morsels, tainted with pedigree. +To me the thingishness in a work depends on +no real homologue; the work is a thing of its own +kind, without homologue. The material with which +an author works is not reality but what he is able +to disentangle from reality: in other words I think +the identity is rather of purity and unreality. An +author must first of all have a sure apprehension of +what is self in him, what is new, fresh, not history, +synthesis, reality. In every person there is the possibility +of a small, pure, new, unreal portion which +is, without reference to personality in the popular, +social sense, self. I use ‘self’ in no romantic connotation, +but only because it is the most vivid word +I can find for this particular purefaction. When +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[97]</span>this self has been <i>isolated</i> from all that is impression +and impurity of contact in an individual, then a +‘thing,’ a work, occurs, it is discharged from the +individual, it is self; not <i>his</i> self, but self. If it is not +discharged, it is immediately reabsorbed in that +composite accident of reality by which he is known +to others as a person. Thus many people without +creative ability—the ability to discharge self—must +feel for one passing moment that isolated purity +in themselves which might, if they were able to +sustain it a little longer, turn into ‘things.’ In those +who can from time to time discharge self, the power +is not constant: if it were, ‘creation’ would cease—creation +is intermittent recurrence and repossession +of this power—and there would be death, bright +death.</p> + +<p>The power, then, is not synthetic, is not to compose +things, but to isolate them; it is an analytic power. +Mr. Fry describes the reaction to works of art as a +reaction to a relation. This could only refer to +works which were compositions, attempts to create, +by a synthetic, material (non-personal) action of the +senses, real things; for relation can only result from +synthesis. A work-thing of this kind is a pattern of +reality, an arrangement of elements; and pattern +is accident. The author of a synthetic work can +choose the elements of which it is to be composed, +but they work themselves out: the so-called necessity +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[98]</span>of reality is really <i>accident</i>. The reaction therefore +to the kind of work Mr. Fry speaks of, a ‘real’ +work, is a reaction to accident: the critic, himself +presumably a pattern of reality, experiences a shock +from meeting another pattern which is commandingly +different and hypnotizes him into a rearrangement +of the elements of which he is composed—‘the +esthetic emotion’ is here a sensual recombination +of personality. For this reason I consider such +esthetic emotion false and escapist. The experience, +on the other hand, of a critic confronted with an +‘unreal’ work, would, I believe, be this: if it were a +thing of pure, isolated self, he could not perceive +it except with what was pure, isolated self in him. +He would be forced for the moment to discard what +was real in him; he might, by means of the thing, +succeed in discharging self: the operation of the +thing on him would have an analytic effect separating +in him the pure from the impure, protecting +him for the moment from the ‘esthetic emotion’ +with which in fact he generally reacts to everything. +When Mr. Fry says ‘In literature there is no immediate +sensual pleasure,’ he is really commenting on the +analytic, unreal quality of the word as opposed to +the synthetic (sense-combining), real quality of the +instrumentalities of the material arts. Word-works +in which there is an immediate sensual pleasure are +ones which have been artified, realized. Words in +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[99]</span>their pure use, which I assume to be their poetic +use, are denials rather than affirmations of reality. +The word <i>hat</i>, say, does not create a real hat: it +isolates some element in the real hat which is not +hat, which is unreal, the hat’s self.</p> + +<p>But my description of this unreality would at +first seem to correspond with the unreal world of +poetry described by A. C. Bradley. Mr. Fry quotes +Dr. Bradley: ‘For its (poetry’s) nature is not to be a +part, nor yet a copy, of the real world (as we commonly +understand that phrase), but to be a world +by itself, independent, complete, autonomous.’ The +key-word in this definition is <i>world</i>: Dr. Bradley is +not writing about unreal self but about romantic +humanity. Poetry represents to him the world of +fancy; and by fancy he means ethical, realistic +fancy—the real world of man as opposed to the +real world of mathematical nature. Nor is this a +true opposition: it is impossible to overlook the +significance of the term <i>world</i>—we have here all +over again the ambitious, analogical Soul-World +of Herr Spengler.</p> + +<p>Mr. Fry is at pains to point out the alien, psychological, +literary element in various plastic works, in +determining what is ‘pure’ art. The very term +‘art’ forces him to confine his definition to the +purely real. So that he can do no more than make +a sharp distinction between the art of the real world +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[100]</span>and the art of the unreal (psychological, literary) +world. We are to conclude that in its way the art +of the unreal world (literature) is pure: what is +impure is a mixing of these two worlds. Mr. Fry is +only annoyed by literary art, not by artistic literature.</p> + +<p>But the unreal, literary, psychologically organized +self-world is the collective-real: its existence depends +on a belief in reality, though in reality as a myth. +Nor is the self of Mr. Fry’s real world any less +‘psychological’: but merely a more anarchistic, +individualistic associate of reality, reality hence as +reason rather than myth, or, as Mr. Lewis might +put it, as God Himself rather than religion. And so +the issue between realism and idealism is no more +than a quarrel over methods of affirming reality: +rationalistic instinct as against emotionalistic intellect, +short-way-round as against long-way-round, +anarchistic as against communistic psychology. +Realism is the method of artistic art, idealism, of +literary art. Art is the use of self to make syntheses—things +<i>like</i> ‘real’ things: all controversy about art-methods +narrows itself down to a disagreement over +what real things are <i>like</i>.⁠<a id="FNanchor_13_13" href="#Footnote_13_13" class="fnanchor">[13]</a>⁠</p> + +<p>The controversy, that is, is not over principles +but over style; and style is, ultimately, not so much +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[101]</span>the manner of a work as the manner in which it is +talked about. The end of most criticism is not to +determine what a work must be but to fix the +language of criticism; and it follows that most works +are therefore without the quality of self: they are +made merely to fit the language of criticism popular +at the time or that happens to have made an +impression on the author.</p> + +<p>Criticism has to do with what is already done, +with what has already happened: it is a cataloguing +of reality, and reality is the past. A work +that invites criticism is an exercise in history, +whether its author has the man-history point of +view or the nature-history point of view; it is the +creation of old stuff. Most works are old stuff, +differing only in style; in how they innovate old +stuff; in their critical language: they agree in principle, +that only old stuff is possible—reality, synthesis, +pattern, recombination.</p> + +<p>Mr. Read blames Mr. George Moore for using the +word ‘objective’ to describe what he means by ‘pure +poetry’—‘objective,’ Mr. Read complains, is a +psychological term. It is not one of the what Mr. +Read calls ‘universal terms.’ A universal term +should convey ‘an inner conviction of necessity.’ +What Mr. Read is really complaining of is the unsystematic +use of a psychological term. Criticism +should use the same language about art as it does +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[102]</span>about reality; it should unite philosophy and art in +Reason. Reason is personal, direct, conscious traffic +in reality. It is enlightened magic (‘an inner conviction +of necessity’). Primitive man, being more +instinctively aware of reality, did not need to have +his magic (his art) enlightened. The primitive +artist was a seer, the civilized artist is a visionary: +to Mr. Read reason is the ability to have correct +visions of reality. It is interesting to find that +Mr. Lewis uses the same language of criticism. The +artist is to him a wide-awake dreamer; ‘Don +Quixote, or the Widow Wadman, is as <i>real</i>, to put it +no higher than that, as most people ostensibly alive +and walking the earth to-day’; ‘For me art is +the civilized <i>substitute</i> for magic.’ To both Mr. +Read and Mr. Lewis purity means that magical +intelligence, that inspired (rather than primitive, +stupid ‘objective’) literalness which may be philosophically +defined as the individual-real. Both, +moreover, object to art that is magical in the primitive +sense as to an anachronism; it is fabricated +sensationism, it is the collective-real, it is ideological +rather than natural symbolism.⁠<a id="FNanchor_14_14" href="#Footnote_14_14" class="fnanchor">[14]</a> They are +interested in getting man into proper focus in +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[103]</span>reality, and in his usefulness as an instrument of +measurement: they are interested, that is, in psychology, +in the language of criticism, the mathematics +of synthesis.</p> + +<p>Mr. Richards, too, is primarily interested in +the language of criticism. He condemns Beauty-and-Truth +terminology—the criticism that treats +civilized art as unintelligent magic, in fact. He +not only recognizes Reason as man’s participation +in the patterns of reality; he insists on Reason +as social duty; criticism is to him morality. The +mathematics of synthesis by which reality may +be accurately apprehended are to be developed +by turning the human world into a world of values: +making conduct (communication, relation) achieve +significant pattern. Conduct is then the training of +the community as a whole in traffic in reality, with +the artist as band-master—‘the arts are the supreme +form of communicative activity.’ Value (the graded +necessity of reality) is to be discovered by a ‘systematization +of impulses.’ We have here that intelligent, +superior, adult instinct which Mr. Lewis believes +should supply the civilized substitute for magic—the +instinct equally of the collective-real, with only +a difference of degree in sophistication, manners. +Instinct in the collective-real is always either unconsciously +or consciously flamboyant, grossly poetic; +in the individual-real always consciously reserved, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[104]</span>meticulously poetic (art, Mr. Richards says, deals +with ‘minute particulars’). But it is always the same +instinct, the nostalgic desire to reconstitute an +illusory whole that has no integrity but the integrity +of accident.</p> + +<p>Respect for this accidental quality of reality +(necessity) may be expressed either by the enthusiasm +of what Mr. Lewis calls the Revolutionary +Simpleton, who is always religiously anticipating +accident, or by what I should like to call Mr. +Richards’ Moral Simpleton, who observes a reverent +plasticity in the development (accidental rearrangement) +of custom. And I should like to add Mr. +Lewis’s own hero, the Individualistic Simpleton, +who is to be forced ‘to remain absolutely alone for +several hours every day.’ Why? To become unreal? +No, to become more real, to be made into ‘much +better people.’ But if they were much better people +already (if a kind of criticism of reality prevailed +which satisfied Mr. Lewis), then Mr. Lewis, however +free he might permit himself to be, would +certainly not worry them with individualism.⁠<a id="FNanchor_15_15" href="#Footnote_15_15" class="fnanchor">[15]</a> He +wants them free now only as a protest, an act of +spiteful superiority against the collective-real. The +individual-real is not concerned with self but with +exposing the stupidity, the hypocrisy of the fanatic +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[105]</span>mob. Instead of freeing the self to self, it frees it +to Reason, to prove merely that intelligent civilized +individuals can be in closer touch with reality than +a stupid civilized mob: that they can know more, +conform more perfectly to customs of more perfect +taste, control what is unreal self in them more +systematically, respond more respectfully, regularly +(classical-poetically) to the stimuli of accidental +reality. That they can behave, that is, by finding a +civilized substitute for magic, like a perfect primitive +mob of philosophy-fed art students.</p> + + +<h4>4</h4> + +<p>Mr. Richards quotes Dr. Bradley’s definition of +poetry as an illustration of the sort of criticism to +which he is opposed. In principle, however, I do +not think they are opposed. Dr. Bradley’s ‘world +by itself’ is fundamentally allied with Mr. Richards’ +world of values: the difference is that Dr. Bradley’s +world—not ‘a copy of the real world,’ not bound +up with human affairs—gets its revelations of reality +through the imagination, that is, dreaming, while +Mr. Richards’ world gets its revelations of reality +through waking. Both worlds are trying to prove +how real they are, the one lying down, the other standing +up. They are the same world in different attitudes, +the æsthetic attitude and the moral attitude. +The protagonist of the first says, ‘I cannot do two +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[106]</span>things at once—apprehend reality and make money +or eat my supper at the same time, I must set aside +a part of the day sacred to reality, in which I +do nothing else, sleep over it, as it were.’ The +protagonist of the second says: ‘Pshaw, affected +sensitiveness. I can sharpen knives, shave, cook, +travel, marry, go to church and apprehend reality +at the same time: in fact, whatever I do is all the +better done for this, and I apprehend reality all the +better for what I do.’ Whether a person apprehends +reality from the moral or from the æsthetic point +of view is all a matter of energy: what seems easy +to one person may seem difficult to another, and <i>vice +versa</i>. Thus, to Mr. Richards, the moral theory +of art ‘has the most great minds behind it,’ ‘the +most prominent of these great minds being Plato, +Aristotle, Horace, Dante, Spenser, Milton, the +Eighteenth Century, Coleridge, Shelley, Matthew +Arnold and Pater.’ Which leads us to believe that +as a ‘moral’ critic Mr. Richards is something of an +æsthetician.</p> + + +<h4>5</h4> + +<p>Modern criticism has supplemented itself with psychology, +or rather with its literary version, psycho-analysis. +If criticism is primarily interested in the +language in which reality is discussed, then it must +have a partner to deal with the rough physical side +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[107]</span>of reality—a field worker in reality. Criticism confines +itself to taste; psycho-analysis to substantiating +taste with practical data.</p> + +<p>‘We are our bodies,’ Mr. Richards says: that is, +we should try to be our bodies, to exist psycho-analytically, +to provide criticism with data. The +view that we are our bodies, Mr. Richards says, +should not be described as Materialism—‘it might +equally well be called <i>Idealism</i>.’ All criticism, he +means to say, is an appreciation of reality; criticisms +differ in method, never in principle. With the +help of psycho-analysis we pay reality the compliment +of saying ‘we are our bodies’; and reality, with +the help of criticism, returns the compliment, permitting +us to say ‘our bodies are us.’</p> + +<p>As bodies we are acted upon by reality; this is +the psycho-analytic half of the trick. The action of +reality on us produces effects which reveal the +nature of this reality which acts on us; a description +of this nature is the critical half of the trick. It is +not suggested that as bodies we may act on reality, +for this would reveal the fact that bodies were not +like reality a solid lump, but separate and independently +acting; it would indicate a break-up of +reality, open up the problem of the unreal, and +O! What a mess we should be in then. Let us have +order while we can.</p> + +<p>‘To know anything,’ Mr. Richards says, ‘is to be +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[108]</span>influenced by it.’ This makes things still more +simple and comfortable: we do not have to worry +about anything which is not <i>here</i>, which does not +affect us, which is not reality. We are what we +know, and what we know is also what we know. +The echo of matter in mind proves that there is +matter, and also that mind is matter. The mind +need have no fear of becoming lost in itself so long +as it continues to know, to be affected. It need not +be afraid to produce art so long as art remains a +knowing of reality; knowing of reality is reality: as +echo of sound is also sound. Mr. Read quotes sympathetically +Professor Sonnenschein’s learned expression +of this echo-theory as applied to poetry: +‘Rhythm is that property of a sequence of events in +time which produces on the mind of the observer +the impression of proportion between the duration +of several events or groups of events of which the +sequence is composed.’ ‘A good artist,’ Mr. Read +says, ‘is firstly a good critic.’ He predisposes his +mind materially to apprehend reality, to receive +echoes: ‘The work of art emerges within a radiation +of critical perceptions.’</p> + +<p>If every one began systematically treating himself +as mind, we should all quickly become separate +individuals and know ourselves, and the symbols we +used would not be echoes of reality but themselves, +and then indeed we should be in deep water. To +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[109]</span>prevent this possibility psycho-analysis is called on +to supplement ‘the narrowness of criticism’ (Mr. +Read’s phrase). Criticism is presumably narrow because +it deals with forms, while psycho-analysis can +roll up its sleeves, poke around in the stuff from +which the symbol is derived, and ‘help us test its +social validity’ (Mr. Read)—‘social’ meaning pro-matter, +anti-mind: mind can only be pro-matter +when it is collective mind.</p> + +<p>Psycho-analysis divides people into two types—introverted +and extraverted. Introversion represents +error in man, a straying away from reality +into self, a going of the mind into mind. Both +psycho-analysis and criticism agree that this process +cannot, or rather <i>should not</i> produce art. Both processes, +<i>or their possibility</i>, exist in each individual +(psycho-analysis is forced to admit that introversion +always exists; extraversion exists if the individual is +‘successful’). They may, it is held, be combined in +<i>phantasy</i>, and phantasy produces ‘living reality,’ art. +But what is this phantasy but the whole introversive +world of man behaving extraversively—the collective-real? +Unless it is introversion actually transformed +in the individual into extraversion, individual +mind into matter of ‘more than individual +use’ (as Mr. Read defines creative phantasies)—the +individual real? The opposition between collective-real +and individual-real disappears in the general +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[110]</span>agreement between all parties that, by no matter +what method, introversion must be extraverted. +Likewise the opposition between romanticism and +classicism: romanticism is acceptable if it has an +extraverted, classical touch; classicism is not necessarily +damaged by an introverted, romantic touch, +so long as it does not lose complete hold of extraversion.</p> + +<p>Extraversion, it is clear, is intelligent body-being. +What introversion is it seems difficult to say, since +it is always defined by defamatory comparison with +extraversion. ‘Jung,’ Mr. Read says, ‘further differentiates +<i>active</i> and <i>passive</i> phantasy—the latter a +morbid state which we do not need to stop to +consider here.’ Complete introversion is presumably +not intelligent mind-being, but a pathological +condition. Individual mind-being is not intelligent, +pathological, because it does not make for unanimity. +And both psycho-analysis and criticism want +some unanimous, collective mind in contemporary +man like the collective mind in primitive man, +with the distinction—made in consideration of +the grown-up, individualized character of modern +man—that this must be an intelligent collective +mind, inspired with Reason, a refined version of +brutish objectivity. ‘We need some unanimity,’ Mr. +Read says, ‘to focus the vague desires that exist in +the collective mind.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[111]</span></p> + +<p>But what is the collective mind? A herd of deer +clinging together may be said to have unanimity, +but it can scarcely be said to have a mind: it has +unanimity because to the extent to which it clings +together it <i>is</i> brutish, natural reality. And the same +is true of primitive man up to the point where +individual works of art occur; at this point the hold +on reality has been lost, unanimity can only be +maintained by force, and by the force of a few +masterful but pathological, introversive, mind-being +individuals. Collective mind is a contradiction in +terms: what is meant is intelligent (self-enslaving) +collective matter.</p> + +<p>And here psycho-analysis is more consistent than +criticism because it is frankly interested in extraversion +rather than in extraversive works: it would +not seriously worry psycho-analysis if works and +their authors were discontinued: it would still have +Case B, in which Mr. X and Miss Y.... Criticism, +on the other hand, cannot get along without +famous works by famous authors, which are, moreover, +a continual source of discord since they are +all introversive in origin and cannot be allowed to +take their place in literature until they have been +rigorously extraversified.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[112]</span></p> + + +<h4>6</h4> + +<p>Psychoanalytic criticism makes the emotion with +which a work is experienced merely a more complicated, +appreciative kind of sensation. In sensation +the cause of sensation, a real object (experience), +attacks the individual; he is helpless <i>not</i> to respond, +he can only classify his response according to +whether he does or does not enjoy it. Every sensory +experience is a destruction of his originality. The +work of art presented to him on this response-basis +is a deliberately aggressive real object intended to +usurp his originality in a more constructive way +than ordinary sensation. Even the freedom of +classifying sensation according to its enjoyableness +is denied him: a forced classification is contained +in the object-work, representing not a principle of +personal preference, but of social preference, +expressing the criticism, or Reason, of the time. +The ordinary object has generally only an immediate, +disorganized sensory effect; the object-work +reaches back into the whole past of the individual, +re-adapting it to itself by means of memory. All +image-making involved in so-called appreciative, +reactive experience is a perversion of originality, of +the independent power of acting upon initiative, +to the derived power of acting upon incentive: +the critical bias, first interpreting works as object-works, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[113]</span>then inspiring works to be object-works +means ‘imitation’.</p> + +<p>So little does pure, original action seem possible +or desirable that we have no word for an impulse +contrary in its nature to the nature of reaction, for +dissociative rather than associative conduct—disaction. +To the psycho-analyst all activity is interpretable +only as reaction to sensation; to the professional +critic (Mr. Richards, for example) all +critical conduct is imaginary re-activity: we have +the individual’s originality not momentarily +eclipsed, but actually engaged in destroying itself, +enriching sensation with the complicated depth of +personality.</p> + +<p>Art so conceived thus becomes a skilful thwarting +of originality. The immediate shock to the consciousness +which a work brings, which might be +expected to encourage an independence in the +consciousness, a dissociation from reality (influences) +and a development of its differences from +reality, is utilized to possess the consciousness for +reality, to force it to organize itself according to +its resemblances (responses) to the particular object-work +by which it is attacked. Art is an exaggeration +of the hostile operation of reality on +the individual consciousness, an exaggeration proportioned +to overcome the originality which offers a +casual, disorganized resistance to ordinary objects. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[114]</span>Between object and object there is a complete +hypnotic interaction by which reality is maintained +and which exists only partially between man and +object because man is possessed of originality. +The object-work is therefore an object especially +designed to correct this originality in man by +ensnaring him in a more than ordinarily intense +field of hypnotic action.</p> + +<p>A poem, then, in the critical scheme, is only a +work in the sense that it achieves a value equal to +an exceptionally ‘good’ experience; it is an especially +high-class object, one that makes use of all +man’s powers for reconstructing reality: a model +object, as the poet is supposed to be a model man. +But man’s powers for reconstructing reality are +really a misuse of his powers for constructing +himself out of the wreckage which is reality. The +only true entity possible to man is an analytic +entity: the synthetic entities of art are all parodies +of self. An original poem is only seemingly synthetic; +the words of which it is made are both the +instrument of the analysis and the substance of the +pure self of the poem which emerges from the +analysis. Every poem of this kind is an instance of +fulfilled originality, a model, to the reader, of constructive +dissociation: an incentive not to response +but to initiative. Poetry is properly an art of +individualization as opposed to the other arts, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[115]</span>which are arts of communication. To compare a +poem with a picture or with a piece of music +or sculpture, is to treat analytic entities and synthetic +entities as if they were objects of similar +reality. Synthetic entities are imitative, communicative, +provocative of association: their keynote +is organized social sanity. Analytic entities are +original, dissociative, and provocative of dissociation: +their keynote is organized personal insanity. +This is why, in hurried scientific fear, the shamen +of psycho-analysis and criticism explain as pure +introversion only obviously morbid conditions, +making out art to be, wherever possible, redeemed +introversion. If criticism of this sort persists there +is no doubt that art will in time produce only +synthetic entities: that is, poetry will disappear. +Indeed it may be the prevalence of such criticism +that is responsible for the present situation of +poetry; why, in Mr. Read’s words, there is ‘no +adequate literary equivalent in England for the +impressive organization and intellectual content of +the modern movement in painting.’ For poems as +synthetic entities must obviously always run a very +poor second to pictures.</p> + + +<h4>7</h4> + +<p>As to the problem of rhythm and the point +of view I have been applying. Rhythm in the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[116]</span>decorative poetic sense in which it is generally used +is, I believe, a strictly prose property. Prose is an +inclusive medium, its merit depends on its fullness. +The more rich in illustration, detail, rhythmic intricacies +it is, the better prose it is, the more effective +as an instrument of synthesis. It is poetry, on the +other hand, which is properly harsh, bare, matter-of-fact. +Punctuation, the notation of rhythm, is +essentially a prose development, a means of managing +the intricate language-flow. Prose is the +social, civilized instrument of communication. The +restraints put on it are like the complicated conventions +that govern an apparently free-and-easy +but actually rigidly prescribed drawing-room atmosphere.</p> + +<p>The purpose of poetry is to destroy all that prose +formally represents. It is an exclusive medium, and +its merit depends on the economy with which it can +remove the social rhythmic clutter of communicative +language. The savage <i>tom-tom</i> is poetry of a +brutally specialized kind used to eliminate everything +in the listeners but the purpose with which +it has been argumentatively overloaded. Non-purposive +poetry has all the eliminating force of +the <i>tom-tom</i> without the grotesque effects of special +pleading. A suppression of all associative obligations +that might hinder analysis takes place in +the poet: by this narrowness he is free as by the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[117]</span>synthetic broadness of prose the prose-writer is +bound. And it is this narrowness that is the only +rhythm proper to poetry. Metre is an attempt to +soften the economy and narrowness requisite in +poetry; and it is likely to cause, and in the main has +caused, only a more fancy, mannered prose than +prose; to misrepresent the nature of restraint and +limitation in poetry. The end of poetry is to leave +everything as pure and bare as possible after its +operation. It is therefore important that its tools +of destruction should be as frugal, economical +as possible. When the destruction or analysis is +accomplished they shall have to account for their +necessity; they are the survivors, the result as +well as the means of the elimination. They are the +pure residue, and the meaning if there is any; and +they vary in each poem only according to the +amount of destruction they have done and the +clutter with which they began. The greater the +clutter attacked and the smaller, the purer, the +residue to which it is reduced (the more destructive +the tools), the better the poem.</p> + +<p>Rhythm in poetry is therefore a deadly hammer, +hammer away in which each word demonstrates +its necessity and in which each word is accented. +In prose there is accenting, then a long period of +relaxation, the harshness of the important words is +absorbed in the unimportant words: it is rhythmic. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[118]</span>Prose is skilful manipulation of the whole standing +vocabulary, and a great deal of poetry merely +competes with prose in vocabularistic manipulation. +Poetry is a selection of a few words from this +inert mass, which justify, quicken themselves, in its +destruction. The abruptness of poetry, commonly +softened into prosaic musicalness, is due to the +implied omission at every point of rhythmic prose +language. Poetry is narrow (like the poem on the +page), broken, quick; prose is broad, rhythmic, +slow. Poetry is personal, prosaic. Prose is social, +dressed out in verbal amenities, poetic.</p> + + +<h4>8</h4> + +<p>As to the application of the kind of point of view +that I have outlined to an individual’s relations +with his fellows and, beyond that, to the relations of +a poem with reality. As to fellows: the unsocial, +ascetic concentration of self on self, the analytic +intensification of personality to a state of unreality, +makes personality a pure, not diffuse, a restrained +and completely private activity. Where personality +was of this nature, all synthetic, public, real life +would be impersonal and formal—it would have +manners for the sake of communicative ease, not +for the sake of concealing or discovering, or suppressing +or standardizing personality. Real life, I mean, +as an abstract, general life would be happier so than +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[119]</span>as a concrete synthesis of personalities. It would not +be a source of physical nourishment for personality. +The unreal person would not feed on or be absorbed +in the pattern; he would sharpen and try his +asceticism in it. A view of this kind, making +society an artificial pattern based on accident +instead of a ‘real’ pattern based on necessity, is the +only possible clue to the reconciliation of freedom +and formality. To attempt to discover and form +personality in the social pattern is to make social +life dull, vulgar and aggressive, and life with self, +dull, morbid and trivial. To treat social life as an +impersonal pattern is to give it the theatrical vitality +of humour and to make life with self strong and +serious. The social problem is for each individual +how to reach the proper degree of humorous formality +in his communicative language, his clothes, +his home; not how to acquire a vicarious personal +life which has no content but a gross synthetic +personality-desire. Social life (life with others) as +opposed to personal life (life with self) should be +as dancing opposed to walking—formal meaningless +gesture as opposed to eccentric significant character. +Certain strictly social arts such as music would +become immediately tolerable and desirable if +treated as arts of gesture rather than of character.</p> + +<p>Now as to poems and reality. A poem is an +advanced degree of self, as reality is an advanced +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[120]</span>degree of social life. The poem dances the dance +of reality, but with such perfect artificiality that +the dance, from very perfection, cancels itself and +leaves, as far as reality is concerned, Nothing. +But as far as the poem is concerned, Nothing is +a dancer walking the ruins; character, by the +ascetic nature of its energy, surviving gesture. +This asceticism is the creative formality of the +poem. Its critical formality is its original deadly +participation in the dance. Where we find no +critical formality the poem represents diffusion +of self in the literary, synthetic self of reality; +wantonness of gesture; sentimental corruption of +character; tedious extension of reality beyond decent +limits of sociality; instead of the dance, an +orgy of improprieties. Where we find only critical +formality, there is the same moral laxity, but concealed +under a squeamish disciplinary veneer; the +difference between ‘romantic’ and ‘classical,’ +merely.</p> + + +<h4>9</h4> + +<p>Mr. Lewis’s ambitious offensive against wrongness +makes a nice point of conclusion, as it made a nice +starting-point, for this exercise. Most of Mr. Lewis’s +confusions are due to his attempt to correlate his +political system with his taste. His political system is +consistent with itself; we agree with it unreservedly +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[121]</span>or we agree with it not at all. His taste is inconsistent +with itself wherever it has been made to conform +with his political system: it becomes a nagging, expedient +right, lacking the proper indifference of +taste and the proper consistency of a political +attitude. It is therefore obviously futile to treat with +Mr. Lewis on matters of taste; while, on the other +hand, it may be helpful to consider certain clear +features of his political system.</p> + +<p>(<i>a</i>) To the popularist progress is socially continuous; +culture is the large-scale, accumulative +participation of everyman in progress; conduct is +behaviourism, perfect social automatism. To the +individualist progress is political rather than social—aristocratically +hereditary through that bluest +blood, Reason; culture is eclectic, conduct is anarchistic, +the perfection of the individualism of the +few who are in this system responsible for the social +conformity of the rest. They differ in their opinion +of the size of a potent political group: the former +believes that the entire social group may form the +political group, the latter that the political group +is an independent minority representative of the +social group. But both support the idea of a progressive +tradition; to the one it is mystical and +collective, to the other rationally and personally +maintained. And to both the idea of a non-social +self outside the tradition and without reference to a +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[122]</span>cultural line of succession (a self, rather, ‘beginning +again and again and again’) would be equally +foreign and repulsive. Mr. Lewis’s concrete, ‘stable’ +person is only an upper-class version of the hysterical, +hypnotic, mass social self—more realistic, +steady, decorous, common-sensible. The suppression +of individual will by mass-will of which Mr. +Lewis complains refers only to checks on political +opportunism: what he is really interested in is +power not individuality. He appreciates the fact +that sociality means loss of personal consciousness. +His solution is that the few strong individuals who +object to loss of consciousness should benefit by an +anarchistic dispensation that leaves them their +consciousness intact in order that they may politically +administer sociality to the unconscious.</p> + +<p>(<i>b</i>) Mr. Lewis’s individualistic compromises come +from his unwillingness to face the dualistic character +of the individual—his real, social effect, his unreal, +more-than-anarchistic self-subtraction from the +social group for purposes of identity. For various +reasons Mr. Lewis has not been able to shake himself +free of the academic, philosophical force of the +language that he uses; the problem is in any case +too fine for his rough argumentative methods. He +would have first to overcome his prejudice against +dualistic concepts arising from their shady association +with romantic ventures in philosophy, a task of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[123]</span>patience not in harmony with his temperament. In +any case, his political sense is too strong, too orthodox, +to permit of his admitting that the identity of +the individual may be established outside the social +group. We may find the clue to his dogmatism in +this respect in the accent of philosophical awe with +which he pronounces ‘reality.’ Reality’s the thing; +the individual is only (in a few individuals specializing +in individualism) an honourable second. Even +unreality may not be a thing by itself: it is (and this +seems to be Mr. Lewis’s general conclusion) the +queer slant at which reality is seen. To say that +reality is unreal, from Mr. Lewis’s viewpoint, is like +saying that sugar is sweet: the queer slant is in +reality, not in the individual, as the sweetness is in +the sugar, not in the tongue. ‘Unreal’ is in this +usage merely a more philosophic-sounding word +than ‘pretty,’ ‘spiritual,’ ‘mysterious’ or ‘queer.’ +‘The reality,’ Mr. Lewis complains, ‘has definitely +installed itself inside the contemporary mind’—it +has become what I have called the fairy-tale of the +collective-real. Mr. Lewis, that is, is more interested +in the prestige of reality than in the general integrity +of the individual mind. His implication being +that if the contemporary mind had definitely +installed itself in ‘the reality’ all would be well. +We should have a social group psycho-physically +imbedded in reality, the individual consciousness +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[124]</span>being in this case the fairy-tale—with a few independent +individual consciousnesses wagging themselves +wisely and anarchistically in political appreciation +of the situation. Farther than this Mr. +Lewis is unable to go. He contents himself with +establishing the concreteness, the social security of +the wiseacres. His brand of individualism depends +on the social setting for authentication; he does not +dare to separate the fact of individuality from the +fact of sociality and reveal how they maintain themselves +in one person through a contradiction, not +through ‘reason.’ The contradiction is difficult to +grasp, as is the dualism from which it proceeds, and +difficult to persevere in clearly and equitably once +it is grasped; demanding infinite precision and much +active distress and conferring few brilliant occasions +on those who do grasp it. And Mr. Lewis’s brand of +individualism is more immediately ambitious, more +impatient, more realistic. He does not trust himself +to wait upon successes or brilliant occasions. +He skilfully glozes over the fine distinctions, makes +politic compromises with the reality sufficient to +assure the more astute members of the social group +of a few ready individualistic privileges, and sneers +down with aristocratic scorn the political idealism +of the mob. He is willing to go all the way back to +wipe out the effects of historical romancing; he is +unwilling to come all the way forward again and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[125]</span>risk doing the job thoroughly (the job, that is, of +thinking through to the fine distinctions), as it might +be now done. And so he remains, for all his intellectual +swagger, a mere reactionary and anarchist. +Another hero who, having fought just hard enough +to permit him to celebrate a triumph, but not hard +enough to force a conclusive battle, has claimed +his laurels in Rome and retired to live upon them; +the fine distinctions still untaken. ‘For the former +generals, as soon as they believed their exploits had +entitled them to the honour of triumphal distinctions, +always abandoned the enemy. Insomuch that there +were already in Rome three statues adorned with +laurel; but still Tacfarinas was ravaging Africa....’</p> + +<p>(<i>c</i>) Mr. Lewis’s world of reality is what we see +plus what we know: what we know is the queer +slant in what we see, not the queer slant in us. Our +knowledge is the poetic touch in reality. The world +of reality for the collective-real is what we see, alone; +the fact itself of reality is poetic. But the differences +are fundamentally slight. Knowing is the individualistic +comprehension of seeing; conscious, +literal perception versus crude, mystical mass-sensation; +private ownership of reality versus the +vulgar, public, figurative participation in reality +of the impoverished working-class mob—that is, +anarchistic, personal seizure of reality made possible +by the philosophical vagueness of the mob. (For +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[126]</span>example, Mr. Lewis could not argue his position +either with success or impunity in Russia.) I repeat, +then, that the differences between the collective-real +and the individual-real are fundamentally +slight. Both defer to the snobbism of reality: it is +reality and not the individual that matters. And +both are poetic, a sentimental fusion of two contradictory +categories, a wilful blurring by the intelligence +of the dualism upon which it is based. +Both, for example, have difficulty in defining ‘the +object,’ due to their unwillingness to admit this +duality; so that the same fusion and blurring that +takes place in the individual takes place in the +object as well. The romantic inwardness of the one +inflates its faults and delusions to a degree of +obviousness that invites and facilitates attack. The +common-sense outwardness of the other is more +aggressive, but more discreet, hiding under its well-bred +anarchism and upper-class self-deprecation an +enormous greed of possession. The one is childishly +content with a fairy-tale of possession; the other +insists haughtily upon a true story. But for both the +problem, whether as seeing or seeing and knowing, +is essentially the same: to have or not to have. +As for being, it is not a proper poetic, not a proper +philosophical and therefore not a proper political +question, and therefore out of order.</p> + +<p>(<i>d</i>) The evasion of both of these two systems of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[127]</span>the dualism that I have attempted to suggest without +romantic prejudice is reflected in their respective +treatment of time and space. Recognizing +the antinomy of time and space, they dismiss the +possibility of enforcing it practically as too frightening: +if what is is made to be what is, then we +have nothing but what is; we cannot fool ourselves; +therefore evasion and philosophy. The antinomian +pie is cut. Mr. Lewis’s side takes space; the +other side takes time; and both sides now devote +their energies to proving that each has the better +piece. And certainly both have very good pieces. +In space occurs a disintegration that may prove +space, through its particulars; in time, an assemblage +of particulars that need not however develop +particularity, but merely prove time, through the +standardizing of its particulars. Good pieces. But +only pieces. Space suffering from excessive definiteness; +time from excessive indefiniteness. Each trying +to pretend it is the whole pie, but each remaining +just a self-infatuated piece. Space-synthesis, time-synthesis—philosophical +impostures with different +political methods, one conservative, old-fashioned, +the other revolutionary, modernist. Time a sort +of negative space, space a sort of positive time. +Space-ist philosophy belied by its individualism, +time-ist philosophy by its generalism. To the time-men +the wholeness, the reality, is administered by a +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[128]</span>democratic Self; a Self not sufficiently self-ish, +nothing-ish, unreal, small, instantly conceived, to +be real in a time-scheme; therefore mystical, +poetic. To the space-men, the wholeness, the +reality, is administrated by an anarchistic, aristocratic +God; a God too personal, too concretely +particular, too specially knowable, too real, in fact, +to be real in a space-scheme; therefore rationalistic, +poetic. The time-men re-inforce the democratic +Self with Everybody. The space-men re-inforce +God with Art, which is a few superior minds +capable of animating the material world ‘with some +degree of mental existence.’ For by itself—and this +is Mr. Lewis’s astounding conclusion—the material +world is unreal. And we, too, are unreal—we should +regard ourselves, he thinks, as surface creatures. +But his conclusion is less astounding if we understand +it as the debater’s final shock that clinches the +argument: the material world is unreal and we too +are unreal <i>if</i> we do not believe in reality. If we +believe in reality ‘God becomes the supreme symbol +of our separation and of our limited transcendence.’ +God is the queer slant which through faith (the +proper geometric point of view) may be conceived +as ultimately (that is, in the absolute sense) +straight. And faith is reason. In the time-scheme +the democratic Self is the queer slant; it is a +sceptical, an ultimate queer slant. And scepticism +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[129]</span>is romanticism: vague, insincere, sweeping transcendence +of the material world. Mr. Lewis, then, +is not, as it at first seemed, against transcendence, +but only against temporal transcendence. He does +not object to evasion and philosophy, but rather +wishes them to be more zealous, individualistic, +spatial; more evasive and philosophical; to be Art. +The temporal what-may-be comes too carelessly +close to the what-is. Art, backed up by God, begs +the question more efficiently; anarchistic but timid +instead of socialistic but bold. It now only remains +to be decided whether Mr. Lewis’s stand-by is Art +or God; and since God was a late-comer in his +scheme we can decide in favour of Art—and Mr. +Lewis.</p> + +<p>(<i>e</i>) But Art. Art is artists. And what is artists? +Artists is a few superior minds. Artist is short for +artists. Mr. Lewis is not short for artists but long +for himself. As between artists and himself, Mr. +Lewis decides in favour of himself; it is therefore +still easier for us to decide in favour of Mr. Lewis. +Against artists. What is artists? For example, Mr. +E. M. Forster is artists, as is to be seen in his book +<i>Aspects of the Novel</i>. The novel is a ‘spongy tract.’ +It is ‘bounded by two chains of mountains ... +Poetry and History....’ The novel tells a story. +The characters are either flat or round. The +‘element of surprise’ ... is of great importance in +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[130]</span>a plot. Then Fantasy. (Here compare Mr. Lewis’s +treatment of <i>Ulysses</i> with Mr. Forster’s and you +will understand perhaps why Mr. Lewis is not +artists.) Then prophecy: ‘In Dostoevsky the characters +and situations always stand for more than +themselves; infinity attends them; though they +remain individuals they expand to embrace it and +summon it to embrace them; one can apply to them +the saying of St. Catherine of Sienna, that God is +in the soul and the soul is in God as the sea is in the +fish and the fish is in the sea.’ D. H. Lawrence is +‘the only prophetic novelist writing to-day ... the +only living novelist in whom the song predominates, +who has the rapt bardic quality, and whom it is idle +to criticize.’ (Compare Mr. Lewis’s criticism of +Lawrence with Mr. Forster’s, and you will understand +further why Mr. Lewis is not artists.) Then +Pattern and Rhythm. <i>Thais</i> is the shape of an hour-glass. +<i>Roman Pictures</i>, by Percy Lubbock, is shaped +like a grand chain. Also Henry James. But a +pattern must not be too rigid. If it is, ‘beauty has +arrived, but in too tyrannous a guise.’ For ‘the +novel is not capable of as much artistic development +as the drama: its humanity or the grossness +of its material hinder it.... Still, this is not the end +of our quest. We will not give up the hope of beauty +yet. Cannot it be introduced into fiction by some +other method than pattern? Let us edge rather +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[131]</span>nervously towards the idea of “rhythm.”’ We then +learn that ‘rhythm is sometimes quite easy.’ And +so to bed and pleasant dreams about the development +of the novel mixed up with the development +of humanity (‘the interminable tape-worm,’ as +Mr. Forster had called it earlier in the day when +it was ‘wriggling on the forceps’). No, Mr. Lewis +is not artists. He is not an aristocrat, but a distracted +and disaffected rough-neck. He has no more +real connection with aspects of the novel than +Nietzsche with any of the numerous ‘æsthetic +revivals’ of his time. Like Nietzsche his politics +and philosophy are æsthetic only in the sense that +they are personal. His few ‘superior minds’ are +himself. If he had made this clear in the very +beginning he would have saved himself and those +who have been good enough to follow him a great +deal of unnecessary distraction. Politeness, God, +reality—these are all Mr. Lewis in kid gloves +embracing himself. His rightness consists in his +embracing himself, his wrongness in his wearing +kid gloves. For anarchism is not enough. It is +obviously not enough for Mr. Lewis. The kid gloves +which enabled him to rush into society confused +the dualism on which selfhood certainly depends. +When he takes them off (as it is probable he will in +time, for he does not seem happy in them) and +shakes himself by the bare hand, his enthusiasm over +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[132]</span>his own unreal individuality will have a bare-handed +social concomitant more like Bolshevism +than anarchism. Or rather, Mr. Lewis will find +that not even Bolshevism is enough. What is +enough? Nothing is enough. And until Mr. Lewis +finds this out he will go on celebrating more and +more ferociously his ferocious pangs of hunger, +seconded by dozens of famished æsthetic revivalists.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[133]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="HOW_CAME_IT_ABOUT"> + HOW CAME IT ABOUT? + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>How came it about that Mrs. Paradise the +dressmaker is here to dress me, and Mr. Babcock +the bootmaker to boot me and a whole science of +service to serve me, and that I am precisely here to +be served? Do not speak to me of economics: that +is merely a question of how we arrange matters between +us. And do not speak to me of genesis: I am +discussing the question of Mrs. Paradise and Mr. +Babcock and myself and the others as immediate +causes of one another, I am not discussing creation. +Personally, I do not believe in creation. Creation is +stealing one thing to turn it into another. What I +<i>am</i> discussing is existence, uncorrupted by art—how +came it about, and so forth. Do not speak to me of +love: Mrs. Paradise and Mr. Babcock and myself +and all the others do not like each other, in fact, we +dislike each other because each of us is most certainly +the cause of the other. I am the reason for +Mrs. Paradise’s making frocks and Mrs. Paradise is +the reason for my wearing frocks. If it were not for +each other we should be occupied only with ourselves; +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[134]</span>we should not exist. How then came we to +exist? I ask this question. Mrs. Paradise asks this +question. I am Mrs. Paradise’s answer. Mrs. Paradise +is my answer. As for Mr. Babcock, he has hair +on his nose and I never look at him. As for all the +others, I must put up a notice asking them to ring +the bell gently.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>There is a woman in this city who loathes me. +There are people everywhere who loathe me. I +could name them; if they were in a book I could +turn to the exact page. People who loathe me do so +for one of two reasons: because I have frightened +them because I have loathed them (that is, made +my death-face at them, which I shall not describe +as it might in this way lose some of its virtue) or because +they are interested in me and there seems no +practical way of (or excuse for) satisfying their +interest. As to love, that is another matter—it has +nothing to do with either interest or fear. Love is +simply a matter of history, beginning like cancer +from small incidents. There is nothing further to +be said about it.</p> + +<p>But as to loathing: I feel an intense intimacy with +those who have this loathing interest in me. Further +than this, I know what they mean, I sympathize +with them, I understand them. There should be a +name (as poetic as love) for this relationship between +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[135]</span>loather and loathed; it is of the closest and +more full of passion than incest.</p> + +<p>To continue about this woman. What is to her +irritation is to me myself. She has therefore a very +direct sense of me, as I have a very direct sense of +her, from being a kind of focus of her nervous system. +There is no sentiment, no irony between us, +nothing but feeling: it is an utterly serious relationship.</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">For if one eat my meat, though it be known</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The meat was mine, the excrement is his own.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p>I forget in what context these words were used by +Donne—but they express very accurately how +organic I feel this relationship to be. The tie between +us is as positive as the tie between twins is +negative. I think of her often. She is a painter—not +a very good painter. I understand this too: it is +difficult to explain, but quite clear to myself that +one of the reasons I am attached to her is that she is +not a good painter. Also her clothes, which do not +fit her well: this again makes me even more attached +to her. If she knew this she would be +exasperated against me all the more, and I should +like it; not because I want to annoy her but because +this would make our relationship still more +intense. It would be terrible to me if we ever +became friends; like a divorce.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[136]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="HUNGRY_TO_HEAR"> + HUNGRY TO HEAR + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>Hungry to hear (like Jew-faces, kind but anticipating +pain) they sit, their ears raw. The conversation +remains genteel, of motor cars: her brother +bought a car, he was having a six months’ vacation +from an Indian post, he should have known better +than to buy an American car, the value depreciates +so, and <i>she</i> (his sister) should not have lent it to <i>her</i> +(her friend) even though it wasn’t her fault that the +car only did fifteen miles to the gallon after she +returned it. A clear situation like this, in which life +is easy to understand, is cruel to them. It leaves no +scratches in the mind around which opinions, sympathies, +silly repetitions can fester and breed dreams +and other remote infections—too remote always to +give serious pain. They long to be fumbled, to +have confusion and uncertainty make a confused +and uncertain end of them. There they sit, having +pins-and-needles of obscurity which they mistake +for sensation. They open their newspapers: ‘I +suppose it is foolish to spend all this time reading +newspapers? They are lying and dishonest and devoted +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[137]</span>to keeping a certain portion of the population +in ignorance and intellectual slavery? Or is it foolish +to take it so seriously? I shall go on reading them +out of sophistication?...’ Oh, go to hell.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[138]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="IN_A_CAFE"> + IN A CAFÉ + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>This is the second time I have seen that girl +here. What makes me suspicious is that her manner +has not changed. From her ears I should say she is +Polish. If this is so, is it not dangerous to drink +coffee here? Does anyone else think of this, I wonder? +Yet why should I be suspicious? And why +should her manner not remain unchanged? She has +probably been cold, unhappy, unsuccessful or simply +not alive ever since I saw her last. Quite honestly +I wish her success. The man who is making +sketches from pictures in the Art Magazine may find +her little Polish ears not repulsive. For good luck I +turn away and do not look at her again. I, who am +neither sluttish nor genteel, like this place because +it has brown curtains of a shade I do not like. +Everything, even my position, which is not against +the wall, is unsatisfactory and pleasing: the men +coming too hurriedly, the women too comfortably +from the lavatories, which are in an unnecessarily +prominent position—all this is disgusting; it puts +me in a sordid good-humour. This attitude I find to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[139]</span>be the only way in which I can defy my own intelligence. +Otherwise I should become barbaric and be +a modern artist and intelligently mind everything, +or I should become civilized and be a Christian +Scientist and intelligently mind nothing. Plainly +the only problem is to avoid that love of lost identity +which drives so many clever people to hold +difficult points of view—by <i>difficult</i> I mean big, +hungry, religious points of view which absorb their +personality. I for one am resolved to mind or not +mind only to the degree where my point of view +is no larger than myself. I can thus have a great +number of points of view, like fingers, and which +I can treat as I treat the fingers of my hand, to +hold my cup, to tap the table for me and fold +themselves away when I do not wish to think. If +I fold them away now, then I am sitting here all +this time (without ordering a second cup) because +other people go on sitting here, not because I am +thinking. It is all indeed, I admit, rather horrible. +But if I remain a person instead of becoming a +point of view, I have no contact with horror. If I +become a point of view, I become a force and am +brought into direct contact with horror, another +force. As well set one plague of cats loose upon +another and expect peace of it. As a force I have +power, as a person virtue. All forces eventually +commit suicide with their power, while virtue in a +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[140]</span>person merely gives him a small though constant +pain from being continuously touched, looked at, +mentally handled; a pain by which he learns to +recognize himself. Poems, being more like persons, +probably only squirm every time they are read and +wrap themselves round more tightly. Pictures and +pieces of music, being more like forces, are soon +worn out by the power that holds them together. +To me pictures and music are always like stories +told backwards: or like this I read in the newspaper: +‘Up to the last she retained all her faculties +and was able to sign cheques.’</p> + +<p>It is surely time for me to go and yet I do not +in the least feel like going. I have been through certain +intimacies and small talk with everything here, +when I go out I shall have to begin all over again in +the street, in addition to wondering how many +people are being run over behind me; when I get +home I shall turn on the light and say to myself how +glad I am it is winter, with no moths to kill. And I +shall look behind the curtain where my clothes hang +and think that I have done this ever since the +homicidal red-haired boy confided his fear to me +and I was sorry for him and went to his room and +did it for him. And my first look round will be a +Wuthering-Heights look; after that I shall settle +down to work and forget about myself.</p> + +<p>I am well aware that we form, all together, one +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[141]</span>monster. But I refuse to giggle and I refuse to be +frightened and I refuse to be fierce. Nor will I feed +or be fed on. I will simply think of other things. I +will go now. Let them stare. I am well though +eccentrically dressed.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[142]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="FRAGMENT_OF_AN_UNFINISHED_NOVEL"> + FRAGMENT OF AN UNFINISHED NOVEL + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>What could I do but treat my secret as if it did +not exist, that is, as my mother did hers until she +confided it to me? which was not confiding, but a +necessary explanation of the curious gift or curse +(you will decide which for yourself before many +pages) that I had from her (the flesh only knows +how) when she put me into this world fifty-four +years ago in a carved bed made of an old sea-chest +that she had of her father (together with many +other things) who was a Dutch Jew of a family that +had fled from Spain and made its fortune as merchants +and traders and in African mines and which +disinherited him when he ran away to sea from +school and saw things in China which neither white +man nor Jew might see without death, but which +long afterwards recalled him when he was in +America and too proud to accept the portion denied +him in his youth, which my mother never forgave +him but continually during her lifetime besought +me to apply for in my own person, which was +pleasing and persuasive.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[143]</span></p> + +<p>My mother, I say, broke her secret to no one, excepting +me, and this was not breaking it, since I +had the same secret, and I broke my secret to no +one, which was either wise or foolish (I can’t say +which) but not wicked, for had I wished it was a +thing that could go against no one but myself (as +you shall see). How my mother had it, she did not +know, although she was of the opinion that she +caught it from a travelling bookseller who secretly +sold romances to the pupils of the French convent +in New Orleans where her father kept her—over +the garden wall. It could not be the books, she +said, for they were as innocent as the Bible, with +no more rapes and indeed fewer mysteries. The +contamination, if it was such, must have been from +his eyes, if at all, which were long-lasting ones, she +remembering them many days after each visit and +for a long time seeing through them, as it were. +She knew nothing about him but that he was +Mexican, of a poor breed but of such charm (he +dressed in the Mexican manner) that she would +have run away with him had not her strange +possession come over her at about this time and +changed the whole course of her life.</p> + +<p>‘Perhaps,’ I suggested, when she told me this, ‘he +used a charm against you. It is known there are +certain herbs to be found in Mexico which may be +used to cunning ends.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[144]</span></p> + +<p>‘That may indeed be so,’ my mother said, ‘for I +remember he once gave me a fine gold chain to +wear on which was suspended an image of a pale +blue stone, and I could never make out what it +represented, as it was all twisted and seemed a different +thing each time I looked at it, now like a +snake, now like a clenched hand or like a troll’s +face.’</p> + +<p>‘Surely,’ I cried, ‘it was this charm that brought +the thing upon us.’ For I thought, if it was a charm +that brought this thing on my mother, it might be a +charm that would take this thing from me; and for +this reason I have ever been one easily affected by +superstitions of all kinds and ready to put my faith +in what is but circus farce to others, a weakness that +has been as great a source of misfortune to me as +my possession.</p> + +<p>‘It might indeed have been so,’ replied my +mother, ‘but I cannot be sure. At about the same +time Sister Mathilde began praying for me, as if +God had sent her against this journeyman for my +sake. She prayed in my room and soon she slept in +my bed the better to protect me, and I began +strongly to dislike it for she sweated powerfully and +loved me more tenderly than is good for girlish +sleep. Wherever I was between these two I shall +never know. If one was of God and the other of the +Devil, then there is a third power which exists to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[145]</span>save the human soul from both, I hesitate to say +with what intentions or effects. For as I was one +morning sitting on my pot and enjoying innocent +conversation with myself, suddenly I looked up, +feeling myself not alone. Think how my modesty +fainted to behold the room full of people all looking +intently (and kindly) at me. I covered my face +with my hands. I dared not rise.</p> + +<p>‘“Never mind, child,” said a shrill voice at my ear +that sounded like an aunt’s, “it will soon be happily +over.”</p> + +<p>‘“Happily over!” I tried to shriek but could not, +trying to rise and button myself.</p> + +<p>‘“Leave your dress alone, chicken, you could not +look better,” said another voice at my nose, a third +cousin’s by its sound. Nor could I have—I caught +a glimpse of myself in a mirror just then, and I was +a bride! This is how I found myself married to Mr. +Pink, whose calling was jobs for which no name +could be found, and could ask no questions for +shame, since the last I knew of myself was on a +chamber-pot, but only pretend to be possessed, as +seemed reasonable in the principal party of the +event, of full knowledge of what was going on about +me.’</p> + +<p>This martyr’s discretion in my mother has ever +been a noble example to me in my own endurance +of that cruel idiosyncrasy which she, to her everlasting +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[146]</span>grief, passed on to me. ‘Never lose self-possession,’ +she continually besought me, ‘or contradict +circumstances, which cannot lie and which +know you better than yourself.’ Dearest Mother! +Shall I blame her for that inheritance she gave me +against her heart and will and by which I had the +blessing of her eternal (so long as she lived) solicitude? +Not to mention (petty recompense and enjoyment) +the liberty she gave me beyond all reasonable +expectation I could have had of remorseful indulgence +from her, which included the privacy of her +papers which I could not read since she wrote always +in bed and upon brown paper, from sombreness of +spirit, and the treasures her father gave her out of +spite to her mother, for bearing him a black child +by perfidy of blood or whoring, it exasperated him +not to know which, and of which, though all were +mine from childhood, I loved and attached to me +but one shabby trifle, a totem six inches long that +did me for a doll while I remained a child and for +a child when I became a woman and dared not +breed, confide, form honourable attachments or +soften my heart save to that which, being wooden, +could not soften its heart to me.</p> + +<p>My mother, as I said, having once grasped her +unspeakable peril, resolved to protect herself with +the means at hand, that is, to remain Mrs. Pink, if +she could, until she found herself something else. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[147]</span>And to further her security in this she formed a +second painful resolve, never while she could help +it to leave her bed, thinking that she might thus +restrain her visitations or at least govern the place +in which they seized her. Alas! restrain them she +could not, and alas! a bed (as she learned too late) +was more ungovernable than a chamber-pot, for in +this bed she got me, in a cruel lapse when Mr. Pink +her husband was in the Argentine collecting the +names of common tropical plants for the Secretary +of State known in private life as a gifted maker of +South American tales, and when she must undoubtedly +have been visited by hundreds of Mr. +Pink’s friends and relatives, Mr. Pink, who understood +my mother’s infirmity and never blamed it +except as such, insisting that it was his uncle the +Chicago photographer who had nearly an artist’s +appreciation of the human form, of which my +mother being half Jew and perhaps a dash negro, +was an exotic and irresistible example.</p> + +<p>This unavoidable slip, of which I was a living and +growing reminder, never prejudiced Mr. Pink my +mother’s husband against me, but on the contrary +seemed to stimulate his curiosity in me. He was a +thin man, but I think of a passionate imagination, +and I wanted nothing. Nor was he quite certain +that it was his uncle the Chicago photographer, but +in the wistful hope that it might have been Prince +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[148]</span>Moredje, the famous Balkan adventurer whom he +used to decorate official banquets of which he was +responsible for the seating plan, he provided me +with a riding master though we lived in an unimproved +flat in the rear and bought me when I was +quite young a green plumed hat from an auctioneer +friend of his who specialized in theatrical costumes. +Himself he dressed shabbily, as his profession required. +I never knew him otherwise than in his +black and white checked suit and red tie, and it was +one of the sorrows of his life that he could not wear +black, for he was a quiet man, since his greatest +attraction to his clients was that he was not genteel, +by which he seemed more efficient, mysterious, +quaint and criminal. My mother required very +little beyond bed shawls, of which she kept two, one +for company and one for private, the company one +being pure white, that she might be thought of by +visitors as a pale object martyred to her bed and so +not excite experiences; I have this very shawl to +thank for myself, which she was wearing when her +sense was suddenly transported in time and she +found herself with me in her womb and could make +no denial or protest, and her white shawl on her +shoulders though in private, that is, alone with her +husband Mr. Pink who had just let himself in at the +door from the Argentine, whence he had come in +all haste to embrace her, having been made anxious +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[149]</span>by certain reports which his friends and relatives +maliciously wrote him of my mother. Her private +shawl, a red cashmere, she consoled herself in; she +only wore it when she felt safe. In this shawl too +she consented to rise for her needs and melancholies. +How often have I come upon her standing in her +shirt at the window, only half of her decently +covered, the rest of her naked and unhappy—a pair +of pretty buttocks that she could scarcely trust as +far as the door and ready to betray her at the least +winking of her eye and plant her where she must +acknowledge her position by that she sat in it with +them. It was to our further mortification that our +sad affliction only came over my mother and me +when we were sitting, an attitude that by its ease +soothes suspicion, and that we have never come +to ourselves except in this attitude, which may +try dignity painfully, as I have reason to know. +‘To find one’s feet’—how well, alas, do <i>I</i> know the +tragic significance of that phrase....</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[150]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="WILLIAM_AND_DAISY"> + WILLIAM AND DAISY: FRAGMENT OF A FINISHED NOVEL + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>William and Daisy lived in Cemetery Street. +They had no connection with each other except that +they were not attracted by life or death; so they +lived in Cemetery Street. William was pessimistic +because he disliked life a little more than death, +Daisy was optimistic because she disliked death a +little more than life. William had two memories: +one, that he had been familiar with harlots; two, +that he had been familiar with famous writers. +These two memories mixed and he could make nothing +of them. Daisy had two memories: one, that +she had once been a harlot; two, that she had in her +time known several famous writers. These two +memories mixed and she could make nothing of +them. They could make nothing of their memories +except that they both felt dignified and did not wish +to end their days in a workhouse. So they lived in +Cemetery Street.</p> + +<p>Every night Daisy went for a walk down Cemetery +Street and said ‘What a lovely night,’ and passed +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[151]</span>William on her walk and said ‘What a coincidence’; +and every night William, too, said ‘What a lovely +night’ and ‘What a coincidence.’ They began to +know each other’s thoughts and were more bored +with each other than ever.</p> + +<p>They had their shoes mended by the same shoemaker. +Each knew the shoemaker had taken a girl +to live with him behind the shop and then thrown +her into the street when his wife had learned about +it. Yet each continued to think him a nice man because +they could not be bothered to think him a +mean man. They became more and more absolute +in their thoughts and habits until ...</p> + +<p>I do not know what happened to them, nor do +they.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[152]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="AN_ANONYMOUS_BOOK"> + AN ANONYMOUS BOOK + </h2> +</div> + + +<h3>§1</h3> + +<p>An anonymous book for children only was published +by an anonymous publisher and anonymously +praised in an anonymous journal. Moreover, it imitated +variously the style of each of the known writers +of the time, and this made the responsibility for its +authorship all the more impossible to place. For +none of the known writers could in the circumstances +look guilty. But every one else did, so this +made the responsibility for its authorship all the +more difficult to place. The police had instructions +to arrest all suspicious-looking persons. But as +every one except the known writers was under suspicion +the department of censorship gave orders +that the known authors should be put in prison to +separate them from the rest of the population and +that every one else should be regarded as legally +committed to freedom. ‘Did you write it?’ every one +was questioned at every street corner. And as the +answer was always ‘No’, the questioned person was +always remanded as a suspect.</p> + +<p>The reasons why this book aroused the department +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[153]</span>of censorship were these. One—it imitated +(or seemed to imitate) the style of all the known +authors of the time and was therefore understood +by the authorities to be a political (or moral) satire. +Two—it had no title and was therefore feared by +the authorities to be dealing under the cover of +obscurity with dangerous subjects. Three—its publisher +could not be traced and it was therefore +believed by the authorities to have been printed +uncommercially. Four—it had no author and was +therefore suspected by the authorities of having +been written by a dangerous person. Five (and +last)—it advertised itself as a book for children, +and was therefore concluded by the authorities +to have been written with the concealed design of +corrupting adults. As the mystery grew, the vigilance +of the police grew, and the circulation of +the book grew: for the only way that its authorship +could be discovered was by increasing the +number of people suspected, and this could only be +done by increasing the number of readers. The +authorities secretly hoped to arrive at the author +by separating those who had read the book from +those who had not read it, and singling out from +among the latter him or her who pretended to know +least about it.</p> + +<p>All the stories in the book were about people who +did not like the world and who would have been +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[154]</span>glad to be somewhere else. Some were irreligious, +some were ungrateful, some were scornful, some +were openly rebellious, some were secretly rebellious, +some were merely ironical, some were merely +bored. Many were too good, many were too bad. +All were disobedient, and all wanted to go away. +Wanting to go away to somewhere else did not +mean wanting to go away to somewhere else with +the rest of the entire population of the world. It +meant in all the stories wanting to go away alone. +All the stories in the book were about people who +wanted to go away to somewhere where they would +be, no matter how many other people they found +there, the only one. All the people in the book +thought the world fit only for light, heat, moisture, +electricity, plants, the lower animals, and perhaps +for occasional parties, excursions, commemoration +days, Sunday afternoons, exhibitions, spectacles, +concerts, sight-seeing and conversation. But none +of them thought it fit for higher creatures to live +in permanently, because all who were in it, they +said, were the only one, and were thus objects of +hate, ridicule or mock-adoration for one another, +being each by his mind freakish and uncommon +but by his brain natural and common.</p> + +<p>Such was the philosophical import of this book. +But its philosophical import was got only if the +reader had a taste for, a passion for, a suspicion of, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[155]</span>an obsession with, or instructions to look for philosophical +imports. Or if he shrank from stories. What +was plain and comprehensible before all philosophical +imports was just stories. The four upon +which most suspicion was fixed were <i>The Flying +Attic</i>, <i>The Man Who Told Lies To His Mother</i>, <i>The +Woman Who Loved an Engine</i>, and <i>The Woman Who +Was Bewitched By a Parallel</i>.</p> + +<p>It was impossible to say particularly which story +was written in the style of which author. The effect +of imitation that the book gave was rather a mixed +one; that is, it was generally and throughout a +witty, energetic, beautiful, simple, earnest, intricate, +entertaining, ironic, stern, fantastic, eloquent, modest, +outspoken, matter-of-fact and so-forth book, +so that generally speaking it could not be read but +as a conglomerate imitation of the noted literary +manners of the time, of the well-known author who +wrote so wittily, of the well-known author who +wrote so energetically, of the well-known author +who wrote so beautifully, of the well-known author +who wrote so simply, of the well-known author who +wrote so earnestly, of the well-known author who +wrote so intricately, of the well-known author who +wrote so entertainingly, of the well-known author +who wrote so ironically, of the well-known author +who wrote so sternly, of the well-known author who +wrote so fantastically, of the well-known author who +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[156]</span>wrote so eloquently, of the well-known author who +wrote so modestly, of the well-known author who +wrote so outspokenly, of the well-known author who +wrote so matter-of-factly, and of the well-known +author who wrote and-so-forthly.</p> + +<p>It is not the object of this account, whose purpose +is chiefly historical, to transcribe in detail all or even +many of the stories of which the book was composed, +or to analyse, criticize, praise or condemn the few +that shall be reproduced (in whatever way seems +most economical) here. It is rather intended to give +an honest, accurate, elementary notion of the book +from which the reader may form a scholarly opinion +of its character that shall be in restrained harmony +with his own. Several of the stories (those cited +above, for example) will be elaborately summarized, +according to the degree of eccentricity they possess +in comparison with other stories which fall more +naturally into a group-significance or classification. +Some will appear only in a table of constructional +correspondences; others as interesting or corroborative +or contradictory points of reference: still others +as problems of too fine difficulty for the moment, here +put aside and marked out for the future specialist.</p> + + +<h3>§2</h3> + +<p><i>The Flying Attic</i> is the first of the miscellaneously +significant or dangerous stories. The central character +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[157]</span>is a cook who had never in her life been guest +to anyone and who had never in her life ascended +above the kitchen floor of any house. No description +of the character’s appearance, age or parentage +is given, so that the atmosphere of the story, intentionally +or unintentionally, is one of allegory, or +morality, or symbolism—as you like. This creature, +the story tells us, conceived the fantastic ambition +of living permanently in a guest attic, descending +only at the new moon, and then to find herself each +time in a different house, each time guest to a +different host or hostess.</p> + +<p>The realization of this ambition is made technically +possible by the dismissal of the cook for serving +a custard made from a manufactured pink powder, +instead of from original ingredients. No complaint +seems to have been made against the excellence of +taste or quality of the custard. Its very excellence +in fact is what arouses suspicion. And so after coffee +the cook is dismissed. The family chats, finally goes +to bed. Then the cook steals out of the kitchen and +up to the attic, at the moment unoccupied but in a +state of preparation for a guest who is expected to +arrive the following day. The cook draws the curtains, +lights a candle, gets into bed. The beams are +made of old ship’s timber; the sharp-ribbed roof +suggests an inverted ship’s bottom. The candlelight, +the drawn curtains, the architectural irregularities +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[158]</span>of the attic, the distorted, ship-like sense +of motion faintly conveyed by the crazy contour +of the attic in candlelight to the mind of the cook +now floating in the unreality of the fulfilment +of an impossible ambition—all these factors contribute +to what must count—in the story at any +rate—for a genuine disturbance of forces: the attic +moves, the cook’s mind swoons with pleasure, day +and night the curtains remain drawn (otherwise the +problem of <i>locale</i> would seriously interfere with the +narrative device), she passes her time in a passive +delirium of satisfaction, and at the morning of new +moon punctually descends. The first and last descents +will be given in detail, the intervening ones +only listed.</p> + +<p>First descent: as the breakfast bogy, in the costume +of a German peasant—green jacket, flat, +ribboned hat; into the house of a country lady, +mother of three young children, recently widowed. +Cook unlatches the attic door and walks slowly +downstairs—a heavy male step. Cultured and terrified +children’s voices are heard as the steps pass the +night nursery: ‘Oh mother, the breakfast bogy—we +are afraid to get up.’ ‘Nonsense, children,’ the +mother calls back, ‘come down immediately.’ The +steps continue, Cook enters the dining-room, sits +down at the table in the chief chair as master of the +house. The mother enters from the kitchen with +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[159]</span>large porridge basin, sees Cook, screams. Children +come running down. ‘The breakfast bogy, the +breakfast bogy!’ they cry. ‘We told you so, Mother.’ +Cook says: ‘I am master here now. We will all have +breakfast together and you will pay me every respect. +After breakfast I shall go away and not return +till luncheon. The same for tea and dinner. +You must guess what I like to eat and after each +meal thank me for the food. And you must kiss me +good night. That is all.’ It is to be noted that whenever +the central character of any of these tales gives +an order, it is always obeyed without question, however +wicked, unreasonable or fantastic it may be. +Thus in <i>The Dishonest Scales</i> the grocer-woman not +only cheats her customers in the weight of what +they buy (though the scales whenever tested seem +to record quite honestly), but after taking their +money she says firmly ‘Now that is all,’ and +sends them away unprotesting without their purchases.</p> + +<p>After breakfast Cook retires to the attic and +appears again at luncheon. All this happens in the +most orderly manner imaginable. The widow even +smiles prettily to Cook after luncheon and ‘hopes +the gentleman finds all satisfactory.’ Cook here nods +stiffly. There is no clue given as to what either Cook +or the family do during the intervals between meals. +Only one rather shocking mischance occurs: the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[160]</span>oldest of the children, a boy, spies upon the cook +between tea and dinner and is snatched angrily +into the attic. At dinner only two children appear, +and Cook announces quietly: ‘Your oldest child +attempted to spy upon me, so I turned him into an +eiderdown to keep me warm.’ To which the widow +replies ‘It serves him right,’ and goes on eating. +After dinner Cook is kissed good night affectionately +by the widow and her two remaining children, +goes up to the attic, fastens the door, gets into bed +and tucks herself round with her new eiderdown.</p> + +<p>Second descent: Cook comes down into a prison +tower as a captive queen, murders her warder, takes +upstairs with her her warder’s poodle, the pillow +she stabbed him on, and his wife’s lace cap, saying: +‘All this will contribute to the comfort of my +old age.’</p> + +<p>Third descent: Cook comes down into a full-rigged +ship about to sink in a storm off the Gold +Coast, rescues the captain, a villainous but hearty +old man, and carries him off to her attic with great +satisfaction.</p> + +<p>Fourth descent: Cook comes down into a great +kitchen as a cook and carries the whole kitchen up +with her in one armful.</p> + +<p>Fifth descent: Cook comes down into a library as +a respectable young working man inquiring from the +lady librarian for a book on how to mend leaking +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[161]</span>roofs. The lady librarian strongly resembling Cook +in her youth, the young working man is smitten +with a great fancy for her, marries her, takes her up +to the attic, where she becomes cook to Cook.</p> + +<p>Sixth descent: Cook opens her attic door to walk +out as herself for a breath of fresh air, steps upon +nothing and begins to fall. While falling she looks +up, sees her attic far above her, flying off at great +speed toward the east, where it is growing dark. +‘However will I get back to it?’ she thinks mournfully +to herself. At this point there is a long passage +describing intimately all of her anxieties in her fall, +such as what will happen to her poodle, who will +smooth out her eiderdown, what will her captain +have for dinner all by himself, down to the last, +which is, what shall she give them for a pudding +to-night? She decides, since it is so late already (it is +now quite dark in the east and her attic has completely +disappeared) to give them a custard made +from a manufactured pink powder, which will take +only a moment to stir up and only fifteen minutes +on the window-sill to cool. It would be impossible +without exact quotation from the original (which is +outside the modest scope of the present volume) to +reproduce the delicate transition that takes place +just here from one level of the episode to the next +(from the higher to the lower, or the fantastic to the +factual, I might say). Suffice it for our purposes +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[162]</span>that there occurs at this point a shock, the contact +on the one hand of Cook’s feet with the ground, on +the other of Cook’s right ear with church clock just +striking seven. ‘And there will be a guest to-night,’ +she exclaims to herself, tasting and stirring, chopping +and sprinkling. At last dinner is served, eaten, +over. ‘Dear kind Cook,’ Mistress says to her before +retiring, ‘aren’t you going upstairs to-night?’ ‘My +goodness, is it so late?’ replies Cook. ‘I was just +cooling myself a bit’—for Cook was standing on the +kitchen doorstep gazing east. So she goes upstairs +to her attic and fastens the door behind her. Upon +which unsatisfactory note this story concludes, leaving +the reader uneasy and somewhat cheated of that +general resolution of himself in the story which it is +his right to expect from every upright invention—an +effect all the more disquieting in that it seemed +everywhere in this work arrived at rather by art +than by accident or inferiority of execution.</p> + + +<h3>§3</h3> + +<p>It would be well at this point to uncover a little +of the philosophical skeleton of this book for the +benefit of the reader likely to become too absorbed +in the narrative surface, so to speak. It would +also be well to emphasize, on the other hand, the +fact that the anonymous author was if anything +over-precious in the technical brilliance of his +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[163]</span>stories: he seemed to wish, by ringing from them a +pure, glassy artificiality, that their perfection as +stories should make them as trivial and false-true as +stories, so that they held the moral more obediently. +There is therefore little or no hint of moral in any +of the stories, the sincerity of the narration in every +particular being the best guarantee (according to +the principles of his writing) of the presence of the +skeletal sense beneath it. We might, for the purpose +of analysis, call this obsession with fictitious fact an +obsession statistical. And we might likewise call (for +the same purpose) the style of the book the style of +curiosity. The effect of this style on the reader is +indeed an effect of curiosity—curiosity in the general +usage of the word. That is, it makes the reader +first inquisitive of the course and conclusion of the +narrative, then suspicious of the philosophical import +of the narrative, and finally resolved to track +down angerly (as our Elizabethan might have said) +the chief mystery of each narrative, namely the +anonymity of the author: as indeed the police of his +time were angered into doing (without success). +The style of curiosity, itself, however, was of a +different order of curiosity from this. If you will +look out this word in any full contemporary dictionary +you will find that while the current meaning is +this precise <i>effect</i> of curiosity, the two first (and previous) +meanings have a more particular application:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[164]</span></p> + +<p>(1) Scientific attentiveness; technical nicety; +moral exactness; religious fastidiousness. Obsolete.</p> + +<p>(2) Honest or artistic workmanship; generous +elaboration; charitable detail. Obsolete or archaic.</p> + +<p>And such, in fact, was the style of curiosity: so +that the effect of curiosity on the reader had in it a +touch of quaintness; which is the reason why, in fact, +the anonymous author seemed to his critics, censors +and readers to be imitating the style of all the well-known +writers of the time and yet to be clearly not +among them.</p> + +<p>Perhaps I can best illustrate this obsession statistical +and this style of curiosity (both in origination +and effect) by a direct transcription. It is to be +found (by those fortunate enough to lay hands upon +the book itself) in the story (untitled) about the man +who could not help stealing his friends’ matches +though his father was a prosperous match-manufacturer, +though he had a generous allowance from +him and though he had no interest in the match +business:</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>‘He paid his fare exactly, having the scale of fares +off by heart (more thoroughly than the conductor) +and having always in his pocket such a variety of +small coins as should make it unnecessary for him +to be given change in his fares, purchases and contributions +to charity. He sat on top, on the left, in +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[165]</span>the fourth row from the front, by the rail, a habit +so strong and methodical in him that he never +thought (and was never obliged) to sit elsewhere. +He made a minute comment to himself upon the +flower stalls or stands along the route, concluding +with the generalization that the predominating +colour among the flowers sold by the lame or the +ugly was mauve. He then went to sleep, timing +himself to awake a minute before the arrival of the +bus at the railway station. He rehearsed his itinerary, +which was to miss his train at the first change +and so at the second change and so to have to wait +an hour there and two hours there and to examine +more particularly during this time the generalization +regarding lame or ugly flower-vendors. While +asleep he followed his usual practice of descending +from the state of personality to the state of thingality, +and in this dreamy condition of passive matter he +enjoyed the same security that an apple has up to +the moment of its fall. And so upon waking he fell +from the top of the bus—as if blown down by a +strong wind—and broke his nose, one leg, two fingers, +cut his left cheek beneath the eye and sustained +an injury to his back that left him upon his recovery +with a permanent thoughtful posture.’</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>From this short extract it will perhaps be clear +how he teased his reader with sincerity and how his +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[166]</span>statistical straightforwardness carved out patiently +a mysterious block of significance which was not +brought upon the platform of the story but which +the reader found obstructing his exit, as it were, +when the curtain had come down and he attempted +to leave the theatre. It was this seemingly innocent +obstructionism of course that aroused the authorities +to such a violent pitch of antagonism to the book; +and which remains to this day a challenge almost +impudent (so it sometimes seems) to the endurance +of all scholars, philosophers and simple lovers of +knowledge. For often, at our greatest moments of +ingenuity and science, indeed, we find ourselves +suddenly uncertain of our premises and forced to +begin once more at the beginning, yielding our own +philosophical curiosity to the statistical curiosity of +the author. It might therefore be wise, before we +entangle ourselves further in scholarly ramifications +of our own, to return to the document itself. In this +sober intention I mean to present, in as unmeddlesome +and economical a fashion as I am capable of, +the conspicuous features of one of the most baffling +(though to outward appearance one of the most +unaffected) stories in the collection, <i>The Man Who +Told Lies To His Mother</i>.</p> + + +<h3>§4</h3> + +<p>He was an author. He wrote books one after the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[167]</span>other. It was impossible, we are told, to understand, +say, the tenth book without reading all the preceding +nine. And it was impossible to understand the +tenth without the book that followed it. And whatever +number the book was, there was always one +following it, so that the author was continuously +being understood by his readers. The chief character +in each of the books was always the same. +Half of him was the author himself, the other half of +him was the only son of the author’s mother. He +called the first half I, the second half He. I thought, +wrote books, knew all about everything, did nothing. +He knew nothing about anything but could do +everything. I was wise, He was happy. I was careful +to keep himself to himself so as not to have his +wisdom spoiled by He or He’s fun spoiled by his +wisdom. I kept himself in his study, He in the +world. I did not permit He to share his study +with him because this would have been like denying +that there was a world outside of his study and, +since he knew there was such a world, making a +ghost of himself. I did not want to be a ghost and +yet he wanted to remain in his study, so he supported +He in the world on the books he wrote in his +study. This kept up the world, it kept up He, it +made I complete without his having to be complete, +that is, to be both I and He. Moreover, though I +supported He in the world, he made no attempt to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[168]</span>track him, curb him or even share occasionally in +his activities. I was continually disciplining himself +against such temptations: in order not to corrupt +his wisdom by making it a criticism of He and in +order not to corrupt the fullness of He’s pleasure by +making it have anything to do with sense. The important +thing for I, inasmuch as He existed and the +world existed, was to keep them employed in each +other, so that he could be truly, wisely, actually, +employed in himself. I said: I am I, therefore I am +true, I am not He, therefore he is false; but He is +He, therefore He is false-true so long as I encourage +him in falsehood. He could not, however, be false +by himself—this would have eventually made him +true. To be false he needed something to be false +with, he needed the world, he needed other He’s. +For a long time He and the world conducted each +other toward themselves with the closest and strictest +falsehood; so close and strict in fact that the +world, this conglomeration of other He’s, became a +single close, strict, false She. He and She went on +loyally enjoying themselves in each other as He and +the world had done, until this falsificatory attachment +became so utter that it reproduced I in his +study. It reproduced I, it reproduced He and She. +It did all this without giving to her only son’s +mother a grandchild.</p> + +<p>And so, the story goes on, the books went on. And +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[169]</span>so we the readers of the story (story-readers of the +books described in the story) witness how I told lies +to his mother without committing a single falsehood. +For he sent his books to his mother in her province +in place of letters, saying: This is a true account of +the doings of your only son. And she read them +lovingly as a true account of the doings of her only +son, whom she always thought of as He, taking I to +be merely the I authorial, which it was. And so I +told lies to his mother and they were not lies but a +true account of the doings of He.</p> + +<p>Now when the author of the story has trained his +reader to understand the author in the story who +was one-half of the chief character of his own stories, +he begins without further explanation a long chronicle +of the experiences of the other half of the chief +character of his stories under the title of <i>Lies To His +Mother</i>. We do not know whether these stories are +supposed to have appeared in the author-in-the-story’s +books as they appear here in the story: probably +not, since there is in them no mention of I, +and I, we must remember, was one-half of the chief +character of these books. Or perhaps so, since it is +not unlikely that everything relating to I in his +books was meant to be supposed to have been described +separately, as for example in the form of +authorial interludes between the passages relating +to He. At any rate, for our convenience it may be +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[170]</span>best to retitle the stories (a few of which are here +summarized) which the author introduces to us +under the title of <i>Lies To His Mother</i>, as <i>What His +Mother Believed Of He</i>. It might also be helpful for +me to announce here that since further analysis +seems hopeless I shall add nothing to these summarizations; +except to say, perhaps, that they all +confirm us in what we have already observed of +the temper of the anonymous author of the book +that we are studying: his statisticality, his curiosity +and, we might now add, his falsificality.</p> + +<p>(<i>a</i>) That He one day drank water in such a way +as to be drunk of it, and in this condition found himself +the hero of an Arabian Nights Entertainment, +bathing, with the privilege of a jokester, in the +women’s pool. And they would not let him come +out for a whole day. They kept him in the water a +whole day, a whole long day, during which they did +many things to him, all of which are faithfully recorded +in the original, of which two may with propriety +be given here: that they would at intervals +very slowly drain all the water from the pool and +then as slowly let it fill up again; and that they fed +him on nothing but fish, and would not give him +drink, forcing him to water himself from the pool. +He was allowed to leave the pool at sunset, on the +promise that he would amuse them with tales for +three days, which he promised. For three days +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[171]</span>then He amused them with tales, two of which may +with propriety be outlined here: the first, of a man +bewitched in such a manner that he would do on +every occasion the opposite of what it was his will +to do; the second, of a far-off city in which the +people were silent and their clothes spoke, and of +how a quarrel arose between two identical black +lace frocks, as to which was which, and of how in +anger they tore themselves off their wearers, and +became confused in the broil that followed, so that +their owners were also confused and uncertain, when +the frocks were put on once more, whether their +speech matched their silence.</p> + +<p>(<i>b</i>) That He another day woke to find himself +speaking a strange language, in which everything +was known and clear—as if all difficulties of the intelligence +were difficulties of language alone: in this +language He had but to speak to discover, as, for +instance, the word for <i>horse</i> here not only stood for +horse but also made plain the quality of horseliness, +what it was. He woke to find himself speaking +this language, he was a boy, he was in a classroom, +he had blue eyes (they were actually grey), +his teacher was a remarkable woman in a pompadour +and a large hat who was fond of him, fixing +her gaze on his blue eyes when she entered the room +and keeping it there until she left; who knew everything +and recited it without pause, without sympathy, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[172]</span>without antagonism, so that whatever she +said meant all and nothing—history, the uses of +waste paper, the traditions of pawnbrokers, anything, +everything. Then He woke up again to find +himself no longer speaking the strange language but +as dumb, in his ordinary language, with dumb +memory of it. So when He spoke his ordinary language +he found it all twisted of sense, which made +him abandon it: he uttered only expressive sounds, +which others disregarded as nonsensical, composed +as they were of soft and shrill shrieks, whistlings, +bellowings and blowings. So He went mad and in +his madness began speaking his ordinary language +again, all nonsensical, but conceived sane by others +because it was the ordinary language. And so He +was discharged from the madhouse raving and only +by slow stages came to regard himself, since others +did so, as sane. The theme of a language of complete +intelligence, it is to be remarked, occurs in two other +stories in the book—in one there is even an attempt, +impossible to reproduce here, to give specimens of +the language. To all appearances indeed it is the +ordinary language in which he (the anonymous +author) wrote, with perhaps an outlandish twist +due merely to an increase of his usual severity—the +authorities explained it by reading it as an imitation +of the style of the most wilfully ingenuous author of +the time. But it might very well have meant something +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[173]</span>to the author it could not mean to the reader, +which is not at all improbable, since to myself, after +long study and, I may say, an application it would +be difficult to surpass, it meant only what it said—and +this only with the greatest imaginative stretch +possible to me in my liveliest moments of inquiry. +The story, for the benefit of those few who may have +access to the book, is, of course, <i>The Whisper</i>.</p> + +<p>(<i>c</i>) That He one day woke to find himself Professor +in Time at the University of Colour: he was +addressing a class of old, old men on the principle +of greenishness. ‘For example,’ he said, ‘there are +many modern artists who will not use green at all +in their pictures: it is a foreign colour, an outside +colour, an extra colour—the colour of conclusion. +Therefore the colour of haughty youth, which is +final, and of weird old age, which is beyond +finality. The modern painter who banishes green +does so from ambition: he means to show that he +can give his pictures an effect of conclusion without +making use of the wittiness of green. Primitive +people make use of green with religious brutality +to clinch any argument in colour. Flowers, on the +other hand, never use green, nor the sky; unless +unwholesome—an eccentric avoidance of a banal +they-know-not-what. Earth-green is the symbol of +time overcoming time. Green is a colour of sophisticated +crudeness and of crude sophistication. A +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[174]</span>brute thing is in its heart of hearts green, and a +casuistical mind is in its heart of hearts green. The +grave mathematical most is green, and the silly +poetical least is green. The new-born baby is +green and the newly-dead person is green. And the +extreme of tragedy is green, and the extreme of +comedy is green.’</p> + +<p>At this moment the oldest of the old, old men got +up and shrieked, smilingly through his three teeth, +saying: ‘I spent my whole fortune in one night in +music and food on a girl whose mother was a singer +and whose father was a chef. “Trrup,” she said, +snapping her fingers, “you are an old man, and I +love a boy who blacks my boots.”’ ‘Trrup,’ he +shrieked, smiling through his three teeth, ‘I am +green, I am green, and this is my life’s story.’ And +‘Trrup,’ shrieked all the old men, ‘we are green, we +are green.’ Until He could not bear the noise and +stopped his ears with his fingers, and closed his eyes.</p> + +<p>When He removed his fingers from his ears and +opened his eyes, he was sitting by his own fireside, +and his cat was on the hearth-rug and She was near +him, knitting him a green jacket. ‘Trrup,’ said the +cat’s eyes, ‘what a fool you are to dream such sense,’ +and ‘Trrup,’ said She, ‘what a dear silly you shall +be napping in my green jacket.’</p> + +<p>‘I,’ said He to himself, ‘must tell this story to my +mother, it will amuse her.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[175]</span></p> + +<p>And it was told, and it did, and she believed it +of He, and everything else that was told of him, +and put another lump of sugar in her tea, near +the bottom of the cup, saying to herself: ‘Is it +not so? Sometimes I like Mrs. History, and sometimes +I do not. Sometimes I pity her, and sometimes +I wish her worse trouble. And what does it +matter, since she is all this, and I am all that, and +each of us always, no matter what happens, a bit +of herself? When I am angriest I am nearest to kindness, +and when I am clearest in my head I am +nearest to confusion. Is it not so? I am sure I never +know what I am going to do next. For instance, +there are those wicked loves who follow a certain +red flag: I am sure I should forget myself and join +them if it were a green one.’ For she, taking after +her own son, was also a liar.</p> + + +<h3>§5</h3> + +<p>The most curiously integrated of the groups of +stories which may be classified as a single dramatic +(or philosophical) unit of the book is the queen-group. +Indeed it is possible to discuss this group as +if it were but one story, the episodic variations +seeming no more than caprices of style—the same +story told in different degrees of earnestness and so +in different personalities, as it were. The one fixed +personality of the group is the Queen herself; the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[176]</span>others are all stylistic personalities. The Queen began +as a photograph used by a newspaper at discreet +intervals to represent the female bandit of the +moment or the murder-victim or the fire-heroine +or the missionary’s bride. By experience and variety +she became a personality, and a fixed personality. +It is quite remarkable in fact how under our very +eyes this anonymous author should be able to transform +a fiction into a fact: for the Queen is as true +for always as the photograph is each time false. +Indeed, the whole transformation is merely a +matter of style. To illustrate: ‘As Maxine, the +world’s sleeplessness champion, the photograph had +great momentary importance but did not know it +because it was part of a newspaper dynamic in +which everything happened with equal fatalistic +effect, everything was accident, in the moment +succeeding accident it was always clear that nothing +had happened. As photograph therefore the photograph +saw all this; it was permanently unimportant +but it knew this. And as it had a knowledge of its +unimportance, it also had a knowledge of the +importance of accident; and as the first knowledge +made it insignificant so the second knowledge made it +Queen. The Queen, the photograph without identity, +this anonymous particularity, did in fact dwell in +a world in which she was the only one and in which +the world of many was only what she called “the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[177]</span>chaotic conversation of events.” So she resolved +to put her queendom in order, not by interrupting +the conversation, which would only have increased +the chaos, but by having minutely recorded whatever +“happened,” whatever “was.” Nothing then in +her queendom contradicted anything else, neither +the argument nor its answer, neither the burglar-proof +lock nor the burglar against whom it was +not proof: everything was so, everything was statistical, +everything was falsification, everything was +conversation, and she was an anonymous particularity +conversing with herself about her own +nothingness, so she was outside the chaotic conversation +of events, she was Queen.’</p> + +<p>Her three chief statisticians (we learn) were +publishers. They were all pleasant fellows, each +with a touch of the universal in him, and came and +went without suspicion everywhere in the queendom +because of their peoplishness: they too, like +all the rest, were statistical, so statistical indeed that +they were statisticians. They went about preaching +the gospel of the communal ownership of events. +They said: ‘Primitive man believed in things as +events. As civilized man it is your duty to believe +in events as things.’ And the people did. And they +permitted the statisticians (or publishers) to know +what happened to them and what they did with +what happened to them as faithfully as they reported +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[178]</span>their possessions each year in the great Common +Book. In this queendom there was no loss and no +mystery and no suffering, because everything was +reported as conversation and nothing therefore +thought about. All was automatic spontaneity, even +their love for their Queen. As for the Queen, she +would walk (we are told) through the dark rooms +of her palace at night, having each room lit only +upon her leaving it, until she reached her own small +chamber, which remained unlit all night while the +others shone; until morning, when in her own +small chamber the curtains were drawn, the lamps +lit, while in all the other rooms of the palace there +was daylight. The meaning of this is plain: that in +the anonymousness of the Queen lay her non-statistical, +her non-falsificatory individuality. She is +the author, the queendom is her book. She is +darkness and mystery, the plain, banal though +chaotic daylight is her unravelling. By making the +unravelling more methodic and so more plainly +banal she separates in people the statistical from the +non-statistical part, the known from the anonymous. +She shows herself to be a dualist of the most +dangerous kind.</p> + +<p>For a long time the authorities from the internal +evidence of the queen-stories suspected the anonymous +author of being a woman. They said that it +was not improbable that the book was the Bible of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[179]</span>an underground sect devoted to educating female +children to be statistical queens. But this view had +to be abandoned as unscholarly, even ungentlemanly, +because in nothing that the Queen said or +did was there any accent of disorder or ambition: +she merely, with miraculous patience and tact, +saw to it that records were kept of everything. The +authorities eventually concluded that she was a +Character of Fiction, and so stainless, and could +not help them. For some time their suspicion was +fixed on a character in one of the stories with whom +the Queen fell in love. But as he was Minister of +Pastimes to the Queen it was thought that it might +prove generally disrespectful to State officials to +pursue the matter further (as when, in the story +<i>Understanding</i>, suspicion was fixed on the character +who bribed the magistrates to convict him, the +inquiry was stopped by the authorities—the detectives +even put on the wrong scent—as too metaphysical +and cynical).</p> + +<p>It must now be clear that the strain of my task +is beginning to tell on me. I have become very +nervous. In the beginning my emotions were all +scholarly, my task was a pleasure, I had the manner +of calmness with an antiquity. Toward the end fear +has crept upon me. I must speak, and after that +go on till I can go on no longer: till I am prevented. +I say <i>prevented</i>. For I am haunted by the obsession +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[180]</span>that the authorities are still watching. They do not +suspect the Queen. She was or is a fixed personality, +so anonymous as to be irreproachably a +Character of Fiction. The others vary in earnestness; +in anonymity; they are, as I have suggested, +personalities of style; they point to the probability +that the author was not or is not a Character of +Fiction. I dare go no further. I have become very +nervous. I shall nevertheless attempt to continue +my task until—I am prevented.</p> + +<p>One of the three publishers was a Jew. He was +tall, his ears outstanding, his grin long, his voice +loose in his mouth. He had been financial adviser +to a charitable organization and had had much +general statistical though humane experience. He +was gross but kind and therefore in charge of all +sentimental records: his grossness assured accuracy, +his kindness, delicacy. He had the historical genius, +and several specimens of his work are given—though +with a touch of dryness in the author himself which +makes it impossible to enjoy them as we might have +were the book without an author. Indeed, they +were not meant to be read at all, but merely written +to satisfy the political instincts of the Queen, who +never read them herself. I find it difficult to pass +over them myself, for aside from their part in the +book they are very interesting. There are several +small extracts that might be used here with complete +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[181]</span>propriety and even in a scholarly way. And +after all, the author wrote them down himself, did +he not? But he was writing and not reading. But +am I not writing and not reading? My position becomes +more and more uncertain. I shall hurry on.</p> + +<p>I shall give one of the Queen’s monologues, to +tide us over this difficult period. The monologue +does not appear in the book itself: it would have +been a piece of naturalism contrary to the theory +on which the book was built. Therefore I give it +here, as reading. No questions must be asked of +me, for as a scholar I should feel obliged to answer +them; and the passage would then become writing; +and I should have produced a piece of naturalism. +Here then is, shall I say, a variety: which is not +the anonymous author’s writing but we might +almost say his reading, and after that my writing +but of his reading, which remains reading for all +my writing. My conscience is in your hands: the +burden of curiosity and falsification falls upon you. +With you rest also the rights of anonymity, the +reputation of style, the fortunes of publication, the +future of philosophy and scholarship and the little +children, for whom these contrive sense. Sense, I +say, not satire.</p> + +<p>And now for the Queen’s monologue, which the +anonymous author did not write and which for this +very reason requires, as the reader’s part, sense, I +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[182]</span>say, not satire, even more immediately than what +he did write. Furthermore, you will have to discover +for yourself where it begins and where it +ends: were I to mark it off it would become writing +and so a piece of naturalism and so bely sense and +give encouragement to satire. I mean: restraint, +statistics, falsification, is more accurate than courage, +reality, truth, and so truer. For the Queen’s +monologue, since the anonymous author did not +write it down, is true; had he not statistically, +falsificatorily, restrained himself from writing it +down it would have become a piece of naturalism +and so a subject of satire. To tide us over a difficult +period I set myself the difficult task of writing +down the Queen’s monologue without turning it +into writing, and so defying satire (if I succeed, +which depends on you). The important thing is +to defy satire. Satire is lying: falsity as opposed +to truth and falsity as opposed to falsification. It +is betwixt and between; against sense, which, +whatever it is, is one thing or the other—generally +the other, it being for practical purposes +impossible for it to be perpetually one thing. By +practical purposes I mean of course the question of +boredom, as truth finding truth monotonous. +Therefore things happen. Sense, I say, not satire. +Imagine a woman has her heart broken and imagine +a man breaking it, then her heart heals and he +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[183]</span>ceases to be a villain, and then they meet again and +her heart is whole and he is not a villain. Does she +weep because her heart was once broken and does +he blush because he once broke it? This would be +satire. No, they both smile, and she gives him her +heart to break again, and he breaks it. This is +sense. Or they both smile and turn away from +each other, and this, too, is sense, but sense too +academic to survive the strain of academically enforcing +itself. The One Thing must be saved from +itself, it must not be allowed to overwork itself +or go stale. That is why sense is one thing or the +other and generally the other: falsification to relieve +truth, broken hearts to protect whole hearts, weakness +to spare strength. Fact is fancy and fancy is +desire and desire is puff! puff! everything that +satisfies it and which must be carefully recorded +in spite of contradictions and lengthiness. Desire +is the other things, in great number. And what is +satisfaction? Not the other things, that satisfy, but +the one thing, that cannot satisfy or be satisfied, +and so, though but one thing, equal to desire, and so +to all the other things. Fact is <i>it</i> not <i>me</i>; fact is fancy +and fancy is desire and desire is the other things. +Satisfaction is <i>me</i>, which <i>it</i> calls Queen. <i>It</i> is a lot of +him’s, <i>it</i> is a queendom, <i>it</i> is desire speaking the +language of satisfaction, <i>it</i> is a great looseness and +restlessness of fact and confusion of eyesight and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[184]</span>costume, into which the Queen brings sense through +order. And what is order? Order is observation. +Her first publisher (or statistician) is a gross, kind +Jew. Her second is a subtle, cruel Turk, who brutally +forced events: he has the political genius. But +the people do not mind, since the events happen +anyhow: they shrug their shoulders good-naturedly +and say ‘Old Hassan Bey smiling with Turkish +teeth,’ and call on the first publisher to take notice +how smilingly they wince back. Her third is a +Christian, and he does nothing: he has the philosophical +genius. His idleness and talkativeness exasperate +the other two into efficiency. His favourite +harangue is: ‘Let the people create their own order.’</p> + +<p>‘But how, their own order?’</p> + +<p>‘Let them think.’</p> + +<p>‘But if they think, they will all think differently, +and not only differently—some will think more +powerfully than others.’</p> + +<p>‘Exactly: those who think more powerfully than +others will create order.’</p> + +<p>‘But this would not be real order, rather the +disorder of a false order created by the most powerfully +thinking individual or individuals of the +moment. This would be anarchism, and anarchism +is not enough.’</p> + +<p>‘I have heard that said before, but how is the +order created by the Queen not anarchism?’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[185]</span></p> + +<p>‘The Queen does not create order, she observes +methodically, she creates <i>her</i> order. That is why +<i>it</i> is <i>her</i> queendom.’</p> + +<p>‘But is this not merely a refined form of anarchism?’</p> + +<p>‘No, it is more than anarchism. The Queen is +not the chief individual of her queendom; she is the +<i>me</i> of the <i>it</i>; she is the one thing, her queendom is +the other things; she is satisfaction, her queendom +is desire, a lot of <i>him’s</i>. The more <i>me</i> she is, the +more <i>it</i> it is, and the more anonymous she is, and +the more she and her queendom are diplomatically +indistinguishable. The domestic situation is +of course another affair. But to carry the distinction +beyond the boundaries of the book is to fall +betwixt and between, into satire.’</p> + + +<h3>§6</h3> + +<p>Therefore the time has come to close. I am discovered, +or rather I have discovered myself, for the +authorities lost interest in me when they saw that +I would discover myself before I could be officially +discovered, that I would in fact break through the +pages and destroy the strongest evidence that might +be held against me, that is, that ‘An anonymous +book——’ etc. I understand now that what they +desired to prevent was just what has happened. +You must forgive me and believe that I was not +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[186]</span>trying to deceive, but that I became confused. I +over-distinguished and so fell into satire and so +discovered myself and so could not go on, to maintain +a satiric distinction between authorship and +scholarship.</p> + +<p>And what of the woman who loved an engine? +I cannot say. And the woman who was bewitched +by a parallel? I cannot say. They come after the +place where I left off.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[187]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_DAMNED_THING"> + THE DAMNED THING + </h2> +</div> + + +<h3>§1</h3> + +<p>‘Sex’ is crude sex, resembling other crude +appetites which similarly lose significance as soon +as satisfied; and it is translated sex—sex surviving +the satisfaction of the appetite. As the first it applies +to the mechanics, as the second to the sentiment of +sex.</p> + +<p>The child begins with crude sex alone. It innocently +indulges itself in sensual pleasures. It +loves kissing and to be kissed, stroking and to be +stroked, fondly contemplating its excretions. The +civilized society into which it is born magnifies the +importance of these insignificant local sensations, +gives them intellectual depth. It creates a handsome +receptacle, love, to contain the humours of +this unnaturally enlarged instinct.</p> + +<p>So much at any rate for the male child: parental +care nurtures masturbation into love and marriage. +Sex may stop short of love at lust. It may be anything +it pleases, so long as it satisfies the standard +measurements for social impressiveness.</p> + +<p>The female child has a different history. She +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[188]</span>shares a short period of sexual casualness with the +male child, at the end of which she immediately +becomes a candidate for the recipience of masculine +love; while the sexual training of the male child is +intensified at this point. This difference accounts +for the so-called early maturity of the female child. +For at the time when her male contemporary is only +a first-year man she is already a graduate without +benefit of education; and her proper mate is therefore +a graduate.</p> + +<p>Although intelligent people are generally aware +of the equivocal background of love and marriage, +they nevertheless go on marrying for the relaxation +and social ease that comes of doing what every one +else is doing. Any other course would be socially +unintelligible; and explanations are indecent. +Imagine a man and a woman both undeformed +by sex tradition and that an intimacy exists between +them. The intelligent major part of their intimacy +incorporates sex without sentimental enlargement: +it is an effect rather than a cause. And it is eventually +absorbed, it undergoes a diffusion, it is the +use of an amenable physical consciousness for the +benefit of mental consciousness.</p> + +<p>But traditionally sex would be the cause not +the effect of such an intimacy. The conventional +language of love could scarcely express it otherwise; +the only diffusion recognized would be the verbal +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[189]</span>substitution of commendable emotions for gross +passions. When the lover said ‘I love you’ it would +be socially impossible for him to mean: ‘Our personalities +have an intense and irresistible sympathy. +I am so conscious of you and myself together that +sometimes my sexual glands are stimulated by the +very thought of you.’ It would be impossible for +him not to mean: ‘My sexual glands, by the ingrowing +enlargement of my sex instinct since childhood +and its insidious, civilized traffic with every +part of my mental and physical being, are unfortunately +in a state of continual excitement. I +have very good control of myself, but my awareness +of your sexual physique and its radiations was +so acute that I could not resist the temptation to +desire to lie with you. Please do not think this +ignoble of me, for I shall perform this act, if you +permit it, with the greatest respect and tenderness +and attempt to make up for the indignity it of course +fundamentally will be to you (however pleasurable) +by serving you in every possible way and by sexually +flattering manifestations of your personality +which are not strictly sexual.’</p> + +<p>The diffusion which modern society calls love is +the colouring of sex with sentiments which have no +connection with sex, sentiments which are not +served by sex but serve sex, by making attractive +to the finical civilized mind an instinct naturally +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[190]</span>repulsive to it. They are literary. Sex, in the +imagery of Stendhal, is the naked branch which, +when introduced into the salt mine, comes out +covered with crystal formations: love is the imaginative +crystallization of naked instinct. The naked +instinct is the monstrous male instinct. The crystallization +is an aphrodisiac for the female, in whom +sex is comparatively casual: the sparkling branch +creates in her an appetite for love equal to the +male’s tremendous sexual offering, which she would +otherwise shrink from accepting. By this stratagem +the male himself does not seem to the female to +be touching her; in love virginity remains spiritually +undamaged. It is like the doll in a recent +Oxford smoker. Whenever the doll was touched, +the young person of the piece, who had a psychic +connection with the doll, was affected, though untouched +herself, so the nun conceals carnality from +herself by washing herself in dollish instalments. +Love is Masoch’s stately and marble-like Demon of +Virginity (‘the deeply rooted fear of existence every +creature feels’), a lewd and prudish Shepherdess.</p> + +<p>The only courses possible in sex then are love and +marriage, misconduct and perversion. Misconduct +is masculine brutality, the male’s refusal to dress up +the overgrown branch; and feminine indelicacy, +the female’s willingness to accept the overgrown +branch in spite of its unromantic nakedness. Perversion +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[191]</span>varies in character. It may be mere animal-like +sexual levity. Or the biological cynicism of the +species. Or it may occur in the male when love and +marriage or ordinary misconduct seem insufficient +to his exaggerated sex instinct, which can only be +satisfied by an instinct as exaggerated as his own. +Or it may occur in the female as a feministic improvement +on man-made sex, nevertheless imitating +it in its mechanism from an irrepressible sexual +nostalgia. Or it may occur, as also in the male, +through deprivation of normal sex life—though +more rarely than in the male, since her sex instinct +is less demanding. Active Lesbianism is a form of +sexual derangement resulting from the female’s mistaken +effort to become sexually equivalent to the +male: passive Lesbianism is a romantic substitution +of the feminine branch for the masculine branch +in the forced absence of the latter, the crystallization +remaining the same.</p> + +<p>There is an intellectual side to masculine homosexuality +that is never very strong in Lesbian alliances. +Homosexuality in men indeed is more often +intellectually induced than in women: it is ascetic, +whereas women are not sexually fanatic enough for +sexual asceticism. The disgust of homosexual men +with civilized heterosexual love becomes a disgust +with the crystalline aggressiveness of the female +body. If a woman is attractive to a homosexually +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[192]</span>minded man it is because she seems what he calls +‘pure and virginal’—aloof, that is, from her sexual +uses. The disgust is really with the aggressive +male sexuality which is responsible for the crystallization. +Wherever there is great cynicism about +sex, in Islam, say, or in France, homosexuality +is connived at as an intellectual supplement to +heterosexual life. The classical type of homosexuality +was far less exclusive and severe than the +modern type: it was sophistication rather than +specialization.</p> + +<p>Whether or not homosexuality is found a satisfactory +intellectual supplement, it is at any rate so +that it is easier for male than for female mentality +to escape from socialized sex. Woman has been too +much under the necessity of self-preservation to lay +down the weapons of feminine personality and risk +the disarmed independence of sexual impersonality. +She is the object, or prey, of male sexuality, and her +strength lies in the pride and in the obstacles with +which she conditions her capture. Much modern +feminism is only a sentimental enlargement of this +pride, only a shrewder insistence on her value as a +prize. For the most part the feminist still has the +mentality of the recipient in sex demanding compensation +for the indignity of her position; feminism +is an unnatural preoccupation in woman with her +sexual self.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[193]</span></p> + +<p>Woman’s case is nearly hopeless, then. Man is +just a little better off: his position affords him the +relief, if he is intellectually capable of taking it, of +sexual suicide.</p> + + +<h3>§2</h3> + +<p>Often we spend hours disposing of some small +thing not worth five minutes’ thought. We have had +it a long time, it is occasionally useful, some one has +given it to us, it would be a pity to throw it away, +it has become quite a part of us, and so on. And +yet it is in the way. Yielding to the tyranny of the +trivial hanging-on thing is adaptation. Outwardly +we seem to make the thing adapt itself to us. Actually +we are adapting ourselves to the thing—a +grotesque adaptation. Such a thing is sex, the small +physical thing; such an adaptation is the ceremony +with which it is decently installed in the opinion.</p> + +<p>With sex there seems to be nothing between +masturbation (throwing the damned thing out) and +romance (grotesque adaptation). Even the scientific +attitude is romantic: the implied title of every +learned book on sex is <i>De l’Amour</i>. The cases in +such series as Havelock-Ellis’s books on sex belong +to romance; they are the scientist’s storification of +sex. After the reader has grown used to the laboratory +manner of the scientist he continues to read +from sentiment not science; and the author himself +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[194]</span>continues, like any romantic author, only from the +growing morbid fascination of the subject—a +tediously energetic mind unhinged by the baffling +triviality of sex. Every psychologist of sex is a +psychologist of sex because he suffers from a sex-fixation. +He is the principal case of his work.</p> + +<p>Masturbation is reckoned disgraceful only because +it debases sex to less than what it is; the +damned thing is passionately shoved out of sight +instead of granted pious functional importance in +the household of the mind. There is much less +disgust felt toward venereal disease than toward +masturbation simply because the former is a large +subject, the latter a small one. The campaign +against masturbation in homes, boys’ schools and +sex books is much more intense than the campaign +against prostitution. Masturbation cannot be sentimentalized. +Prostitution, ‘the oldest profession in +the world,’ has an honoured ritual of obscenity and +an equally honoured ritual of commerce.</p> + +<p>So great is the importance of accepted sex symbolism—the +authorized poetry of sex—that any +departure from it is classified as a perversion, as +‘erotic’ symbolism. ‘Normal’ symbolism does not +even go by its name: it is love. It is not recorded +among the cases of erotic symbolism that so-and-so +continually wrote of women’s lips, or so-and-so +of women’s breasts. But several pages (fine print) +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[195]</span>must of course be devoted to a few notorious cases +(French) of foot symbolism, and of course to the +national case of China, a horrible example to the +Western sexual mind of perverse symbolism. Lip-worship +and breast-worship are normal because +they are generalizations: the kiss has become so +poetically diffuse in meaning that it does not represent +the precise local excitement which is its actual +sexual rôle, but a vague spiritual lippishness; the +breasts, likewise, are officially not part of the sexual +apparatus, but the semi-divine sensual equivalent +of that heart-bosom-and-chest sentiment into which +humanity has glorified mean sex-feeling.</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">‘And up the rosy pathway to her heart</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The uncapped pilgrim crept.’</div> + <div class="verse right">—<i>Byron.</i></div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p>Foot-worship is unnatural because it is local and +particular; it connects sex with a physical triviality. +It is nearly as disrespectful to romance as if the +sexual parts themselves were worshipped.</p> + +<p>Sexual energy, if left alone, would adapt itself +instead of forcing adaptation, be diffused instead of +diffuse. The social mechanism for disposing of sex +makes sex as large and complicated as itself, intensifies +its masculinity. Its femininity reduces merely +to an abstract, passive principle of motion in the +great moving masculine machine; without separate +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[196]</span>social personality. The social self is the sexual +self, and the sexual self is the male sexual self: +the dramatic pleasure which woman feels in sex +romance is masculine pleasure; in witnessing sexual +embrace on the screen or on the stage she adopts the +emotions of the male. Her innate sexual impersonality +if not philosophized, would wreck the solemn +masculine machine; it is therefore socially interpreted +as mechanical receptiveness, metaphysical +unconsciousness, social helpfulness. In self-defence +woman becomes sentimentally attached to this rôle: +the sexual machine so elaborately concentrated +on her confers on her an indignity loaded with +prerogatives. Slavish sex modesty is converted into +sex vanity. Militant (feministic) woman can do no +more than piously emphasize the negative, obstetrical +instrumentality of female sex; pretending that +motherhood is a rational social end instead of a +bigoted natural idiosyncrasy.</p> + +<p>This grotesque of socialized sex comes of the +stupid attempt of intelligent man to make nature +intelligent. Society is the genteel human version of +nature. It is based on the assumption that man +is a product of the refined integration of nature by +time and that it is therefore a superior, evolved +nature. A constant forced transference thus takes +place from the slums of nature into the respectable +terraces and squares of society.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[197]</span></p> + +<p>But the very existence of society, of an improved +nature, proves rather that man is a product of +the refined disintegration of nature by time; that +society is in fact a defensive alliance by conscious, +contradictory nature against unconscious, consistent +nature. And man stands in deformity between +them, a creature part social, part natural; but also +something else, himself. What is social is unreal. +What is natural is unreal. What is himself is also +unreal; but unreal intrinsically, not from deformity.</p> + +<p>Reproductive sentiment, for example, is an emotional +screen to conceal how little we belong to +nature. For were we to appreciate this little we +should soon appreciate how little we belonged to +society. Sex is even more separate from reproductive +instincts in human beings than in animal beings. +Society therefore strengthens the sympathetic connection +between them, this last crucial bond with +nature.</p> + +<p>But what is this sex that society has raised from a +state of nature to a state of respectability among the +intelligent passions? A myth in which people half +believe to keep up appearances of which they are +half ashamed. Only in the private consciousness is +it not a fraud; and here, an eccentric mark of +physical loneliness, a sort of memory of belonging; +when actualized, a momentary extinction of consciousness, +as it means momentary consciousness to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[198]</span>beasts that belong much to nature. As a public +ceremony sex is constantly in need of artificial +stimulation; its technique is scarcely more than the +technique of costume. It persists through the illusion +of numbers, which perform a gross sex-masque, a +lascivious fancifying of nature.</p> + +<p>Sex is the tribal totem through which society +sues Nature for protection and recognition, and +through which Nature is ritually flattered. To the +Church sex is the essence of flesh. Man is afraid to +admit that he lives largely outside of nature, that +his body is only a soul, a myth. Instead, he uses the +myth to re-establish flesh; God is the authentication +of the body.</p> + +<p>Sex is the chief religious mystery of man, his +most theatrical exhibition of reality. Parents lie in +wait for their children, to change their little sexual +sillies into portentous symbols. Either they significantly +do not ‘tell’ them but work their transformations +by a dark force of silence and suggestion; or +they significantly and poetically ‘tell’ them. Is the +child expected not to see that what is perhaps pretty +in flowers is rather ridiculous in people, who for the +most part have other interests besides seed-making +and seed-scattering? Or to treat as religious truth +the crazy information that baby comes out of +mother? Unprompted, it finds this just a third-rate +curiosity. If it hears its mother shrieking in labour +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[199]</span>it will report without malice but without sentiment +that mother squealed like a pig. Naturally without +a sexual conscience, it is gradually bullied into +superstitiousness, reverence or horror of sex. Shelley, +on being read the passage about Geraldine’s breast +in <i>Christabel</i>, saw a vision of a woman with eyes +instead of nipples. The child’s sight is poetically +twisted to see the nipples either so or as sacred knobs +of coral. The only way a child can be initiated +into socialized sex without deformity of his comic +sense is through obscenity, the cynical and painful +adult version of the child’s sexual insouciance.</p> + +<p>Psychology is the modern church of sex, provoking +an obscene Tolstoyan piety. Havelock-Ellis +says: ‘We must, as Bölsche declares, accustom ourselves +to gaze on the naked human body exactly as +we gaze at a beautiful flower’; and quotes the +following account of a totem mystery from Ungewitter’s +<i>Die Nacktheit</i>: ‘They made themselves as +comfortable as possible, the men laying aside their +coats, waistcoats, boots and socks; the women their +blouses, skirts, shoes and stockings. Gradually, as +the moral conception of nakedness developed in +their minds, more and more clothing fell away, +until the men wore nothing but bathing drawers +and the women only their chemises. In this “costume” +games were carried out in common, and a +regular camp-life led. The ladies (some of whom +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[200]</span>were unmarried) would then lie in hammocks and +we men on the grass, and the intercourse was +delightful [sic]. We felt as members of one family, +and behaved accordingly [sic].’ And Havelock-Ellis +himself again: ‘The nose receives the breath +of life; the vagina receives the water of life.... +The swelling breasts are such divinely gracious +insignia of womanhood because of the potential +child that hangs at them and sucks; the large curves +at the hips are so voluptuous because of the potential +child they clasp within them.’ The juvenile +delinquent of the streets reacts to this no more +obscenely by singing ‘Mother caught her titties in +the mangle.’</p> + +<p>Lofty reverence of the female sexual organs conceals +a fundamental disgust with them. Woman +is the symbol to man of the uncleanness of bodily +existence, of which he purifies himself by putting her +to noble uses. She thus has for a him a double, +contradictory significance; she is the subject of his +bawdry and the subject of his romance. The sex totem +is made in her image and embodies for him the conflict +between suicide and immortality. Man himself +is unreal. On woman he gets physical reality. She +is his nature, the realistic enlargement of his own +small sexual apparatus. She is the morphological +supplement of his phallus. Through her he can +refine, ritualize and vary his monotonous and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[201]</span>trivial appendage. She is the means by which he +adapts himself to what he is unable to assimilate +mentally, to the absurd physical remnant which +pursues him in his pilgrimage to extinction and +which he appeases by turning aside to reverence. +Sex is a perfidious intellectual digression into +physical reminiscences.</p> + +<p>How does woman play her part as the sacred +animal of the sex totem? With ease, since she is +quantitatively more sexual than man, more literally +sexual; therefore more impersonally sexual. Sex +in woman is unemotional, constitutionally well-blended—apart, +that is, from the ritualistic education +in love that she is subjected to by a masculine +society. Sex in man is emotional; it is segregated; +it is the last touch of nature in him that haunts and +torments him and that he propitiates with pompous +and evasive rites. Although, like man, woman is +largely not of nature, what nature remains in her +satisfies itself without pomp or pathos. That civilized +woman is slower than man in arriving at sexual +climaxes is due to the fact that her native sexual ease +had been perverted by man’s tortuous psychology +into a self-stupefying philosophical passivity.</p> + +<p>Woman, indeed, is so nearly complete in herself, +except for the phallus, that it is difficult to see how +it happened, if one sex must instrumentalize the +other, that she rather than man became the auxiliary +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[202]</span>apparatus. Phallic worship in man is not pious +but politic (unless he is homosexual, which is another +matter); an institution for advertising the phallus +to woman, hypnotizing her with it, protecting her +from the knowledge that she holds the strategical +sexual position. It is perhaps fair to say that as a +consciousness man is woman’s equal. As a physical +apparatus he is a clumsily devised gadget. From +the point of view of their fertilizing powers there +are millions and millions more men alive than +necessary. With proper husbanding of sperm (an +economy already practised with prize bulls and +stallions) one man might conceivably maintain the +world-population if a somewhat smaller figure than +the present were agreed upon as more reasonable +and if birth-control were somewhat relaxed. All +propagandist display of physical and mental superiority +on man’s part, all Rabelaisian gizzard and +brain tickling, is an attempt to detract attention +from his obviously incidental character as a physical +apparatus.</p> + +<p>But it is unkind and even irrelevant to over-press +the point. What is relevant is that we are in a state +of semi-conscious transition between nature and +nothing, and the more conscious we grow, the +nearer we are to nothing. In this passage sex comes +quietly along, obligingly diminishing itself except +when man, in panic of annihilation, whips it up and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[203]</span>tries to ride himself back to nature upon it. But +the passage continues, his hobby-horse is a phantom.</p> + +<p>Panic of annihilation, resistance to sexual diminution, +is a social emotion. Resistance to sexual +enlargement is a personal emotion, the fear of a +more brutal kind of annihilation. Sex brings shock; +to some rudimentary forms, simple death; to human +beings, intricate death, death of self, death of death. +Homosexuality is an oblique escape from the +violence of this shock. Polygamy and polyandry +distribute the frightening physical solidarity of +monogamy. Monogamous couples are always +hungry for company: to dilute sex. This hunger +for dilution is one-half of parenthood; the other half +is the regressive hunger for solidarity.</p> + +<p>This natural difference between creatures intellectually +like is the real perversion. Man is a poetic +animal; what is natural in him is pathological. +Poetically he is unisexual; when he attempts to +make the nature in him poetic he becomes bisexual +or homosexual not poetic. It is impossible that +through sex nature should approve of man or man +of nature. The only way to prevent sex from being +a greater source of discomfort than need be is to +recognize it as an anomalous hanger-on in man’s +journey away from nature and to make it reveal +its presence by behaving naturally: bringing about +a literal diffusion of physical nature in human +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[204]</span>nature instead of a monstrous hermaphroditism +or a monstrous monomania.</p> + + +<h3>§3</h3> + +<p>Sex as a petty eccentricity of the individual can +be easily disposed of by the individual. As a social +symptom it assumes large metaphysical proportions; +it becomes a crux between matter and mind. +It demands legal control, giving society an excuse +for power; economic control (as a medium of +exchange), giving society an excuse for motion; +ceremonial control, giving society an excuse for +language, manners, communication. That is, it +gives society an excuse for society.</p> + +<p>Society keeps control of sex by so embroidering +it with sentiment that the individual scarcely realizes +that he is serving society instead of society him. +Every one knows, in the abstract, for instance, that +monogamy is an economic expression; yet individuals +participating in monogamy would be horrified +at the suggestion that they were confirming an +economic expression. Marriage is not an economic +expression, but a ‘sacrament.’ Havelock-Ellis says: +‘Since marriage is not a mere contract, but a fact of +conduct, and even a sacred fact, the free participation +of both parties is needed to maintain it.’ +And not only is the economic significance of monogamous +marriage concealed by an argument of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[205]</span>spiritual significance, but by a biological argument +as well. Havelock-Ellis further says: ‘Monogamy, +in the fundamental biological sense, represents the +natural order into which the majority of sexual +facts will always naturally fall, because it is the +relationship which most adequately corresponds to +all the physical and spiritual facts involved.’ (Compare +Shelley’s argument that polygamy was a +biological necessity because the noble horse was +polygamous.)</p> + +<p>There develops, as a counterpart to public sex, +not private sex but academic sex, sex the tradition +rather than sex the practice. Sex shows itself +proudly as an art. It <i>is</i> art. And as it is the male +not the female who tends to express himself traditionally +as <i>man</i>, art is male art. It is therefore +foolish to point out that there have been very few +great women artists: why should one look for women +artists at all in male art? Art is to man the academic +idea of woman, a private play with her in public. +It is therefore foolish to point out that many artists, +perhaps the best, are homosexual. They are not +homosexual. Art is their wench.</p> + +<p>By man’s abstractness of mind is meant his +personal anonymity; he is a public creature, only +mathematically existent. By woman’s concreteness +of mind is meant the individuality (man calls it +‘reality’) he recognizes in her and which he attempts +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[206]</span>under cover of love, to steal. Woman wears clothes, +man wears a social uniform. Woman is individual-power +(brain); man is mass-power (brawn). Therefore +man, though individually a negative force, is as +a unit a positive force; defeating woman as a unit, +since the fact that she is individually a positive force +makes her collectively a negative force. Here is the +secret of man’s power over woman and of a woman’s +power over a man.</p> + +<p>The mysterious ‘reality’ of woman is responsible +for her mysterious position. The only way to correct +this position is for her to make a mystery of man, +to flatter, cajole, bully him into individuality. +Feminism’s great mistake is in concentrating on +woman rather than on man. Concentration on +woman can only increase the mysteriousness of her +position.</p> + +<p>The antithesis between intellectual and intuitional +faculties is really an antithesis between +conventionality and unconventionality. Mrs. Willa +Muir, is a short essay on <i>Woman</i>, says: ‘Unconscious +life creates, for example, human beings: conscious +life creates, for example, philosophy.’ Human +beings are not created by woman’s intuition (Mrs. +Muir should know this), but by the fertilization +of the female ovum by the male sperm. What +is meant is that philosophy springs from the conventional +male mind; but that human beings spring +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[207]</span>from the unconventional female body; and that +the female mind is therefore also unconventional.</p> + +<p>The male mind is conventional because the male +body is a mere convention. The female body is +unconventional because it is individualistic: man +gets somewhat socially and vaguely just children, +woman gets personally and precisely <i>a</i> child. The +female mind is therefore unconventional because +it is individualistic, that is, because woman is +physically an individual to a degree to which man +is not. Therefore man is intellectual, woman is +intuitional: man is unconquerable monotony, +woman conquerable variety. He has a formal, +vacant simplicity, she has an informal, experimental +complexity. Therefore, since he cannot be +entrusted with creating human beings and she can, +she must not be entrusted with creating philosophy, +which is all he can be entrusted with. She is not +good enough to be entrusted with creating philosophy +because she is intuitional: she is too good +to be entrusted with creating philosophy because +she is unconventional.</p> + +<p>It is fair to generalize about man because he is a +generalization, unfair to generalize about woman +because she is not. Man is male, man is ‘the sex,’ +not woman; woman is temperamentally unisexual, +a person; for this reason perhaps a mystery. Her +sex play is literal, hard, matter-of-fact, truly theatrical; +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[208]</span>the rest is unconventional, a mystery. With +man, all is sex; he cannot easily grasp the dualism +necessary to any real individual sense. His play is +symbolical, realistic; it is ‘the reality,’ protracted by +a tiresome, childish patience that never wears out. +Woman, to save herself from boredom, is obliged to +enliven the scene with a few gratuitous falsetto +turns, which he interprets as co-operation. Even at +his boldest man cannot get beyond a conventional +anarchism. He cannot see that he is on a stage and +therefore he cannot see that it is possible to get off; +so that his performance is continuous. And he will +perhaps never learn that anarchism is not enough. +His fine phallus-proud works-of-art, his pretty +masterpieces of literature, painting, sculpture and +music, bear down upon woman’s maternal indulgence; +she is full of admiration, kind but weary. +When, she sighs, will man grow up, when will he +become woman, when will she have companions +instead of children?</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[209]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_OF_ABDICATION"> + LETTER OF ABDICATION + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>I have done all I could for you, but the only +consequence is that you are the same as always. I +had the alternative of ordering a general massacre, +but I should then have had to go away anyhow. It +is simpler to abdicate. It certainly makes no difference +to the situation whether I leave you behind +dead or alive. Therefore I will leave you behind +alive, to afford myself the bitter satisfaction of telling +you what I think of you. You will not listen any +more than you would if you were dead, but I should +not address you if you were dead. Therefore I will +leave you behind alive, to afford myself the bitter +satisfaction of telling you what I think of you.</p> + +<p>You are not gay. You are sticky instead of rubbery. +You represent yourself with priggish sincerity +instead of mimicking yourself with grotesque +accuracy. Because you are photographs you think +the photographs are originals. You think seeing is +being.</p> + +<p>You do not know what you are. I will tell you, +though it will not make the least difference to you, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[210]</span>since you do not know what you are. You are a +conceit. You are what you are not. You are a very +fine point of discrimination. But since you do not +discriminate, since you are not gay, since you think +what you are is what you are, therefore you are not: +this indeed is why massacre was unnecessary. You +are blind, from seeing; you cannot appreciate the +identity of opposites. You are feeble, from a loutish +strength of doing; so that you cannot surpass doing, +let doing instead of yourselves do; so that you cannot +repose. You are cowards, afraid to be more than +perfect and more than formal; so that you are only +what you are; you have the perfection of mediocrity, +not the irregularity of perfection. You are +superstitious; you will season the dish with salt, but +you will not taste salt itself. You are ignorant; not +only do you not know what you are; you do not +know what you are not. You are lazy; you will do +only one thing at a time; you will act; but you will +not act and not act. You are criminal; what you do +is all positive, wicked, damaging; you make no +retractions, contradictions, proofs of innocence. You +are without honour; over-sincere; hypocritical.</p> + +<p>I will tell you a story which is in my mind at the +moment and may therefore have some bearing on +the question. There was once a woman whose mind +was as active as her body. And there was once a +man who was constituted in the same way. And the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[211]</span>combination of them produced a child which was all +mind and no body. And no one knew about it. She +was, naturally, a woman. Her parents gave her no +name but referred to her in a historical manner as +‘The Deliverer.’ Whenever anything went wrong in +any part of the world she put it right because she +was all mind. But no one knew about it and so it +made no difference. When they became quite hopeless +her parents referred to her merely as ‘The +Angel.’ In the end she was plain ‘she’ to them. At +her death she became all body, and her parents, +frenzied with disappointment, drove her out. And +no one knew about it. Her parents gave her no +name but referred to her in a historical manner as +‘The Destroyer.’ Whenever anything went right in +any part of the world she put it wrong again because +she was all body. But no one knew about it and so +it made no difference. When they became quite +hopeless her parents referred to her merely as ‘The +Beast.’ In the end she was plain ‘she’ to them. At +her death she became all mind, and her parents, +frenzied with disappointment, took her in again. +And no one knew about it.</p> + +<p>This is the story which was in my mind and which +may have some bearing on the question. The point +of it is, I think, that we are all in an impossible position; +which you handle by making less, myself more, +impossible. For example, it is unlikely that the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[212]</span>story that I have just told you would ever have +occurred to you. Or if it had, you would have +broken down in the middle and called it the end. +You stop half-way round the circle in order to spare +yourself the humiliation of missing the true end, +which is not perceptible in the ordinary way. Indeed +if it is not perceived, it makes no difference, the +circle goes round and round upon you. On the +other hand, it makes no difference even if it is perceived, +except the difference of perceiving it, which +makes the position, as I have said, more rather than +less impossible. So do as you like.</p> + +<p>But I shall abdicate if you do, and since you do, I +abdicate. You are all asleep, because being awake +means being dreamless, and you can only be awake +by dreaming to be awake, by dreaming to be +dreamless. You turn your back on your own non-existence +and are therefore non-existent. When +you love, you turn your back on what you love. +When you sweep, you turn your back on the dirt. +When you think, you turn your back on your mind. +Well, keep looking the other way so that I can kick +you where you deserve to be kicked. And you will +not turn on me but flatter yourselves that you are +having spasms of profundity.</p> + +<p>Anyway, this is how it is, little wise-bottoms. +There is Cleopatra, Rome, Napoleon and so forth +on one side, and there is the future on the other side, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[213]</span>and there you are in the middle alive. There is that +great churning, that continuous tossing up and +making of a middle, that bright ferment of centrality; +and it is you. My o my o my o, what a +thing! But when it was Cleopatra, Rome, Napoleon +or any of them of then, or when it will be who it will +be, my o my o my o, what a thing. It was not, +it will not be you. And what was you and what will +you be? You was and you will be dead. And why? +Because you are alive now. But come a little closer, +darlings, that I may kick you a little harder. Listen: +if you was dead and if you will be dead, each of you, +then you must be dead now, each of you, you must +be dead and alive. Now o now o now o, pumpkins, +don’t cry. For just think: there is that great big +live middle and it is nice and warm and it is you. +But it may also be it. And what would become of you +then out in the cold if you didn’t take yourselves in, +if you weren’t also you, if you weren’t each of you +dead as well as alive? And what difference does it +make? None whatever, pets, except the difference +of a difference that makes no difference.</p> + +<p>I will argue further against what I am arguing +for. The you which is you is only you, and not only +dead but invisible. And you can never be this you +unless you see the you which is it and every one +hard round the circle to the end, where you can no +longer see, and are you alone. And the result, if +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[214]</span>you do this? You will be so alive that you will be +deader than ever; you will have achieved the identity +of opposites; you will have brought two counter-processes +to rub noses, the you which you are +not, which is you alone, and the you which you are, +which is it, every one, not you—and much good may +it do you, except to make you deader than ever. +And the result, if you do not do this? You will save +that much life from death, and much good may it +do you—enough to wipe your nose on, when it runs +with nervousness at the thought that you will have +to die anyway.</p> + +<p>Yes, I once knew a woman who spent all her time +washing her linen, in order to be always fresh and +sweet smelling. But as she was always washing dirty +linen and thus making the linen she wore dirtier +than it might have been if she had washed less, she +smelled of nothing but dirty linen. Any why? Because +she was over-sincere and a hypocrite. She +got stranded in the fact of clean linen instead of +moving on to the effect of clean linen, which is the +end of the circle. And you are all like that.</p> + +<p>And again. Believing it to be you alone and that +you are only what you are, think what a small, mean, +cosy, curly, pink and puny figure you cut when you +set out to be it at a party of it’s, naked as in your +own bath. Whereas, ladies and gentlemen, if you +understood the identity of opposites, your nakedness +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[215]</span>would be an invisibility which you would +have to dress large, from the point of view of +visibility. And to this it-ish rather than you-ish +exterior you would add an even larger and looser-fitting +social skin, a house in most it-ish order, a +most it-ish interior, in fact. But you do not understand. +‘Boo-hoo!’ you cry. ‘What, hide our naked +hearts, paralyse our heroic breasts, sit upon our +grave bottoms, swallow back our great acts?’ ‘Hush-a-bye,’ +I reply, ‘there is enough going on for you +forrard without your great acts: drinks free, if you +will only drink, scenery on view, if you will only +look, music keeping step for you if you will only +supply the feet. Instead of spending money on what +you can only get for nothing. Life, lads, is a charity +feed the fun of which is in everybody pretending to +be a swell and everybody treating everybody else like +a swell and everybody knowing everybody is a fraud +and no matter. No matter because of death, in which +each may be rich and proud, and no fooling. And +your great acts? When you are bursting with fraud +and charity and can stand no more, sneak aft and +do your great acts, like private retchings and acts +of death. If they will not come on, repeat to a point +of mechanical conviction some formula of dreary +finality, such as, “The fathers of our girl friends are +lecherous,” or “Philosophy is teetotal whisky.”’</p> + +<p>But you are all sluts, your efforts are not biggish, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[216]</span>and so your fine points are only untidy and trivial. +If you would neatly calculate, you must calculate +grossly the whole pattern of it, which is the making +of the middle; you must conceive first tremendously, +then accurately; you must grasp the general +initiative which is it not you. From this, if your +application be fine enough, the fine points will resolve +themselves. But remember you are no fine +small point yourself; you are more and less than +one; you are the littlishness of biggishness; you are +no fine small point but a fine small point of discrimination. +My o my o my o, what a thing, poor +beastie, to be but dainty when you would be statistical. +The best of you are the worst of you: they +over-discriminate, put their hand to their chin, +stand upon taste, pick the highest and most delicately +scorched plum, and then choke over the +stone, dying the death of an æsthete. For what is a +single plum, too fine for the eye and not fine enough +for the throat?</p> + +<p>I might advise you to think; but you are over-eager, +all for gain. And thought is just a power of +potentiality; as you are of it; as death is of life; +without gain. You would make potentiality where +there is none, in order to have more thought than +is possible; you would turn the future into a bank, +as you now do the past, from greed of time.</p> + +<p>Or I might say: ‘Have shame.’ But you would +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[217]</span>only expose yourselves a little more outrageously +and hang your heads a little lower. You would not +understand that only truly abandoned boldness +breeds truly abandoned decorum. Your interpretations +are ignoble and indecent. You begin with +contradictions instead of ending with them; efface +them instead of developing them. As, for example, +with sex: you seize upon it at the beginning, tease +it, worry it, transform it, until you think you have +ironed it out thoroughly, whereas you have only +ironed yourselves out thoroughly. While if you had +not seized upon it, you would have found it at the +end of the circle, had you reached the end, an +achieved confirmation of the impossibility that +makes things possible.</p> + +<p>This is one of my favourite subjects; if I were not +abdicating I might discuss it elaborately, for your +good. Since I am abdicating, I will discuss it +simply, for my own good; for it is one of my favourite +subjects. The balance of interest in man, I +should say, is with the making, with it, with life; in +woman, with the breaking of the making into the +you which is you alone, into death. Woman is at +the end of the circle, she has only to rearrive at herself; +man has first to learn that there is an end, +before he can set out for it. And the learning he +scorns as childish and the setting out as a deathbed +rite. Woman he counts passive because she is at the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[218]</span>end, and inferior because, being there, she turns +round and starts all over again, to rearrive at herself. +He adores her when she remains passive, that +is his inferior; and despises her when she becomes +his equal, that is, his superior. Well, they are +worthless, both orders, when they are no more than +they are. And when they are more than they are +they are of no use to anyone but themselves; which +is right but sudden and perhaps too mean for +these mean times. For myself, I might confess to +you, now that we are parting, that my happiest +hours have been spent in the brotherly embrace of a +humbug, not from want of womanliness in me or +humbuggery in him, but because I was queen and +needed repose. Ah me ah me ah me, what is this +all about?</p> + +<p>And such stickiness. How am I better than the +rest of you? Because I have converted stickiness into +elasticity and made myself free without wrenching +myself free like a wayward pellet of paste. And +what of so-and-so, your popular idol and my late +consort? He was a strong man, powerfully sticky +but not elastic; when he moved, he carried you +along with him, he could not have moved otherwise, +freely. And so he had great moments but not free +moments. He was terribly alive but too terribly, +never more than alive. He was merely monstrous, +without the littlishness of biggishness. And what of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[219]</span>so-and-so, my sometime lover? He was indeed a +darling but an insufferable fop, washing away the +stickiness till there was nothing left of him. And +many others were darlings, of a sticky gracefulness +and rhythm. But send me no more candidates, their +embraces are either too heavy or too feeble; and I +am light, hollow with death, but strong, of a tough, +lively, it-ish exterior.</p> + +<p>That is the trouble. You have no comprehension +of appearance, what it is. Appearance is everything, +what you are, what you are not. But your +reach is sticky, not elastic; and so you get no further +than reality, a pathetic proportion. Appearance +is where the circle meets itself, where you live +and do not live, where you are and are not dead. +Appearance is everything, and nothing; bright and +uppermost in a woman, to be sunk darkly inward; +dumb, blind, darkly imbedded in a man, to be +thrust brutally outward.</p> + +<p>No, I am not confused, my blinking intelligences, +but understand too clearly, and that is the trouble. +I am unnecessary to you and therefore abdicate. +Nor do I deny that blinking is sufficient for your +purposes, which are sincere rather than statistical. +Or that it would be for mine, for that matter—if I +had purposes instead of queenliness. Which is my +weakness, if you like—the tiresomeness of insisting +upon the necessity of what is not necessary. I admit +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[220]</span>all; I am not wise but insistent, I am an unpaid +hack of accuracy. I was queen from tiresomeness, +and I abdicate from tiresomeness. I am not enjoying +myself.</p> + +<p>But perhaps you would like to know a little of my +history, before I retire finally. My mother imagined +that she suffered from bad eyesight; and to make it +worse she wore a stocking round her eyes whenever +possible: at home, a white stocking; abroad, a +black stocking; and occasionally, to depress circumstances +completely, a grey sock of my father’s, +fastened at the back of her head with a safety-pin. +From which, our house was full of small oval rugs +made by my mother out of the mates of the stockings +which she wore round her eyes and which she +was always losing. And these rugs made by my +mother were not well made, because she imagined +that she suffered from bad eyesight. From which +my mother, whose character was all dreariness, +acquired in my mind a hateful oddness. From +which, I resolved to outdo her in oddness, so that I +not only imagined that I suffered from good eyesight: +I did actually suffer from it. And with this +effect, that by the time I was of age I had no more +than one rug, and this was very large and square, +and it was well made, and not by me, though I +suffered extremely from good eyesight. I lived far +away from my mother, having no connection with +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[221]</span>her except to insist that she live far away from me; +and my rug was composed of many small squares; +and the pattern of each square was different; and +yet the whole harmonious because the stuff was +provided by me—the finest silk and velvet rags that +I could command from others, and which I sorted +and returned to them to be made into squares, a +square by each of them. And so each who made a +square was my subject. And so I became Queen. +Perhaps now you will understand me better. But I +am determined to abdicate, however you dissuade +me. Before I was in reach of your praise, and liked +neither your praise nor lack of it. It would not improve +my feelings to put myself in reach of your +pity. It was not for this that I told you my story. I +told you my story to make my abdication irrevocable.</p> + +<p>Yes, even now, it is painful to leave you. Not +because I love you but because I am still untired; +and after I leave you there will be no more to do. I +shall indeed be more untired than ever. For while I +was with you I worked hard (as you will not deny) +and achieved a certain formal queenly tiredness +from being unable to tire myself out no matter how +hard I worked. But now concealment will be impossible: +my insistence, that before I tried to +make pleasant to myself (and to others) by trying +to interest it in your affairs, will in the future +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[222]</span>be plainly horrible, as everything is horrible if +sufficiently disinterested, that is, insistent. But the +horror of my insistence will not be known to you, +because I am abdicating. Nor am I to be dissuaded. +The stroke that puts me in reach of your pity puts +me out of reach of it as well.</p> + +<p>I have said more than enough to satisfy my contempt +of you. But I once loved you; and I have +not punished myself sufficiently for that. What do I +mean when I say that I once loved you? That I +knew that being alive for you and me meant being +more than alive. But you were afraid to admit it, +though I was willing to take all the responsibility +upon myself. Then I tried pretending to be just +alive, I became for a time a partisan of timidity, in +order to show you that being just alive was just +pretending to be just alive. But when, aside, I +reached for your hand, to press it, you dishonourably +misunderstood me, you put me in the loathsome +position of flirting with you. Then I tried +extorting from you everything by means of which +you lived, to show you that when you did not live +you still lived. But again you wilfully misunderstood +me and over-exerted yourself to supply me +with what you thought to be my needs and what +you assumed to be yours; and stubbornly refused +to not live; and were disappointed when I did not +applaud your inexhaustibility. And then once more +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[223]</span>I tried. I loaded you with favours in order to show +you that nothing made any difference; that the +most as well as the least that you could endure by +belonged to being just alive; that you were more +than alive, dead. But you repulsed me with praise +and gratitude; as you would now with pity and +ingratitude if I permitted.</p> + +<p>Then I said: ‘I will leave them alone. I will content +myself with being queen. Perhaps if I play my +part conscientiously, at no time abandoning my +royal manner, they will admit everything of their +own accord, like a good, kind, though stupid, timid +people.’ But my grandeur you interpreted meanly as +the grandeur of being just alive, instead of grandly, +as the showy meanness of being just alive. You +watched me act and admired my performance, but +credited me with sincerity rather than talent; you +refused to act yourself, paralysed by the emotions of +an audience. My challenge, my drastic insistence, +made you if anything more timid than you already +were. You were hypnotized with admiration, you +were, from the vanity you took in watching me, less +than just alive. The men behaved more disgracefully +than the women because to be a woman requires +a strong theatrical sense: requires of one who +is more than man to be less than man. For this +reason I took many lovers, to humble back as many +as possible into activity. And this brought all of us to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[224]</span>where we were in the beginning. And so I abdicate, +leaving you once more to your heroism. With it you +were intolerable to me; without it you were not +only intolerable to me, but you would have eventually +become intolerable to yourselves, especially +after I had left you.</p> + +<p>You know only how to be either heroes or cowards. +But you do not know how to outwit yourselves +by being neither, though seeming to be both. +‘What,’ you say indignantly, ‘would you have us +be nothing?’ Ah, my dear people, if you could you +would all shortly become Queens.</p> + +<p>But perhaps it is best that you cannot. For if you +became Queens you would in time find it necessary +to abdicate, as I have; and you would, like me, be +left extremely unhappy, of having succeeded in +yourselves but failed in others.</p> + +<p>Yes, it is true that I concealed from you the colour +of my eyes. But the distance at which I kept you +from myself was precisely the distance between +being just alive and being more than alive. I was +giving you a lesson in space, not a rebuff. Since we +are at the end of things, you may come close to me +and look well into my eyes; but since you have not +learned your lesson, you will still remain ignorant +of their colour. Good-bye. I am going back to my +mirror, where I came from.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <p class="fh2" id="FOOTNOTES"> + FOOTNOTES + </p> +</div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_1_1" href="#FNanchor_1_1" class="label">[1]</a> Mr. Lewis takes a fierce, acquisitive joy in being right: as +if it were an honour to be right, and his unique honour. But +many people, alas, are right, only with more quietness and less +joy than Mr. Lewis. To be right (to see wrong) is properly a +sad, not a joyous mental condition. To be right in Mr. Lewis’s +manner is to become a self-appointed destroyer of wrong; and +so to make oneself a candidate for destruction, in turn. To be +right in his manner—so righteously right—is to be God; and +so to chasten every one into wrong.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_2_2" href="#FNanchor_2_2" class="label">[2]</a> The adultishness of the individual-real is an abhorrence +(as Mr. Lewis shows it to be) of intellectualism (organized +fear) in the up-to-date White mass, which to Mr. Lewis is +sentimental Bolshevism, Bohemianism. But such an abhorrence +of intellectualism in the up-to-date White mass, if one is +not careful, becomes (as in Mr. Lewis) an adultish championship +of intellectualism (organized bravado) in a privileged White few +(as any <i>system</i> of individualism must mean by individualism the +individualism of a few)—a sentimental Toryism, in fact, Academianism. +And in what few? The few, of course, swept aside +by the time-current; the few, indeed, who might be truly +individual were they not organized into a system of individualism. +Mr. Lewis’s Toryism would be perhaps apt if he were +trying to be only politically, not philosophically right as well. +But in the circumstances his satire is as irrelevant to his right, +which is philosophical, as Swift’s would have been, had it been +philosophical, to his right, which was political. The only +satire relevant to a philosophical right is a satire like Blake’s: +Blake’s faith showed the people who were wrong to be enemies, +it was not a system organizing himself into an enemy. +Mr. Lewis does not like Blake because he said that the roads of +genius (right) were crooked: Mr. Lewis believes that the +roads of right should be systematic, that the person who is +right should be an enemy, a righteous, sentimental Tory +rather than a sad though angry spirit.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_3_3" href="#FNanchor_3_3" class="label">[3]</a> The symbolism of the individual-real in its scientific +aspects is best explained in C. K. Ogden’s and I. A. Richards’ +<i>The Meaning of Meaning</i>. In this confused mixture of philosophy, +psychology, ethnology and literature it is just possible +to distinguish between what is meant by ‘bad’ and ‘good’ +symbolism. To begin with, the assumption must be made for +both varieties of symbolism that words mean nothing by themselves. +Bad symbolism is apparently the use of words for +collective propagandist purposes which distort the ‘referents’ +(original objects or events) of which the words are signs; good +symbolism makes language not an instrument of purposes but +of the ‘real’ objects or events for which it provides a sort of +mathematic of signs. Words in this reformed grammar are +thus not vulgar stage-players of images; they are certified +scientific representatives of the natural objects, or constructions +of objects called events, which man’s mind, like a dust-cloud, +is assumed to obscure from himself. To Mr. Ogden +and Mr. Richards language is ideally a neutral region of +literalness between reality and its human perception. Signs +(of which language is this precise mathematical grammar), +being the closest the perceiving mind can come to reality, +must for convenience be regarded as reality itself; the more +faithfully they are defined as signs, the more literally they represent +reality. There is no evidence anywhere in this book +that perception is properly anything other than a slave of +reality. Disobedient perception—language by itself—is an +‘Enchanted Wood of Words.’ There is no hint that individual +perception, instead of making a separate approximation of the +general sign conveying the object, does in fact where originality +is maintained experience a revulsion from the object or event +concerned. No hint that the very genesis or <i>utterance</i> of a sign +is an assertion of the independence of the mind against what +the authors call the sign-situation. Or that the mind is a +dust-cloud only when perceptively organized to define reality. +Or that language is only an Enchanted Wood of Words when +the dragon Reality is searched for in it. Or that words are +literal man, not ‘main topics of discussion,’ not literal perception +or the science of reality.</p> + +<p>The conclusion of this study, if one has patience to extract a +conclusion from this science-proud collation of verbal niceties, +is that man has no right to meaning: meaning is the property +of reality, which is to be known scientifically only through +symbols, which in turn are to be regulated as to interpretation +by limitations on the use of symbols, called definitions. ‘But +in most matters the possible treachery of words can only be +controlled through definitions, and the greater the number of +such alternative locutions available the less is the risk of discrepancy, +provided that we do not suppose symbols to have +“meaning” on their own account, and so people the world with +fictitious entities.’</p> + +<p>But what, then, in this stabilizing of the scientific or symbolic +use of words, is to happen to poetry, which is assumed as the +deliberately unscientific use of words? Poetry, it appears, +deals with evocative as opposed to symbolic speech. ‘In +evocative speech the essential consideration is the character +of the attitude aroused.’ The corollary to this proposition, +which the authors imperfectly and insincerely develop, is that +there is no true antithesis between evocative (partisan) +speech and symbolic (logical) speech. We deduce that +evocative speech is in fact not an independent speech of its +own but a persuasive quality that may be added to symbolic +speech: the ‘attitude aroused,’ that is, is an attitude toward +<i>something</i>—evocative (poetic) speech is false <i>by itself</i> (in opposition +to symbolic speech), it is scientifically admissible only +where it shows close dependence on symbols meaningless +in themselves but showing close, scientific dependence on +reality.</p> + +<p>This deduction we find confirmed in a little book by Mr. +I. A. Richards, <i>Science and Poetry</i>. ‘The essential peculiarity of +poetry as of all the arts is that the full appropriate situation is +not present.’ The fact that poetry is evocative rather then +symbolic gives it a freedom from the hard-and-fast laws of +reality that often enables it to convey a more faithful impression +of the ‘real thing,’ by a sort of loyal lying, than would +painfully truthful symbolic speech. Thus, by making symbolism +the purpose of science rather than of art (as it is in the +vulgar collective-real) Mr. Richards is able to allow poetry +(always by scientific leave, of course) certain aristocratic +latitudes of expression—a certain rhetorical <i>finesse</i>—that it +lacks when it is erroneously used as symbolic (pseudo-scientific) +speech. Poetry as symbolic speech is only figurative +speech; it invents a fairy-story of reality. Poetry as evocative +speech takes its clue from external (scientific) symbols of +reality rather than from internal (imaginative) symbols of +reality—it means, in Mr. Richards’ words, ‘The transference +from the magical view of the world to the scientific.’</p> + +<p>In the magical view the ‘pseudo-statements’ of poetry were +connected with belief. In the scientific view they are disconnected +from belief; we are returned to the assumption scattered +through the pages of <i>The Meaning of Meaning</i>, that man has no +right to meaning. The poet armed with the scientific view +accepts the ‘contemporary background’ as tentative meaning: +so that ‘the essential consideration is the character of the attitude +aroused.’ This attitude has literary licence according to +the degree of scientific acceptance: the more complete the +acceptance, the greater the ‘independence’ (meaninglessness) +of the poetry.</p> + +<p>Poetry is according to such criticism, therefore, a socially +beneficial affirmation of reality by means of a denial, or phantasization, +of individual mind. In symbolic (magic) poetic +speech reality itself is the principal of the fairy story; in evocative +(scientific) poetic speech the principal of the fairy-story +is the individual mind. In both cases the one belief from +which the poetic mind must not disconnect itself is the belief +in reality; which proves itself in either case to be only the most +advanced ‘contemporary background’ appreciable.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_4_4" href="#FNanchor_4_4" class="label">[4]</a> Except here!</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_5_5" href="#FNanchor_5_5" class="label">[5]</a> As instead of opposing a fine sexual indifference to the +sexual impotence or sentimental feminism that he finds +in modern life he flaunts a sentimental Spartan masculinity.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_6_6" href="#FNanchor_6_6" class="label">[6]</a> Deity to the collective-realist is reality as symbolic oneness; +to the individual-realist, reality as rationalistic oneness. +To the former therefore personality is an instrument for conceiving +emotionally the mass character of this oneness; to the +latter, an instrument for corroborating intellectually the +individualistic character of this oneness. (Intellectual democracy +as opposed to intellectual anarchy.) Mr. Lewis says: +‘We have a god-like experience in that only’ (personality). +The collective-realist would say: ‘We have a god-like experience +in that only’ (personality). The only difference between +these two expressions is political. ‘Evidences of a oneness seem +everywhere apparent,’ Mr. Lewis says. ‘But we <i>need</i>, for practical +purposes, the illusion of a plurality.’ The ‘practical +purposes’ are, presumably, the necessity of protecting this +democratic oneness from the democratic mass: ‘plurality’ here +means the plurality of the few. It is comprehensible, then, +that Catholic thought should, by its scholasticism, appeal to +Mr. Lewis—the political wisdom of an institution that keeps +a small body of well-paid intelligentsia to administer Godhood +to the not so individualistic, the not so well-paid worshipping +mass. And Mr. Lewis is here at one with his rather more +scholastic colleague in individualism, Mr. Eliot, who with his +French co-littérateurs phrases the conflict between symbolic +oneness and rationalistic oneness, or symbolic personality and +rationalistic personality, more elegantly as the conflict between +intuition and intelligence (between the feeling whole +and the thinking whole, in Mr. Lewis’s language). Individuality +to the individualist is thus an intellectual fiction, as to +the collective-realist it is the oneness which is the fiction +(‘Human individuality is best regarded as a kind of artificial +Godhood’—Mr. Lewis. And again: ‘We at least must <i>pretend</i> +not to notice each other’s presence, God and ourselves to be +alone.’)—the difference here being merely the difference +between a sentimentalized Tory absolute and a sentimentalized +Communist absolute.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_7_7" href="#FNanchor_7_7" class="label">[7]</a> Spenglerism is male religiosity and symbolism of the +vulgar romantic as opposed to the refined classical kind. +‘The Faustian soul looks for an immortality to follow the +bodily end, a sort of marriage with endless space ... till +at last nothing remains visible but the indwelling depth-and-height +energy of this self-extension.’ The historical mind (the +‘Faustian soul’) overcomes its perpetual temporariness by a +perpetual give-and-take between itself and the Great Mother +reality, whom it honours with its philosophical erections (what +Herr Spengler calls third-dimensional extension) and from +whom it receives sensations of infinity—the Great Mother’s +gratitude for this masculine ‘conquest’ of herself. To the +Spenglerist (the modernist) this infinity is vague, collective, metaphorical: +‘somehow we are in nature’; somehow ‘the +“I” overwhelms the “Thou.”’ The scientific world, the Great +Mother, is dead; it is the fairy-tale brought to life in each +fresh embrace of it by the historical world. To the individual-realist +(the classicist) the masculine extension is actual and +personal rather than metaphorical and collective: the fairy-tale +individual mind acquires an immediate ahistorical liveliness +from its intercourse with the Great Scientific Mother. +Herr Spengler despises the classical ahistorical attitude to +reality. But overstudiously; for it is rather more than less +than modern; it is based on the minute of the moment, not +on the age of the moment. Both the collective-realist and the +individual-realist function by sexual phantasia; the only +difference between them being that the latter claims to be +able to have closer contact with the Great Mother than the +former—one merely historically, through the experience of +the time-group to which he belongs, the other scientifically, +through <i>his</i> experience <i>now</i>.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_8_8" href="#FNanchor_8_8" class="label">[8]</a> These positions might perhaps be more clearly illustrated +in their respective attitudes to place. The collective-realist is +poetically attached to the idea of the <i>there</i>; reality is romantic, +far-away, collective—superior to the personal <i>here</i>; it is the +eternally old fountain of eternal youthfulness. From this feeling +comes the morbid fondness of Western man for other races, +so severely condemned by Mr. Lewis. The individual-realist +is poetically attached to the idea of the <i>here</i>; reality is +classical, local, individual—superior to the collective <i>there</i>; +it is the eternally old fountain of eternal adultishness. The +first attitude ends in doctrinaire universalism, the second in +doctrinaire provincialism: both the collective-realist and +the individual-realist believe in the social significance of +locality, differing only in their location of locality. Both, in +fact, suffer from this obsession with social significance. Take, +for example, niggerish jazz: its real strength and attraction is +that it is movement free from significance; pure, ritualistic, +barbaric social pleasure that can only be properly understood +and enjoyed by those who understand and enjoy the civilized +individuality of significance. To the romantic universalist +niggerish jazz is a religious devotion of the sensations to +eternal youthfulness. To the classical provincialist it is a +depraved, democratic infantilism. Both emotionalize it, the +one as elevation, the other as degradation: to one the jazz +nigger is the angel-symbol, to the other the devil-symbol. +While the only one able to intellectualize it properly is the +jazz nigger himself—generally an individual, unreal, paleface +Jew with a dusky make-up of social clownishness.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_9_9" href="#FNanchor_9_9" class="label">[9]</a> Or again, these positions might be illustrated in their +respective attitudes to size. The collective-realist thinks of +society as a big, symbolical unit, the individual-realist as a +small, concrete unit. The unreal self does not think of size, or +of society, as significant concepts at all. The collective-realist +makes the individual emotionally as large as the many. The +individual-realist makes the individual intellectually as large +as himself—that is, of a standard realistic size. The unreal +self gets rid of even the fractional reality of the self of the +individual-realist: it is not the quantitative nothing derided by +Mr. Lewis, but a sizeless invisibility from reality. Mr. Lewis +disapproves of nothing; and he disapproves of Bradley’s +Absolute because ‘he did not succeed in relieving it of a +certain impressive scale and impending weight.’ What he +seems to imply is an Absolute temperately placed between all +and nothing—a sort of safely quantitative qualitative absolute; +a short, certain, academic eternity as opposed to a vulgar, +tentatively eternal eternity; a small, well-bred, provincial +church in which to worship a congregationalist Absolute as +opposed to a popular arena erected to a universalist (demogogic +as opposed to pedagogic) Absolute.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_10_10" href="#FNanchor_10_10" class="label">[10]</a> We observe the same aristocratic bias in Mr. Lewis. The +universal mind (the artist’s or seeing mind) is not lodged in a +collective all but in a selected few for all: individual-real +(cultured anarchism) opposed to collective-real (cultured +democracy) and to individual-unreal (anarchism is not +enough). The anarchistic, artistic, critical mind is not interested +in individuality as individuality but as superior individuality, +as reason: it is an expert in reality, it sees what is +‘here.’ It is a poetic common-sense seeing (through its +monocle) a vision ‘classical,’ ‘geometric,’ ‘severe’ (‘“Classical” +is for me anything which is nobly defined and exact, as +opposed to that which is fluid’—Mr. Lewis). It does not +believe in lower-class doing but in upper-class thinking: +<i>laissez-faire</i> anarchism. It is against violent sympathies and +antipathies; it is provincial but informed. Reason is aloof, +courteous prejudice (‘we should grow more and more polite’—Mr. +Lewis); intelligent conventionality, haughty submission +to reality. For example, Mr. Lewis’s objections to Bolshevism +only apply to it where it is in action, not anarchistic; not to +Bolshevism as a polite ‘vision’—that is, in so far as it is the +gospel of an uncultured many rather than the dogma of a +cultured few.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_11_11" href="#FNanchor_11_11" class="label">[11]</a> Again we perceive the same emphasis on superior as +opposed to plain, ordinary individuality. The man of reason +is an aristocrat of race-individuality; the race, of course, being +a superior race—if it were not superior it would be unendowed +with reason. But (and this is a point for which we +must be grateful to Mr. Lewis) race-superiority (individuality) +is administered for the whole race by only one class in the +race; so that while ‘char-lady’ is lady by race, she is not lady +by class (lady of reason). Char-ladies who confuse race with +class and forget their place do so ‘to their undoing.’ Their +undoing is apparently a muddy-watery, unladylike laughter +that is not, of course, reason. What is reason? Mr. Lewis tells +us: ‘Let us rather meet with the slightest smile all those things +that so far we have received with delirious rapture.’ The +change is not so much from laughing rapture to haughty +smiling as from one we to another kind of we—a democratic +we to an aristocratic we. Thus, the true we of the Machine +Age is not, according to Mr. Lewis, the mob but the capitalistic, +anarchistic individualists—the Mr. Ford’s. Mr. Ford +admits, Mr. Lewis points out, that he could not live the life of +one of his workmen. While in a ruthlessly democratic scheme +(Bolshevism or Spenglerism) there is only a mob-life disguised +as Culture. Spengler would be the ideal romantic mob-historian; +Tacitus, possibly, the ideal classical, urbane +polite, smiling, anarchistic, <i>laissez-faire</i>, perspectiveless, +ahistorical, geometric individualist-historian. To the collective-realist +the mob moves, to the individual-realist it is static +(‘The Russian workman and peasant under the Bolshevik is +the same as he was under the Tsar, though less free and minus +the consolations of a religion’—Mr. Lewis). Mob-philosophy +(mob-individualism, liberty, organized <i>laissez-faire</i>) is ‘against +human reason, motiveless and hence mad’ (again Mr. Lewis). +What is human reason? Mr. Lewis’s ‘young catholic student’ +tells us: ‘not that some bank-clerk on a holiday has discovered +that trees have something to say for themselves.’ But +when some bank-president, superman or Saint ‘traverses a +wood with complete safety’—that is with proud, rational, +individualistic submission, with sedate, conventional, geometric +curiosity. Human reason is Authority, authority +received and authority administered; and it is interesting that +both Mr. Lewis and his young catholic student emphasize +this sexual duality of reason. To Mr. Lewis reason is the +quiet, conventional, slightly smiling she availing herself of her +feminine privilege to remain seated, and also the conventional, +brainy, impressive, standing-up he, viewing the general situation +with brilliant restraint. The young catholic student +outlines Baron von Hugel’s definition of authority: ‘By it, +the force and light of the few are applied to the dull majority, +the highest in a man to his own average.’ Baron von Hugel’s +own words on this Church of Individualism (for the few), +quoted by him, are: ‘The Church is thus, both ever and +everywhere, progressive and conservative; both reverently +free-lance and official; both, as it were, male and female, +creative and reproductive....’</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_12_12" href="#FNanchor_12_12" class="label">[12]</a> Mr. Lewis’s predominant emotion is disgust and he is +therefore snobbishly old-fashioned; Mr. Eliot’s is moral anxiety, +and he is therefore snobbishly ‘advanced’—what seems old-fashioned +or mediæval or Thomist in Mr. Eliot is really his +greater (than the silly emotional orthodox mob’s) strictness in +keeping up-to-date, in time with the universe of reason. He +is at pains to discover the right side and to fight on it. Mr. +Lewis is so disgusted with everything that he has abandoned +all positive questions of right, and like a Swiss, retained nothing +but his fighting conscience, a haughtiness of bearing in which +alone he finds himself in sympathy with Mr. Eliot. In matters +of faith they must certainly disagree. Mr. Eliot’s Toryism is +modern, intellectual, in sober perspective. Mr. Lewis’s is +petulantly old-fashioned, sentimental, ‘geometric’: the good, +Swiss stern old days when everything happened anyhow, +without historical significance or morality, are his fighting, +anarchistic slogan against the presumptuous mob-consciousness +of modern life. What Mr. Lewis fails to see is that if he +devoted his energy to individualism (cultivating his own +individuality) instead of anarchism (knocking the mob on the +head with his individuality) the mob might develop a social +regularity, an automatic geometricity that even he might +share in without disturbance to his individuality; that it is the +anarchism of a few that gives false historical significance to +the days of man, not the co-operative unanimity of the many.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_13_13" href="#FNanchor_13_13" class="label">[13]</a> See, for example, in Mr. Lewis’s <i>Time and Western Man</i>, the +chapter <i>The Object as King of the Physical World</i>.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_14_14" href="#FNanchor_14_14" class="label">[14]</a> To Mr. Lewis, Science, popularized magic, rather than +Reason, the artist’s personal magic. (Compare, similarly, New +Testament pseudo-primitive communism, with properly modernized +Old Testament individualism.)</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_15_15" href="#FNanchor_15_15" class="label">[15]</a> ‘I, of course, admit that the principle I advocate is not +for everybody.’—Mr. Lewis.</p></div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="transnote"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="Transcribers_Notes"> + Transcriber’s Notes + </h2> +<p> + <span style="margin-left: 1.0em;">The book cover image that accompanies some ebook formats was made by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.</span><br> + <span style="margin-left: 1.0em;">Inconsistent use of hyphens has been retained save as noted below.</span><br> + <span style="margin-left: 1.0em;">Footnotes have been moved to the end of the book.</span><br> + <span style="margin-left: 1.0em;">The following changes to the original text are noted:</span><br> + <span style="margin-left: 1.0em;"><a href="#Page_36">p. 36</a> added period following ‘And it is.’</span><br> + <span style="margin-left: 1.0em;"><a href="#Page_86">p. 86</a> changed single quotes to double quotes around “the constant and sacred harmony of life.”; added close single quote immediately after</span><br> + <span style="margin-left: 1.0em;"><a href="#Page_98">p. 98</a> retained spelling of ‘esthetic’</span><br> + <span style="margin-left: 1.0em;"><a href="#Page_109">p. 109</a> added close parenthesis in ‘(Mr. Read’s phrase).’</span><br> + <span style="margin-left: 1.0em;"><a href="#Page_109">p. 109</a> added hyphen to ‘the individual-real’</span><br> + <span style="margin-left: 1.0em;"><a href="#Page_128">p. 128</a> added hyphen to ‘re-inforce’ in ‘space-men re-inforce’</span><br> + <span style="margin-left: 1.0em;"><a href="#Page_155">p. 155</a> capitalized ‘To’ in ‘<i>The Man Who Told Lies To His Mother</i>’</span><br> + <span style="margin-left: 1.0em;"><a href="#Page_178">p. 178</a> uncapitalized ‘queendom’</span><br> + <span style="margin-left: 1.0em;"><a href="#Page_196">p. 196</a> changed ‘role’ to ‘rôle’</span><br> + <span style="margin-left: 1.0em;"><a href="#Page_199">p. 199</a> changed ‘Bölshe’ to ‘Bölsche’</span><br> + <span style="margin-left: 1.0em;"><a href="#Page_204">p. 204</a> added close quote following ‘maintain it.’</span><br> + <span style="margin-left: 1.0em;"><a href="#Page_209">p. 209</a> joined unhyphenated ‘sincerity’</span><br> + <span style="margin-left: 1.0em;"><a href="#Page_215">p. 215</a> changed single quotes to double quotes around “The fathers of our girl friends are lecherous,” and “Philosophy is teetotal whisky.”; added close single quote immediately after</span><br> + <span style="margin-left: 1.0em;"><a href="#Page_216">p. 216</a> changed ‘æsthlete’ to ‘æsthete’</span><br> + <span style="margin-left: 1.0em;"><a href="#Footnote_3_3">footnote 3</a> changed ‘considerations’ to ‘consideration’ in ‘the essential consideration is’</span><br> +</p> +</div> + +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78380 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/78380-h/images/cover.jpg b/78380-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..cd7bd15 --- /dev/null +++ b/78380-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6c72794 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This book, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. 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