Hugh Kenner.-Gnomon - Essays On Contemporary Literature-McDowell - Obolensky (1956)

GNOMON
ESSAYS ON CONTEMPORARY LITERATURE

By the same author
HUGH KENNER
PARADOX IN CHESTERTON
THE POETRY OF EZRA POUND
WYNDHAM LEWIS
. study with the mind of a grandson
DUBLIN'S JOYCE
and watch the time like a hawk.
r
MCDOWELL OBOLENSKY
For
Marvin Mudrick
Copyright 1951, 1952, 1953, 1954, 1955, 1956
by Hugh Kenner
Copyright 1958 by Hugh Kenner
All rights reserved under Pan-American and
International Copyright Conventions. Published
in New York by McDowell, Obolensky Inc.,
and in The Dominion of Canada by George J.
McLeod Limited, Toronto.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number:
58-6503
Acknowledgment is here made to The Hudson
Review, Irish Writing, Perspective, Poetry, The
Sewanee Review, Shenandoah, and Yale French
Studies, in which these essays first appeared.
Manufactured in The United States of America
by The Colonial Press Inc., Clinton, Massa-
chusetts.
DESIGNED BY ALFRED MANSO.
NMIJ

Contents
3
1. The Sacred Book of the Arts 9
2. ANoteonTHEGREAT AMERICAN NOVEL 30
3. With the Bare Hands 38
4. Dr. Williams ShapingHis Axe 55
5. Whitman's Multitudes 67
6. Faces to the Wall 80
7. Subways to Parnassus 101
8. Tales of the Vienna Woods 114
9. Provision of Measures 132
10. RememberThatIHaveRemembered 144
11. ConradandFord 162
12. IntheWake ofthe Anarch 171
13. Supreme in HerAbnormality 180
14. AttheHawk'sWell 198
15. TheDevilandWyndhamLewis 215
16. Inside the Featherbed 242
17. Alice in Empsonland 249
18. EzraPoundandthe LightofFrance 263
19. Under the Larches of Paradise 280
Index 297
Foreword
HEN THE EMPEROR YAO ASKED VAINLY FOR ONE
Wman "qui soigne les choses aune manwre con-
forme aleur nature," he was proposing, among other
things, an ideal for the critic. He also sent his astron-
omers into the four corners of the kingdom to watch
the shadows of their gnomons and so, in fixing the sea-
sons, regulate the conduct of the new epoch by the
swing of the sun and stars. The critic who would
render accessible the renovation of intellectual ener-
gies displayed by the imaginative writing of the past
fifty years can undertake no less than the astrono-
mers Hi and Houo.
This book is a report on ten years' watching of
shadows, with the results of the attendant calcula-
tions. It should not be taken for a collection of de-
finitive estimates; nor on the other hand should con-
clusions be drawn from gaps in the table of contents,
which are partly accounted for by the existence of
other books, either published or in preparation.
The function of criticism is "the elucidation of
works of art"; from this follows "the correctiop. of
taste.", The foundation of criticism is exegesis. This
is generally taken to mean the fussy explication of
matters too small to invite normal attention; but in
its most helpful and perhaps least practiced form it
brings into view outlines too large to be often no-
ticed, so aiding the reader to realize what he is read-
ing. Mr. Eliot pointed out that "To His Coy Mistress"
3
4 GNOMON
hasthestructureofa syllogism; andthemosthelpful
thing to be said about Shelley's "Ode to the West
I
Wind" is that it pursues for three stanzas the meth-
ods of the magical formulae for summoning up a
spirit for consultation, bymeans of a ritual enumer-
ationofthe spirit's attributes. Exegesis characteristi-

cally cannot be "proved," and requires only the ad-
duction of sufficient exemplification to make clear
exactly what the critic means to say. Theexamples,
however, byreaders accustomedtothecanonsofthe
researchpaper,arefrequentlythoughttobeintended
for evidence, and clear assertion assisted by no
more than a handful of examples is mistaken for
i
arrogance. Newton is said to have performed an
I
exegesis of the solar system with the aid of one
I
apple; it was no doubt arrogant of him not to wait
untilthe orbits ofall the asteroids hadbeen plotted.
II
The test of exegesis is that it enlightens.
Nothingis dullerthansomeone'sopinion, theleast
informative phase of autobiography. What is com-
II
iji monly called "taste" is a collection of authorized
Ii
opinions; what is commonly called "criticism" is the
Iii
,I
provision of authorizations. The wish to know what
'I
onewillbe safe in commendingfathers the demand
II
!
that the critic provide what are called "value judg-
ments." These are commonly ways of saying that
Work A does (or does not), or ought to (or ought
notto),evoke (inthefit reader) morecomplexspir-
itual contortions than Work B; or else they are tips
on the current state of the market. Frequently they
are just ways of reprimanding other critics. But if
the critic's function is to help the reader see what
Foreword .:J
,..
he is reading, then he will pass beyond exegesis in
two ways only: by the judgments implicit in his
choice of subjects to write about, and the compari-
sons implicit in any discussion of a particularwork's
orwriter's nature. The latterare best articulated by
the technique of unexpected juxtaposition; Vulcan
performed a critical act when he exhibited Venus
and Mars in a net.
The essays in this book were without exception
commissioned at various times by editors who
wanted something or other discussed. But though I
havenot (exceptinacceptingthecommissions) alto-
gether chosen my topics, I have chosen what to re-
printhere. Thebookconcerns itseH with those parts
of the seminal poetry and prose of the twentieth
century which seem at present in greatest need of
clarification: the methods of Yeats, Pound, and Dr.
Williams, thestature of Wyndham Lewis' last work,
the nature of Miss Moore's uniqueness, the patient
intelligence of Ford Madox Ford, and what the
readerwho grasps thesequalities willperceive to be
the irrelevance or perversity ofthree or four critical
and pedagogical fashions.
Throughoutthebookthere is rotatedfor the read-
er's inspection what I take to be the significant life
of thQ mind in the past fifty years. The seminal in-
tellectualactivityofthishaH-centuryhas a character
as marked as that of the Augustan Age or the Ro-
mantic Movement, more clearly identifiable than
thatoftheVictorianAge (whichtheAuden-Spender
decade somewhat resembles), less elusive than the
English Renaissance. Itlacks a name; I should call
6 GNOMON
it, expanding the scope of a term of Lewis', the
Vortex: a shaped, controlled and heady circling,
centripetal and three-dimensional, around a funnel
ofcalm. Itis dissipatingatpresent,as allintellectual
vortices do; but the publication in its very late
phases of such works as Paterson, Rock-Drill, and
The Human Age draws attention to thefact thatfor
thefirst timesince thedeathof Popethe procedures
of literary creation are again in such adjustment as
to permit the best writers of a time to do their best
work in the lateryears of a longlife.
So spectacular a literary phenomenon has en-
joyed, it goes without saying, a peculiarly fructive
relation to the past. I include an essay on Whitman
to indicate some of the bearings of Dr. Williams'
work and the Benton Cantos, and one on Pope to
indicate the nature of the continuity that has been
resumed. Ina longhistorical perspective,the Vortex
is thethird ofa series ofconcerted attempts to deal
Iii;
withcertainproblemsofperceptionandactionwhich
iil,
were presented by the Renaissance and which came
lill to a focus inthe earlyeighteenthcentury; my forth-
I
I
coming book The Night World will elucidate this
I
statement. Literary history is generally written in
11
I
I,
I
terms of the writer's relation to his readers, and the
absence of a coherent reading public is generally
made to account for the peculiar features of Eliot's
work, or Pound's, or Joyce's. But it is doubtful
whether the relation of writer to reader has ever
been as satisfactory as we like to suppose. The Age
of Pope, the Age of Wordsworth, can hardly have
been recognized as such by more than a few hun-
7
dred contemporaries; as for Shakespeare, the fact
of his pre-eminence was for decades a coterie opin-
ion. It is the good minorwriter who suffers from the
absence of an identifiable public; and it is not so
much the readers thathe requires (Andrew Marvell
did not even publish his poems), as the confidence
lentbythe felt existence of diffused, coherent taste.
Our century possesses figures comparable to Jonson
and Milton, butnone comparable to Carew or Mar-
vell, andfor thatatleast"thetimes"maybeblamed.
Foreword
These essays,orearlierversionsofthem,havepre-
viously appeared in Shenandoah, Poetry, Hudson
Review, Sewanee Review, Perspective, Yale French
Studies, and Irish Writing, to the editors and pub-
lishers of which I am indebted for permission to re-
print and revise. I am grateful to Mr. Fred Siegel
of NewYork City for generously placing at my dis-
posaltheresults of his industriousness with the Chi-
nese dictionary.
Hugh Kenner
Santa Barbara College,
Santa Barbara, California.
""J"'"
1. The Sacred Book of the Arts
The way out is via the door, how is it no one will
use this method?
-Confucius
1. Catechism
0: In "Among School Children" we read of a "Le-
daean body." Where are we to seek information
about that?
A: Not from the mythological dictionary, but as
everybody knows, from the poem "Leda and the
Swan."
Q: And where is this poem to be discovered?
A: On the previous page.
Q: Very good. You are on the way to noticing some-
thing. Now consider the last stanza of "Among
School Children." After an apostrophe to "self-
born mockers of man's enterprise" we read:
Labour is blossoming or dancing where
The body is not bruised to pleasure soul,
Nor beauty born out of its own despair,
Nor blear-eyed wisdom out of midnight oil.
o ehestnut-tree, great-rooted blossomer,
Are you the leaf, the blossom or the bole?
o body swayed to music, 0 brightening glance,
How can we know the dancer from the dance?
That "where" is by its placing in the line made
very emphatic. Its gesture implies a place or a
state intensely real to Yeats. Does he print lines
9
10 GNOMON
elsewhere that might be taken as descriptive of
that place or state?
A: Hedoes; in"Colonus'Praise," afterinvoking"im-
mortal ladies" who "tread the ground/Dizzy
with harmonious sound" (which invocation of
I
I
course we are meant to connect with "0body
swayed to music"), he goes on,
Andyonderin the gymnasts' gardenthrives
The self-sown, self-begotten shape that gives
Athenian intellectits mastery . . .
the self-born no longer a mocker, body and in-
tellect thriving in unison, neither bruised to
pleasure the other; and the miraculous olive-tree
that, as he goes on to tell us, symbolizes that
perfection, is to be connected with the domestic
"chestnut-tree, great-rooted blossomer" of the
famous peroration.
Q: Excellent, excellent. And now tell me where, in
relation to "Among School Children," this song
I
in praise of Colonus is to be found?
III
I
A: Onthefollowing page.
,II
Iii
Q: You are answering today with admirable point
I,:
and economy. Now tell me: were the three
Ilil
,'I
poems you have mentioned as bearing upon one
another written, as it were, simultaneously?
A: I find by the chronology at the back of Mr. Ell-
man's Identity of Yeats thatthe first was written
nearly four years before the last. I notice fur-
thermore that the arrangement of the poems in
the volume we are discussing, The Tower, is far
from chronological. "Sailing to Byzantium"
The Sacred Book of the Arts 11
(Sept. 26, 1926), with which it begins, was
writtenafter "AmongSchool Children" (June 14,
1926), which is located two-thirds of the way
through the book. In between there are poems
dating as far backas 1919, and the volume ends
with"All Souls' Night," 1920.
Q: We shouldbelostwithout these American schol-
ars. You wouldsay,then,thatthearrangementof
poems within the volume was deliberate rather
than casual or merely chronological?
A: I would indeed. But wait, I have just noticed
something else. In"Sailing to Byzantium," atthe
beginning of the book, the speaker has aban-
doned the sensual land of "dying generations"
and is asking the "sages standing in God's holy
fire" to emerge from it and be his singing-
masters. At the end, in "All Souls' Night,"he an-
nounces that he has "mummy truths to tell" and
would tell them to some mind that despite
cannon-fire from every quarter of the world, can
stay
Wound in mind's pondering
As mummies in the mummy-cloth are wound.
In the former poem he was calling forth sages
to teach him; throughout "All Souls' Night" he
is calling up ghosts to hear him. Pupil has be-
come master.
Q: How often must I enjoin precision on you? It is
the land of sensual music he has left: bird-song,
love-songs. "All Souls' Night" opens, bycontrast,
with the formal tolling of "the great Christ
12 GNOMON
Church Bell," like the "great cathedral gong
that dissipates "night walkers' song" in "Byzan-
tium." Furthermore, there is a calling-up of
ghosts near the beginning of the book too, in
the poem called "The Tower," where he sum-
mons them not (as later) to instruct them but
to ask a question. 'Vhat else have you noticed?
A: Why, it gets more and more deliberate as ont>
examines it. Hebeganthevolume byrenouncing
his body; he ends it in the possession of disem-
bodied thought:
Such thought-such thought have I that hold it tight
Till meditation master all its parts .
Suchthought, thatin itbound
I need no other thing,
Wound in mind's wandering
As mummies in the mummy-cloth are wound.
Earlier he had expected to need the body of a
jeweled bird. Through that volume, The Tower,
lUns a dramatic progression if I ever saw one.
And the presence of such a progression, once it
I
'I
is discerned, modifies all the parts. Now I have
,I
a theory ...
Q: Stop, you grow prolix. Write it out, write it out
as an explanation that I may read at my leisure.
III
And please refrain from putting in many foot-
notes that tire theeyes.
2. Explanation
"Among School Children," to begin with that
again, is as centrifugal a major poem as exists in the
~ . .
language. Whoever encounters it out of the context
Yeats carefully provided for it, for instance in an
Anthology Appointed to be Taught in Colleges, will
find himself after twenty minutes seeking out who
Ledawas andwhat Yeats madeofher, and identify-
ing the daughter of the swan with Maude Gonne
(excursus on her biography, with anecdotes) and
determining in what official capacity, through what
accidents of a destiny sought and ironically ac-
cepted, the poet found himself doubling as school
inspector. So true is this ofthemajority ofhis major
poems, that the anthologists generally restrict them-
selves to his minor ones, his critics practice mostly
a bastard mode of biography, and his exegetists a
Pecuchet's industry of copying parallel passages
from A Vision (first and second versions), from let-
tel'S and diaries, from unpublished drafts, and occa-
sionally from other poems. Even Dr. Leavis calls his
poetry"little more than a marginal comment onthe
main activities of his life." Occasionally someone
feels that Yeats' poems need to bereclaimed for the
modern critic's gallery of self-sufficient objects, and
rolling up his sleeves offers to explain "Two Songs
from a Play" without benefit of A Vision. This re-
quires several thousand words of quasi-paraphrase.
The least gesture of unannounced originality on a
poet's part suffices to bailie critical presupposition
completely, and the two regnant presuppositions of
the mid-twentieth century-theold one, that poems
reflect lives and announce doctrines, the new one,
that poems are self-contained or else imperfect-
are rendered helpless by Yeats' most radical, most
14 GNOMON
casual, and mostcharacteristic maneuver: hewas an
architect, not a decorator; he didn't accumulate
poems, he wrote books.
It would have been surprising if he had not, pre-
occupied as he was with sacred writings. When he
functioned as a critic, as in his essay on Shelley or
his useful generalizations on Shakespeare, itwas the
oeuvre, not the fragment, that held his attention.
The place to look for light on any poem is in the
adjacent poems, which Yeats placed adjacent to it
because they belonged there. And theunit in which
to inspect and discuss his development is not the
poem or sequence of poems butthe volume, atleast
from Responsibilities (1914) to A Full Moon in
March (1935).1 This principle is sometimes obvious
enough; anyone can see that the six songs following
"The Three Bushes" belong in its entourage, or that
"The Phases of the Moon" incorporates the half-
dozen poems appended to it. Suchobvious instances
are, however, slightlymisleading; one is apttothink
of the main poem as not quite completed, raveling
out into lyrical loose ends, or not quite' definitive in
scope, making shift to appropriate, like a handfulof
minnows, lesser foci of energy that ought to have
been brought within its sphere at the time of com-
position. IntheAge of Eliot, thepoetis supposedto
gather his interests and impulses and discharge
them utterly in a supreme opus every so often, and
evades this responsibility at the price of being not
1 It isn't clear how much, if any, of Last Poems was arranged
by Yeats himself.
quite a major poet. Those weren't the terms in
which Yeats was thinking; we misread him if we
suppose either that the majority of the poems are
,casual or that in each he was trying for a definitive
statement of all that, at the time of composition, he
was.
"Men Improve with the Years" looks like an at-
tempt of this kind; it cuts off, of course, too neatly.
The poet was once young, and a lover; now he is a
monument, and no lady will love him. The.quality
oftherhetoricis impeccable, butthepoem, on some
acquaintance, appears to reduce itself to its mere
theme, and thatthemeso simple-mindedas to invite
biographical eking out. The unspoken premise of
Yeats criticism is that we have to supply from else-
where-from his life or his doctrines-a great deal
thatdidn'tproperlygetinto the poems: notso much
to explain the poems as to make them rich enough
to sustain the reputation. It happens, however, that
"Men Improve with the Years" has for context not
Yeats' biography but two poems about a man who
did not undergo that dubious improvement: at the
climax of "In Memory of Major Robert Gregory"
we read,
Some burn damp faggots, others may consume
The entire combustible world in one small room
As though dried straw, andif we turn about
The bare chimney is gone black out
Because the work had finished in that flare.
Soldier, scholar, horseman, he,
As 'twere all life's epitome,
Whatmade us dream thathe could comb grey hair? ...
16
T
GNOMON
Dried straw, damp faggots; in "Men Improve with
the Years" we discover a "burningyouth" succeeded
by water:
A weather-worn, marble triton
Among the streams.
Major Robert Gregory, "all life's epitome," concen-
trated all in an instantaneous conflagration; the
speaker of "Men Improve with the Years" has ad-
vanced serially through phases one can enumerate
to the condition of a statue. Statues, ofcourse, have
their immortality, their nobility of arrested gesture.
Yeats isn't being picturesque in specifying the kind
of statue; tritons blow their wreathed horns, and a
marble one wouldbepuffing soundlesslyat a marble
trumpet, like an official Poet; not even in the open
sea, but amid the fountains of Major Gregory's
mother's garden. The poem isn't a small clearing in
whichYeats sinksdecorativelytorest,itis a counter-
rhetoric to the rhetorical memorial poem. It doesn't
come quite on the heels of that poem, however; be-
tween the two we hear the dry tones of the Irish
Airman ("soldier, scholar, horseman") himself:
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love.
Midway between Yeats' contrasting rhetorics, Greg-
ory ("An Irish Airman Foresees His Death") hasn't
a rhetoric but a style. He wasn't exhilarated by the
prospect of consuming "the entire combustible
world"; "a lonely impulse of delight" redeems from
calculation the decision born of an explicit disen-
chantment:
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemedwaste ofbreath,
Awaste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.
Those are thewordsfrom whichwepass to these:
I am worn out with dreams:
A weather-worn, marble triton
Among the streams.
-thetraditional sonorities, the diction ("my burn-
ing youth!"), the conventional elegances of cadence
evoking (while just evading) a "literary" tradition
againstwhichis poisedthenextpoeminthevolume:
"The Collarbone of a Hare."
Would I could cast a sail on the water
Where many a king has gone
And many a king's daughter,
And alight atthe comely trees and the lawn,
The playing upon pipes and the dancing,
And learn thatthe best thing is
To change my loves while dancing
And paybuta kiss for a kiss.
This live rhythm quickens a remote, folkish idiom,
unsonorous and wry. "MenImprove with the Years"
seems in retrospect heavier than ever. In this pas-
toral kingdom not only are there no marble tritons
(its tone has nothing in common with that of the
Land of Heart's Desire where the Princess Edain
was "busied with a dance"), but the newcomer's
characteristic gesture is to look back through "the
collarbone of a hare" and laugh at "the old bitter
world where they marry in churches"with a lunatic
19
18
GNOMON
peasant slyness. The symbol of trivial death proffers
a peephole or spyglass; it doesn't, as death is re-
puted to do, open vistas. You can squint with its
aid at the old world, from fairyland. Yeats is trying
out different arrangements of a poeticuniverse with
the blunt fact of death in it. In the next poem he
reverses the situation and rearranges the perspec-
tive. Stretched for nonchalant slumber "On great
grandfather's battered tomb," Beggar Billy sees the
dancing-world: not
the comely trees and the lawn,
The playing upon pipes and the dancing,
but
a dream
Of sun and moon that a good hour
Bellowed and pranced in the round tower . .
That golden king and that wild lady
Sang till stars began to fade,
Hands gripped in hands, toes close together,
Hairspread onthewindtheymade;
Thatlady and that golden king
Could like a brace of blackbirds sing.
This is the celebrated music of the spheres; and
Beggar Billy decides that "great grandfather's bat-
tered tomb" that educes such noisy and energetic
visions is no place for him. So the book, having de-
graded its initial persona to beggardom (there are
I
curious analogies with Lear) and preoccupied itself
II
with themes and images of death until it has set
the celestial boiler shop going, takes leave of this
111
The Sacred Book of the Arts
theme for a time and turns to quieter matters like
thedeadlovers Solomon and Sheba.
That initial persona now wants looking at. The
volumeweareexamining,The Wild Swans at Coole,
begannotwiththe Gregoryelegy-thatis its second
poem-but with "The Wild Swans at Coole" itself:
animage ofpersonal dejection ("Andnowmyheart
is sore") thatuses thepermanent glory of theswans
to silhouette the transience attending humanbeings
who must keep their feet on the ground and try to
assimilatethe"brilliantcreatures"bycountingthem.
All's changed since I, hearing at twilight
The first time on this shore,
The bell-beat of their wings above my head
Trod with a lighter tread.
Unwearied still, lover by lover,
They clamber in the cold
Companionable streams or climb theair;
Theirhearts havenot grown old; . . .
"All's changed" is a mood, not a summary of pre-
sented facts; this initial poem confines itself to a
wholly familiar Angst, a setting documented in a
spare but traditional manner-
The trees are in their autumn beauty,
'The woodland paths are dry-
a specified monthand time of day, a poet who does
andthinks andfeels nothing unusual,verbs no more
thaninertcopulas, andswans thatarescarcelymore
than swans. We are in the presence of a mind re-
Hecting nature and then reflecting Locke-wise upon
21
20 GNOMON
what it reflects: tantalized-not teased, but under-
III
going the pangs of Tantalus-because it must un-
I dergo change while nature-the swans-remains
I
other, "unwearied still." Though none of the great
Romantics could have writtenitwithsuch economy
II and directness, the poem remains within, say, the
Coleridgean orbit of experience.
It is upon experience resignedly ordered in this
III
plane that the brilliant death of Major Robert, the
IrishAirman,impinges; he took winglike the swans;
I
his hearthas not grownold; he demonstratedthatit
III lay within human capacity to
consume
III
I The entire combustible world in one small room
As though dried straw.
This death and the contemplation of the poet's im-
'II
potent middle age ferment and interact throughout
I
the volume, entailing other materials, discovering
unexpectedresonances inthepastoralmode ("Shep-
II
herd and Goatherd") and in the lingering end of
1'1
MabelBeardsley ("Upona Dying Lady"), neverfor
long oblivious of the piercing hypothesis that maxi-
!II
1 mum human intensity coincides with human extinc-
"1
II
,
tion. What is arrived at is an extinction not of the
1
1
I
,Iii
person butof his natural context. At the endof the
IIII[ volume October water no more mirrors a natural
sky:
11
I
1
:1 1 On the grey rock of Cashel the mind's eye
1
III
1
Has called up the cold spirits that are born
When the old moon has vanished from the sky
1/: 1)
'.11
And the new still hides her horn.
III
1,1:
I
II I
III
.1.
111
II
I
I.:
The mind's eye, no longerthe Newtonian optic; and
thatmoon isn't nature's moon. Nor does the mind's
eye see swans that flyaway, but calls up three
arresting figures-one a sphinx---observed not in
placiditybutin active intensity:
Mind moved but seemed to stop
As 'twere a spinning-top.
In contemplation had those three so wrought
Upon a moment, and so stretched it out
That they, time overthrown,
Were dead yet flesh and bone.
The poem-and the volume-eloses on a note of
triumph; Yeats tells us he arranged"-deliberate
word-his vision in a song-
Seeing that I, ignorantfor so long
Had been rewarded thus
In Cormac's ruined house.
The poles of this volume are its first and last
poems,"TheWildSwansatCoole"and"TheDouble
Vision of Michael Robartes," as the poles of The
Tower are "Sailing to Byzantium" and "AlI Souls'
Night." Between the observation of the swans and
the vision of the sphinx: passes the action of the
book. The crisis Occurs when, in "Ego Dominus
Tuus" (which immediately folIows the account of
the Dying Lady's heroic arrogance) "Ille"2 deter-
mines to "set his chisel to the hardest stone" and
forget about the kind of self-fulfillment envisaged
by people who tell us that men improve with the
"Willy," commented Ezra Pound.
22 GNOMON
years. Immediately a long poem devotes itself to the
moon, the faded cliche of a thousand mewling na-
ture poets; and examining it not as they do in the
Irish sky but by way of the sort of diagram one dis-
covers in a penny astrology book, sets the stage for
the double vision of Michael Robartes.
The Wild Swans at Coole is a book about death
and the will. A component poem like "Men Improve
with the Years" will no more pull loose from it than
the "foolish fond old man" speech will pull loose
from King Lear. It is a radical mistake to think of
Yeats as a casual or fragmentary poet whose writ-
ings float on a current discoverable only in his bio-
graphable life. How much time does he not spend
telling us that he has carefully rendered the mere
events of his life irrelevant!
3. Anti-Nature
Yeats' quarrel with nineteenth-century popular
Romanticism encompassed more than its empty
moons. He turned with increasing vehemence
against a tradition that either laid streams of little
poems like cod's eggs or secreted inchoate epics.
Against the poet as force of nature he placed of
course the poet as deliberate personality, and cor-
respondingly against the usual "Collected Poems"
(arranged in the order of composition) he placed
the oeuvre, the deliberated artistic Testament, a
division of that new Sacred Book of the Arts of
which, Mr. Pound has recalled, he used to talk. It
was as a process of fragmentation, into little people
and little poems, that he viewed the history of Eu-
ropean poetry, from the Canterbury Tales to the
Collected Poems of, say, Lord Byron.
If Chaucer's personages had disengaged themselves
from Chaucer's crowd, forgot their common goal and
shrine, and after sundry magnifications become each
in turn the centre of some Elizabethan play, and had
after split into their elements and so given birth to
romantic poetry, must I reverse the cinematograph?
The Canterbury Tales, it should be recalled, isn't a
bloated descant on some epic idea but, like The
Divine Comedy or The Wild Swans at Coole-or
The Cantos-a unity made by architecture out of
separate and ascertainable components. And the
cinematograph seemed indeed reversible:
. . . a nation or an individual with great emotional
intensity might follow the pilgrims as it were to some
unknown shrine, and give to all those separated ele-
ments and to all that abstract love and melancholy,
a symbolical, a mythological coherence.
This unity isn't substituted for the existing traditions
of poetry, it unites them. Ireland, furthermore,
might well be the chosen nation:
I had begun to hope, or to half hope, that we might
be the first in Europe to seek unity as deliberately as
it had been sought by theologian, poet, sculptor, archi-
tect, from the eleventh to the thirteenth century.
For Ireland had her autochthonous mythology, and
i
24 25 GNOMON
"havenot all raceshadtheirfirst unityfrom a myth-
ology, that marries them to rock and hill?"3
It was natural thathe should inspect the practice
of any discoverable forenmners, and inevitable that
he should see himself as standing in the same rela-
tion to Irish folklore as Wordsworth to the English
folk ballads. Oneofhis ownfalse starts (seducedby
this parallel) had been to write ballads; Words-
worth's unreconsidered false start, it must finally
have seemed to Yeats, had been to marry only him-
self and not his race to "rock and hill." Wordsworth
had undertaken his work with an insufficient sense
of hieratic dedication; for him a poet was only "a
manspeaking to men" (though a more than usually
conscious man), not the amanuensis of revelation.
That is why old age overtook not only his body but
his speech. The Prelude is a narrativeof self-discov-
ery, in which the lesson of life, mumed by the au-
tomatic grand style, is that knowledge and experi-
ence will not synchronize.
Hie: And I would find myself andnotan image.
Ille: That is our modern hope, and by its light
We have lit upon the gentle, sensitive mind
And lost the old nonchalance of the hand;
Whetherwehave chosen chisel, pen or brush,
We are but critics, or but half create,
Timid, entangled, empty and abashed. . ..
That is the formula of Wordsworth's decline. As
Yeats moved into middle age, the sole survivor of
the Rhymers' Club's "Tragic Generation," the paral-
Above quotations from The Trembling of the Veil, Book I,
Ch. 23-24.
leI between his destiny and Wordsworth's grew
more insistent; had Wordsworth not in the same
waysurvived for a quarterofa centuryKeats, Shel-
ley, and Byron, the other members ofthe last great
wave of creative force? And had he not, assuming
the laureateship, turned into a "sixty year old smil-
ing public man," moving further and further from
the only time in his life when he had been alive,
and lamenting over the dead imaginative vigor of
his boyhood?Thatis thecontextofthedefiantopen-
ingof "The Tower":
Never had I more
EXcited, passionate, fantastical
Imagination, nor an earand eye
That more expected the impossible-
No, not in boyhood when with rod and fly,
Or the humbler worm, I climbed Ben Bulben's back
And had the livelong summer day to spend.
"Or the humbler worm" is a tip to the reader; it
isn't Yeatsian diction but a parody of Wordsworth's.
Unlike Wordsworth, Yeats the poet has passed sixty
undiminished and needs no man's indulgence.
Wordsworth had developed "naturally," moving
On the stream of nature; and streams run downhill.
For the.natural man the moment of lowest vitality
is the moment of death; in the mid-eighteenth cen-
tury the image of an untroubled decline into the
grave fastened itself upon the imagination of Eng-
land, and "Siste viator" was carved on a thousand
tombstones. "Pause, traveller, whoeverthou art, and
considerthymortality; as I am,so wiltthouone day
NMU l I q ~ y
26 GNOMON
be." The traveler came on foot, examined the in-
scription, and went on his way pondering, his vital-
ity still lower than before. This was one of the odd
versions of pastoral sentiment that prepared the way
for Wordsworth's career of brilliance and decline;
Yeats turns powerfully against it in the Goatherd's
song on Major Gregory (see "Shepherd and Goat-
herd"), more powerfully still in the epitaph he de-
signed for himself. The last division of his Sacred
Book closes with an apocalypse, superhuman forms
riding the wintry dawn, Michelangelo electrifying
travelers with his Creation of Adam, painters reveal-
ing heavens that opened. The directions for his own
burial are introduced with a pulsation of drums:
(Tn der bare Ben BUI ben's head
In DRUMcliff churchyard ...
The mise en scene is rural and eighteenth century
-the churchyard, the ancestral rector, the local
stonecutters; but the epitaph flies in the face of
traditional invocations to passers-by:
Cast a cold eye
On life, on death.
Horseman, pass by.
Much critical ingenuity has been expended on that
horseman. He is simply the designated reader of the
inscription, the heroic counterimage of the foot-
weary wanderer who was invited to ponder a "siste
viator";4 the only reader Yeats can be bothered to
Though Swift wrote, "Abi, Viator, et imitare si poteris .. :.
which Yeats paraphrased as "Imitate Wm if you dare,/World-
besotted traveller."
address. And he is not to be weighed down by the
realization of his own mortality; he is to defy it.
The life a counterlife, the book not a compendium
of reflections but a dramatic revelation, the senti-
ments scrupulous inversions of received romantic
sentiment; what more logical than that Yeats should
have modeled the successive phases of his testament
on the traditional collections of miscellaneous poems,
and (as he always did when he touched a tradi-
tion) subverted the usual implications? He dreamed
as a young man of creating some new Prometheus
Unbound. One applauds his wisdom in not attempt-
ing that sort of magnum opus, but it was not likely
that he should forget the idea of a work operating
on a large scale. Each volume of his verse, in fact,
is a large-scale work, like a book of the Bible. And
as the Bible was once treated by exegetists as the
sell-sufficient divine book mirroring the other divine
book, Nature, but possessing vitality independent of
natural experience, so Yeats considered his Sacred
Book as similar to "life" but radically separated
from it, mirror on mirror mirroring all the show."
In "The Phases of the Moon," Aherne and Robartes
stand on the bridge below the poet's tower, where
the candle burns late, and in mockery of his hope-
less toil-expound, out of his earshot, the doctrine of
the lunar wheel. It is clear that they know what he
can never discover; they toy with the idea of ring-
ing his bell and speaking
Just truth enough to show that his whole life
Will scarcely find for him a broken crust
Of all those truths that are your daily bread.
29
28 GNOMON
It is an entrancing idea:
He'd crack his wits
Day after day, yet never find the meaning.
But it is late; Aherne determines to pass up this
satisfaction.
And then he l11ughed to think that what seemedhard
Should be so simple-a bat rose from the hazels
And circled round him with its squeaky cry,
The light in the tower window was putout.
Why is it put out? Because Yeats has finished writ-
II
ing the poem! Aherne, Robartes, the doctrine of the
I
II
phases, the baffled student, all of them, we are
meant suddenly to realize, are components in a
book, and so is the man who is supposed to be writ-
ing the book. What we see in this mirror, the page,
is reflected from that one, "life"; but the parallel
mirrors face each other, and in an infinite series of
interreflections life has been acquiring its images
from the book only that the book may reflect them
again. The book, then, is (by a Yeatsian irony) self-
contained, like the Great Smaragdine Tablet that
said, "Things below are copies," and was itself one
of the things below; a sacred book like the Apoca-
lypse of St. John, not like most poetry a marginal
commentary on the world to be read with one eye
on the pragmatical pig of a text.
"Day after day," Yeats wrote at the end of A
Vision, "I have sat in my chair turning a symbol
over in my mind, exploring all its details, defining
and again defining its elements, testing my convic-
tions and those of others by its unity.... It seems
as if 1 should know all if I could but banish such
memories and find everything in the symbol." On
that occasion nothing came; the symbol was perhaps
too limited. But the conviction remains with Yeats
that a book, if not a symbol, can supplant the world;
if not supplant it, perpetually interchange life with
it. Nothing, finally, is more characteristic than his
dryly wistful account of the perfected sage for
whom the radiance attending the supernatural cop-
ulation of dead lovers serves but as a reading light:
Though somewhat broken by the leaves, that light
Lies in a circle on the grass; therein
I tum the pages of my holy book.
2. ANote on THE GREAT
AMERICAN NOVEll
HE PRETENSIONS INHERENT IN THE TITLE ARE PART
I
Tof Dr. Williams' theme. The lad who was going
to produce "The Great American Novel" as soon as
he had gotten his mind around his adolescent expe-
rience is part of the folklore of the twenties, and the
prevalence of this myth documents the awareness
of the young American of thirty years ago that the
consciousness of his race remained uncreated. The
world of Henry James had always been special, and
by now was long vanished; James apart, the job of
articulating the American psyche remained about
where Whitman had left it. Hence Williams' open-
ing gesture:
The Great
American Novel
CHAPTER I.
THE FOG.
This Is a parody of a beginner's beginning. It is
also, though the beginner doesn't really know it, the
place such a book should begin, because it is where
II the subject begins. ("American poetry," the author
of Paterson remarks, is a very easy subiect to dis-
cuss for the simple reason that it does not exist.")
He continues, weaving in strands of Whitman,
empty nature, monosyllabic primitivism, and the
1 William Carlos Williams, The Great American Novel, Three
Mountains Press (Paris), 1923. Limited to 300 copies.
30
A Note on the Great American Novel 31
sort of brainless pretentiousness that is really too
authentic to be a pretense:
Ifthere is progress then there is a novel. Without
progress there is nothing. Everything exists from the
beginning. I existed in the beginning. I was a slobber-
ing infant. Today I saw nameless grasses-I tapped
the earth with my knuckle. Itsounded hollow. Itwas
dryas rubber. Eons of drought. No rain for fifteen
days. No rain. Ithas never rained. Itwill never rain.
A kind of innocence inheres in the attempts of the
Thomas Wolfes and Ross Lockridges to swallow and
regurgitate America whole. If they or their 1920
forerunners corrupted their material more there
would be no point in parodying their gaggings and
Hounderings:
Break the words. Words are indivisible crystals. One
cannot break them-Awu tsst grang splith gra pragh
og bm-Yes, one can break them. One can make
words. Progress? IfI make a word I make myself into
a word. One big word. One big union. Such is prog-
ress. Itis a novel. I begin small and make myself into
a big splurging word: I take life and make it into one
big blurb. I begin at my childhood. I begin at the
beginning and make one big-Bah.
This maintains a remarkable poise, midway between
spoof and earnestness. Yet the tone isn't genial, em-
bracing these extremes, but irascible, polarizing
them. The irascibility thrusts two ways, at the thank-
less job and at the entrail-searching of the Epigoni.
The latter aren't disregarded or fended off as irrele-
vant, because their inchoate state of mind is part of
32 GNOMON
the subject. So is the careful realism of a later para-
graph:
Leaving the room where the Mosquito Extermina-
tion Commission had been holding an important fall
conference they walked out onto the portico of the
County Court House Annex where for a moment they
remained in the shadow cast by the moon. . . . Com-
ing to the car he said: Go around that side as I will
have to get in here by the wheel. . . .
This is fashionable writing of the twenties, a note-
book exercise. Its studied awkwardness, however, is
in touch not only with journalism but with an au-
thentic stratum of experience: a sleepwalking aware-
ness of the inconsequential. The European tradition
has no idiom for this state of consciousness, endemic
among people who spend a great deal of time op-
erating machinery.
In the opening pages of the book, in fact, various
fashionable techniques and postures are being put
to use as subject matter, blocks of verbal material.
Here is another specimen:
. . . Clean, clean he had taken each word and made
it new for himself so that at last it was new, free from
the world for himself-never to touch it---dreams of
his babyhood-poetic sweetheart. No. He went in to
his wife with exalted mind, his breath coming in
pleasant surges. I come to tell you that the book is
finished.
I have added a new chapter to the art of writing. I
feel sincerely that all they say of me is true, that I am
truly a great man and a great poet.
What did you say, dear, I have been asleep?
This ooesn't parody writing. "He went in to his wife
with exalted mind, his breath coming in pleasant
surges": given the mood, a conceivable one, the
words couldn't be better. It is the dream of a writer
who hasn't written a word, and it parodies certain
naIve motives for undertaking authorship which-
once more-are part of Williams' subject. One can
fancy the bloated abortion this "great man and great
poet" might commit; in its place Williams offers a
"Great American Novel" in exactly seventy pages of
text, with no plot and no hero. And however often
Williams prods lyrical themes, the words remain
stunned. Though they go through all the motions of
taking flight, they never bear the reader aloft. What
the lyrical passages are about is ineffectual motions
of flight. The affiatus of the young American ro-
mantic leads him to seek the elements of his subject
in himself: hence the involuted values Williams is
able to extract from the convention of a book about
a man writing a book. On later pages, having ex-
hausted the romantic's resources, Williams takes
stock of a hundred modes of reality and vulgarity,
also part of the subject, which no young poet will
admit infest his soul.
One reaSOn the words must be stunned is that the
American language, or the part of it that interests
Williams, is distinguished by a sort of amnesia.
Though their colloquial vocabularies are restricted,
their syntax simple, and their speech rhythms the
reverse of Ciceronian, Americans don't utter a gelat-
inous Basic English. They have rhythmic and idio-
matic means of concentrating meaning in these
GNOMON
34
counters, shifting the burden of the sentence with
a certain laconic grace from word to word, which
falsifies the unthinking novelist's assumption that
the way to extract the unuttered meanings of Ameri-
can experience is to assist these pidgin gropings with
the fuller cadences of European prose. European
prose, when it attempts to grapple with American
material, yields nothing but suave cliche. At the
beginning of Chapter II a European voice protests,
Eh bien man vieux COCO, this stuff you have been
writing today, do you mean that you are attempting to
set down the American background? You will go mad.
Why? Because you are trying to do nothing at all.
The American background? It is Europe. It can be
nothing else. . . .
This mind thinks in phrases, not in words: the up-
ward lilt between its punctuation marks is the sig-
nature of a habit of apprehension shaped by Latin
prose. A European would have imparted a more
elegant rhythm to the answering sentence, which
comes with Williams' own unmistakable flatness:
As far as I have gone it is accurate.
These shadings of "far," "gone," and "accurate"
aren't in a European dictionary: they are imposed
by the tractorlike cadence. "Accurate," in this sen-
tence, has forgotten its Latin past ("L. accuratus,
past part. & adj., fro accurare to take care of, fro ad
+ curare to take care, fr. cura care"). Its stress isn't
verbal, reflecting the care that has been taken, but
attributive, implying a scientific absolute achieved.
That the cadence in which words move controls
the degree of meaning they yield up, and that words
set in Jersey speech rhythms mean less but mean it
with greater finality, is Williams' chief technical per-
ception. It underlies his intricate, inelegant verse
rhythms:
-an old barn
is peaked there also, fatefully,
against the sky. And there it is
and we can't shift it or change
it or parse it or alter it
in any way.
That "fatefully" has force but no plangence; and
"parse" doesn't receive the deliberative stress that
would make it a witty metaphor. It is the odd point-
lessness with which the line division (always Wil-
liams' principal instrument) bisects "change/it"
that flattens "parse" and all the adjacent words: a
more delicate feat than it looks.
In The Great American Novel Williams' skill at
exorcising from words the "pleasing wraiths of
former masteries" interlocks with a number of aphor-
isms about the irrelevance of traditional fiction:
"Permanence. A great army with its tail in antiquity.
Cliche of the soul: beauty." ... "Europe's enemy
is the past. Our enemy is Europe, a thing unrelated
to us in any way." Hence the systematic eschewal
both of pseudo-Aristotelian plot with its stereotyped
climax, and of pseudo-Roman fine writing with its
spurious epithets and cadences. The subject yields
no plot, but it implies a wide range of textures:
Spanish explorers, Southern mountaineers, Aaron
Burr, the Presbyterian minister in Bonnie, Illinois.
36 GNOMON
No narrative, no analysis, nothing but a suitably bal-
anced sensibility can hold them together. So the
"Novel," bringing its lyric phases under progres-
sively stricter control, acquires by cunning trial and
error a reliable tone which in the final chapters can
handle with a compositor's sureness a surprising
variety of materials and effects: from "Particles of
falling stars, coming to nothing. The air pits them,
eating out the softer parts" to "The Perfection of
Pisek-designed Personality Modes: A distinctly for-
ward move in the realm of fashion is suggested by
the new personality modes, designed by Pisek . . ."
At the end he returns to surer-footed parody.
Coming after a survey of simple beginnings, the last
two chapters ("Witness, 0 witness these lives my
dainty cousins") borrow the journalist's congratu-
latory accents to suggest the apotheosis of commer-
cial dreams:
I had five cents in my pocket and a piece of apple
pie in my hand, said prof. M. I. Pupin, of Columbia
University, describing the circumstances of his arrival
in America in the steerage of the steamship West-
phalie from Hamburg half a century ago.
One kind of Great American Novel, we remember,
was written by Horatio Alger, the authentic folk-
lorist of hustling America.
But the book doesn't close on this note of inno-
cence; the climax, an interview with a successful
rag merchant, rounds on Great American Novels
and Great America alike:
Why one man made a million before the government
stopped him by making cheap quilts.
He took any kind of rags just as they were collected,
filth or grease right on them the way they were and
teased them up into a fluffy stuff which he put through
a rolling process and made into sheets of wadding.
These sheets were fed mechanically between two
layers of silkolene and a girl simply sat there with an
electric sewing device which she guided with her hand
and drew in the designs you see on those quilts, you
know.
You've seen this fake oilcloth they are advertising
now. Congoleum. Nothing but building paper with a
coating of enamel.
jO vida tan dulce!
Fluffy stuff, sheets of wadding, the mechanical pat-
terns: a host of metaphors for shoddy art emerge
from a passage which, like the artesian-well page in
Paterson, achieves its sardonic suggestiveness by ob-
serving strictly the forms of simple documentation.
"Sardonic" isn't the right word: even this vulgar-
ity is part of the subject. And since it is the fulfill-
ment commercial America has agreed to prize, it is
the fitting climax to an American affirmation:
And there it is
and we can't shift it or change
it or parse it or alter it
in any way.
39
3. With the Bare Hands
"WHAT SHOULD BE NEW IS INTENT UPON ONE THING,
the metaphor-the metaphor is the poem.
There is for them only one metaphor: Europe-the
past. All metaphor for them, inevitably so, is the
past: that is the poem. That is what they think a
poem is: metaphor." In the five years during which
parts One to Four of Paterson were appearing, the
fact contained in these words of Dr. Williams ren-
dered the appreciative unusually inarticulate. The
poem was respectfully, enthusiastically received,
and in unexpected quarters. But it isn't a metaphor,
it isn't "about" something else (Europe-the past);
t'
so it seems undiscussable, except via "the inade-
quacy of Imagism" or some such trodden detour.
Neither does some familiar modus of meaning in-
form the novel materials of Paterson, nor is it the
poet-physician's "view of life" that we are to listen
for as we tum its pages. This is writing that by a
Jacob's wrestle with words gets down what hap-
pens-
they coalesce now
glass-smooth with their swiftness,
quiet or seem to quiet as at the close
they leap to the conclusion and
fall, fall in air! as if
Boating, relieved of their weight,
split apart, ribbons; dazed, drunk
with the catastrophe of the descent
Boating unsupported
to hit the rocks: to a thunder,
as if lightning had struck [Book 1:1]
38
With the Bare Hands
-the language never reaching out of its proper di-
mension, level and solid as ice a foot thick, but
buoyed up by the whole depth and weight of the
profound reality with which it is in contact, and
whose contours it holds fast. This note of reality,
this sense of the poem being in touch with some-
thing dense, not something that the writer has densi-
fied by mixing qUick-drying ideas with it, is every-
where in the book:
a bud forever green
tight-curled, upon the pavement, perfect
in juice and substance but divorced, divorced
from its fellows, fallen low-
Divorce is
the sign of knowledge in our time,
divorce! divorce!
[Book 1:2]
o o o
While in the tall
buildings (sliding up and down) is where
the money's made
up and down
directed missiles
in the greased shafts of the tall buildings
They stand in torpid cages, in violent motion
unmoved
but alert!
predatory minds, un-
affected
UNINCONVENIENCED
unsexed, up
and down (without wing motion) This is how
the money's made . using such plugs
[Book IV:1]
41
40 GNOMON
Williams tells the story of a lady who wanted to
know "What is all that down in this left hand lower
corner" of a picture she admired and was thinking
of buying. The curator replied, "That, madam, is
paint." "This story marks the exact point in the tran-
sition that took place, in the world of that time, from
the appreciation of a work of art as a copying of
nature to the thought of it as the imitation of na-
ture, spoken of by Aristotle in his Poetics . . . mis-
interpreted for over two thousand years and more.
The objective . . . is to imitate nature, which in-
volved active invention, the active work of the
imagination."
. . . without invention
nothing lies under the witch-hazel
bush, the alder does not grow from among
the hummocks margining the all
but spent channel of the old swale,
the small foot-prints
of the mice under the overhanging
tufts of the bunch-grass will not
appear: without invention the line
will never again take on its ancient
divisions when the word, a supple word,
lived in it, crumbled now to chalk. [Book II: 1]
The invention that arranges the "paint" is fed by
preoccupation with dense fact. Williams has spent
some forty years listening to people talk, respecting
them, becoming them:
Who are these people (how complex
the mathematic) among whom I see myself
With the Bare Hands
in the regularly ordered plateglass of
his thoughts, glimmering before shoes and bicycles?
They walk incommunicado, the
equation is beyond solution, yet
its sense is clear-that they may live
his thought is listed in the Telephone
Directory-
He has a sense of that unique thing, the American
community, a community built upon no past or frag-
ments of a past, permeated by a dielectric that all
but bafHes communication, united by symbols held
unexpectedly in common, parodying itself in its
every printed word; not the remnants of former
order the best modern poetry has learned to express
by using shards of older forms, the "unreal city" of
The Waste Land or the spezzato paradise of The
Cantos, not a great order smashed but a new one so
far voiceless
How to begin to find a shape-to begin to begin
again,
turning the inside out: to find one phrase that will
lie married beside another for delight ?
-seems beyond attainment
American poetry is a very easy subject to discuss for
the si1J1ple reason that it does not exist
o o o
-of this, make it of this, this
this, this, this, this
o o o
43 42 GNOMON
-in a hundred years, perhaps-
the syllables
(with genius)
or perhaps
two lifetimes
Sometimes it takes longer
[Book 111:3]
Europe seems there, comprehended, more grasp-
able than America because it has a literature, a
III
provincial literature as well as the literature of the
Great Record that extends from Homer. American
literature has been with insignificant exceptions a
Ii
provincialized pastiche of the provincialisms of Eu-
rope: Europe's puritanism (New England), Europe's
mildewed grandeur (the South). Even Whitman,
the democracy snob, was an enlarged Byron, wel-
coming all men as fellow-aristocrats in the Song of
Myself and shaking the dust of the past from his
I
feet.
Hart Crane was another spiritual alien. Frost's
I
sense of community is rudimentary. Dr. Williams is
I
the first American writer to discover, not the phases
of America that reflect what was in Europe, but the 11
I,
core of America that is itself, new, and so far un-
II vocal. His sense of community is neither sociological
nor sentimental. Paterson, N.J., provides him neither
II
II with cases for scrutiny nor with a background for
lyrical performance. One cannot, in a given passage,
II zone out the compassion and the astringency. They
fuse to lead the reader, clue-like, into the unique
'I
"feel" of the material. "A reply to Greek and Latin
I
With the Bare Hands
with the bare hands," the author notes in an epi-
graph:
To make a start,
out of particulars
and make them general, rolling
up the sum, by defective means-
o o o
and the craft,
subverted by thought, rolling up, let
him beware lest he turn to no more than
the writing of stale poems . . .
Minds like beds always made up,
(more stony than a shore)
unwilling or unable.
Because he is content to have devoted a lifetime to
making a start, he gets the start made. Paterson
expresses much more than its author's clinical in-
dividuality. From beneath the fractured words, the
Violences, the voiceless impasse of the mill-town citi-
zen-
Blocked.
(Make a song out of that: concretely)
By whom?
-comes,straining the ache of the mind, what the
numb gestures would mean and the null words
would express, straining to transcend the febrile
"self-expression" that the citizen has become con-
vinced he ought to want to intend:
in the pitchblende
the radiant gist

With the Bare Hands 45
44 GNOMON
"Day in day out," writes Dr. Williams in his Au-
tobiography (p. 359), "when the inarticulate pa-
tient struggles to lay himself bare for you ...so
caught off balance that he reveals some secret twist
of a whole community's pathetic way of thought, a
manis suddenly seized again with a desire to speak
of the underground stream which for a momenthas
come up just under surface. . . . We begin to see
thattheunderlyingmeaningofall thattheywantto
tellus andhave always failed to communicateis the
poem, the poem which their lives are beinglived to
realize. No one will believe it. And it is the actual
words, as we hear them spoken under all circum-
stances, which containit. Itis actually there, in the
life before us, every minute thatwe are listening, a
rarest element-not in our imaginations but there,
there in fact." From the words that are going in at
our ears "we must recover underlying meaning as
realistically as we recover metal out of ore." The
radiant gist: hence the long section of Book IV
devoted to the heroism of the Curies
A dissonance
in the valence of Uranium
led to the discovery
Dissonance
(if you are interested)
leads to discovery [Book IV:2]
Thepoemthatis beneaththewords doesn'tlocal-
ize, it inheres in the design of the whole. Its con-
trolling image is the roar of the Paterson waterfall:
A false language. A true. A false language pouring-a
language (misunderstood) pouring (misinterpreted)
without
dignity, without minister, crashing upon a stone ear.
[Book 1:1]
These terrible things they reflect:
the snow falling into the water,
part upon the rock, part in the dry weeds
and partinto thewater where it
vanishes-its form no longer what it was:
the whole din of fracturing thought
as itfalls tinnily to nothing upon thestreets [Book 1:2]
The language . words
without style! whose scholars (there are none)
or dangling, about whom
the water weaves its strands encasing them
in a sort of thick lacquer, lodged
under its How [Book 11:3]
The scholars dangle; but there are other lives. A
bewilderedwoman plummetedin; Sam Patchinthe
1820s dove repeatedly into chasms, master of the
techniqueofcommunion, untilthedayoftheexhibi-
tion jump when technique failed: "But instead of
descending with a plummet-like fall his body wav-
ered in the air-Speech had failed him. He was
confused. The word had been drained of its mean-
ing...."
47
46 GNOMON
Patch leaped but Mrs. Cumming shrieked
and fell-unseen (though
she hadbeenstandingtherebesideherhusbandhalf
an hour ormore twentyfeetfrom the edge).
:a body found next spring
frozen in an ice-cake; or a body
fished next day from the muddy swirl-
both silent, uncommunicative [Book 1:2]
This roar, this speech to which Dr. Williams
listens thathe may make a replica-
I must
find my meaning and lay it, white
beside the sliding water: myself-
comb out the language-<>r succumb
[Book111:3]
-ismodemcousinto themunnurthatfills books:
A cool of books
will sometimes lead the mindto libraries
of a hotafternoon, if books canbefound
cool to the sense to lead the mind away.
For there is a wind or ghost of a wind
in all books echoing the life
there, a high wind thatfills the tubes
of the ear until we think we hear a wind,
actual
toleadthemindaway
[Book III:l]
They murmur and draw us down the wind, while
the falls roar; ortheymayleadus backto thepres-
With the Bare Hands
ent, not quite to the falls but to the roar of the
stream in our own minds:
a reverberation
not of the falls butof its rumor
unabated
[Book III:l]
Eliot goes unforgiven by Dr. Williams for giving
poetry back to "literature" ("Europe-the past")-
the wind of books and the rumor of the falls in the
mind-justwhen the breakthroughto directpercep-
tion of the present, the actual falls in the stream,
had seemed possible. The burning of the library in
Book III is a complex image; it is part impatience
with books, part purgation of them, part an image
of live reading, a lending of blood and heat to the
past (no longer "cool to the sense") as Pound, in
parable of his own translator's activities, portrayed
Odysseus servingblood to the ghosts in Canto I.
Awake, he dozes in a fever heat,
cheeks burning. loaningblood
to the past, amazed risking life.
o o o
The pitiful dead
cry back to us from thefire, coldin
the fire, crying out-wantingto be chaffed
andcherished
thosewho havewritten books
Weread: not the Hames
butthe ruin left
by the conflagration
49
48 GNOMON
Not the enormous burning
but the dead (thebooks
remaining). Let us read
and digest: the surface
glistens, only the surface.
Dig in-andyou have
a nothing, surrounded by
a surface, an inverted
bell resounding, a
white-hot man become
a book, the emptiness of
a cavern resounding. [Book III:2]
Here we have the metaphoric clue to Williams'
celebrated "opacity," his eschewal of sonorities and
reverberations, of words exploited for the sake of
their "tentacular roots." A poem is a solid surface,
hollow, ringing; "depth" is an illusion. The most
startlingly successful imaginative leap in Paterson
is the page-long tabular record of specimens found
in the boring of an artesian well, ending with the
attempt abandoned, "the water being altogether
unfit for ordinary use. . , . The fact that the rock
salt of England, and of someofthe othersaltmines
ofEurope, is found inrocks of the same age as this,
raises the questionwhetherit maynot also befound
here." This is in the section about finding language;
perhaps we were wrong to look for water; perhaps
there is rock salt under the Passaic; the European
analogy raises a possibility, not a prescription. In
the next book, however, comes an interpolation in
the unmistakable idiom of an old friend of the
With the Bare Hands
poet's:", just because they ain't no water fit to
drink in that spot (or you ain't found none) don't
mean there ain't no fresh water to be had NO-
WHERE , ." The table of well-bore specimens
carries all this thematicweight bynot seeking tobe
more than itself, by not being cramped intoa meta-
phor. "Reverberation" will arise of itselffrom a bell
witha hard enoughsurface; thesurface is the poet's
level of concern. Synthetic plangency is an illusion,
a tamperingwiththe reader's responses. Such incan-
tations "lead the mind away"from the dissonant ac-
tualroar. Theywouldintroduceinto Williams'poem
a past not his past, or impose a rhythm which he
doesnothearbutwhichthetranquil (conventional)
mind would prefer to find.
As Carrie Nation
to Artemis
so is ourlife today
They took her out West on a photographing
expedition
to study chiaroscuro
to Denver, I think.
Somewhere around there
the marriage
was annulled. When she returned
with the baby
openly
taking it to her girls' parties, they
were shocked
-andthe Abbess Hildegard, ather own
funeral, Rupertsberg, 1179
had enjoined them to sing thechoral, all
51
50
GNOMON
women, she had written for the occasion
and itwas done, the peasants kneeling
inthebackground . as you may see
This is from Book IV; by so late in the poem, Dr.
Williams has so thoroughly presented the actual
Paterson world that he can afford to insert one
measuring point from the European past without
sentimental nostalgia. Similarly the unrhymed qua-
trains near the end of Book III ("On this most vo-
luptuous night of the year") are presented not as a
climax but as a powerful undertow, the easy way
out of a poetic dilemma:
Be reconciled, poet, with your world, it is
the only truthI
Hal
-thelanguage is worn out
And She---
You have abandoned mel
-atthe magic sound of the stream
she threw herself upon the bed-
a pitiful gesturel lost among the words:
Invent (if you can) discover or
nothing is clear-will surmount
the drumming in your head. There will be
nothing clear, nothing clear
He Bed pursuedbythe roar.
Hence we find him inhis bewildennent
With the Bare Hands
-sayingover to himself a song written
previously inclines to believe
he sees, in the structure, something
of interest:
On this most voluptuous night of the year
the term of the moon is yellow with no light
the air's soft, the night bird has
only one note, the cherry tree in bloom
makes a blur on the woods, its perfume
no more than half guessed moves in the mind.
Replying, in the pioneer fashion, "to Greek and
Latinwiththebarehands,"hemustinventrhythms,
a measure, images, the whole articulation of a com-
prehensive poem; it is the struggle to do this that
the poem dramatizes, and in dramatizing succeeds
in doing. Everyone struggles, the roar is in every-
one's ears, everyone in Paterson must either strive
as the poet does, or merge himself with the stream
in some direct despairing way like Patch and Mrs.
Cumming, orremain "blocked."
"With the bare hands" is to some extent over-
stated. If there are "no ideas but in things," yet
"Stones invent nothing, only a man invents." Wil-
liams draws on other inventors: Pound who in cut-
ting The Waste Land and building The Cantos re-
vised our concept of poetic structure, Joyce who
fused a man and a city and spent his life in astrin-
gent, compassionate cataloguing of banalities so as
to setthemdown andforce themto utterthepoetry
they ordinarily short-circuit. The very title is a
53
II

52 GNOMON
Joycean pun: Paterson is a city, a man (sometimes
t
a doctor), and Pater-son, themolecule of generative
I
II
succession.
Generative succession carries the poem forward
I
from the elemental male and female forms of the
openingthroughthedayswhen
I
the breathing
spot of the village was the triangle square
bounded by ParkStreet (nowlower Main Street)
and Bank Street
I

to the day ("October 10, 1950") when the twen-
tieth-century poet contemplates the running-out of
his particular experience to the sea:

Yet you willcome to it, come to it! The

song is in your ears, to Oceanus
where the day drowns

No! itis not our home.

You will come to it, the blood dark sea
III
of praise. You must come to it. Seed
of Venus, you will return . to
II a girl standing upon a tilted shell, rose
II pink
II
Listen!
III
1l.halassa! 1l.halassal
II,
Drink of it, be drunk!

, 1l.halassa

immaculata: our home, our nostalgic
mother in the dead, enwombed again
ill\l\
cry out to us to return
II the blood dark sea!
III
III
II
II
III
III,
I
With the Bare Hands
nicked by the light alone, diamonded
by the light from which the sun
alone lifts undamped his wings
of fire!
[Book IV:3]
The penultimate image is not a merging and death,
but a dryly circumstantial rebirth; a man who
emerges from bathing, slides 'bis shirt on overhand
(the/sleeveswere still rolled up)"andheadsinland,
followed byhis dog. Thefinale to BookIVwithfine
inclusive irony gathers up Sam Patch, Mrs. Cum-
ming, the violent who have recurrently illustrated
"apoverty ofresource," thefade-out ofanAmerican
movie, the endofThe Hollow Men (Fawkes onthe
scaffold, "notwitha bang"),andfor betteror worse
("La Vertue/est ,toute dans (effort") the enterprise
ofthe poem itself:
John Johnson, from Liverpool, England, was con-
victed after 20 minutes conference by the Jury. On
April 30th, 1850, he was hung in full view of thou-
sands who had gathered on Garret Mountain and
adjacent house tops to witness thespectacle.
1l.his is theblast
the eternalclose
the spiral
the final somersault
the end.
An image which Dr. Williams doesn't use in the
poem but which his whole career as physician and
poet urges on the attention, recommends itself as
54

GNOMON
the most adequate basis for summary and praise:
the obstetrician devoting in a few critical moments
his every wile, his concentration, so far as his ca-
pacity allows, of the entire tradition of medical sci-
ence since Hippocrates, to the deliverance, with his
bare hands, into independent life of something he
did not make, the identity of which he unshakeably
respects, and which but for his ministrations would
die voiceless.
4. Dr. Williams Shaping His Axe
R. WILLIAMS, INFINITELY SYMPATHETIC WITH THE
Dpurposefulness of earnest coteries, is our cham-
pion contributor to the least-known magazines, into
which he empties his mind of its current obsessions.
Since he hasn't been all these years painfully de-
veloping a system (which means trimming one's
later ideas to fit the earlier ones: "order that cuts
off the crab's feelers to make it fit into the box"):
hasn't feared to risk in his fifties and sixties the kinds
of false starts that don't matter in one's twenties;
and has kept his mind at the moment of writing
fixed on some ob,iect or other that looms as oppres-
sively as the cat's head in the primitive painting ("a
cat with a bird in his mouth-a cat with a terrifying
enormous head, enough to frighten birds")-for all
these reasons random samples of his fugitive writ-
ings, gleaned from such copies of equally fugitive
magazines as come one's way, are apt to prove un-
fortunate. Hence the impression (on what has been
to date necessarily imperfect acquaintance) of a
bush-league avant-gardist, one foot still in the 1920s,
apt to be sent gaga by the latest surrealist. His tone
isn't soothing; he is himself the archetypal six-foot
cat's head; even when he makes an appearance
among the statuary of more securely capitalized
publications, virtually put on his honor not to
frighten the birds, commissioned for instance to rf>-
view Shapiro's Essay on Rime, he is apt to throw
55
56
57
GNOMON
his overcoat onto the grand piano ("I hadn't pre-
pared a damn thing" 1) and begin-
Suppose all women were delightful, the ugly, the
short, the fat, the intellectual, the stupid, the old-
and making a virtue of their qualities ... made
themselves available to men, some man, any man,
without greed! ... Take for instance the fat: If she
were not too self-conscious, did not regret that she
were not lissome and quick afoot, but gave herself,
full belly, to the sport! What a game it would
makel ...
The man who jammed a notion like that into the
Kenyon Review can be credited with having ex-
tended our notions of the possible, but hardly with
an Eliotic platform manner. It is no wonder that he
isn't known as a major critic, especially since he
doesn't specialize in putting into hierarchies an
array of poems closed off forty years ago (Wynd-
ham Lewis' "Dead arrangements by the tasteful
hand without") but concentrates on the nature of
writing, especially the writing that somebody ought
to be doing right now. No critic senses more ur-
gently the immediate relevance of his subject to
this year's necessary activities.
Poetry, for him, keeps thought clean; not by what
is vaguely called "the humanizing influence of lit-
erary studies" but by virtue of what it says, on the
rare occasions when the writing is sufficiently good.
Just any poetry won't do; the sea contains many
billionfold more water than it does whale, but that
is no reason for confusing the two. Dr. Williams
] CE. his 1950 lecture at V.C.L.A.: Autobiography, p. 386.
Dr. Williams Shaping His Axe
writes to defend critic and practitioner alike against
"belief in a complicated mystery of approach fos-
tered by those who wish nothing done."
The trick is delay; to involve the mind in discus-
sions likely to last a lifetime and so Withdraw the
active agent from performance. The answer is, an eye
to judge.-When the deer is running between the
birches one doesn't get out a sextant but a gun-a
Bash of insight with proof by perfoImance--and let
discussion follow. If the result is a work of art the
effect is permanent.
Amid boulders his shots often ricochet; this
wouldn't happen if he were pelting his quarry with
grapes, but it has condemned a good deal of his
prose to mere eccentricity. In retrospect, fortu-
nately, Williams can be trusted to identify his solid
critical achievements, though unlike Pound and
Eliot he hasn't up to now troubled to keep them
pruned and in circulation. His Selected Essays-a
collection of pieces that should have been Widely
known years ago (the gist of the book lurks in pas-
sages written before 1939, and the contents date
from 1920) ought to scatter a good many pigeons.
Its advent is nicely timed to disturb the afternoon
peace of a bureaucracy that has lately been suppos-
ing all the major criticism of the present time to be
well known and sifted, the orthodoxies established,
the hammocks slung, the returns in, and nothing to
do but execute philosophical doodles-pointless as
freshman themes-while the grad students work at
tabulations. Williams has the timely virtue of being
58
59
GNOMON
sufficiently aphoristic to focus attention--on his
clumps of words, not on the phases of some wafty
argument-andthe conjoint virtue of having coined
aphorisms as little suitable for ruminative mastica-
tion as so many bricks:
. . the usual "poem," the commonplace opaque
board covered with vain curlicues....
. . the coining of similes is a pastime of very low
order, depending as it does upon a merely vegetable
coincidence. . . .
..beauty . . . truth incompletely realized....
The beauty that clings to any really new work is
beauty only in the minds of those who do not fully
realize the significance. . . .
His best insights, like Mr. Eliot's, whom he ad-
mirably complements, coagulate into aphorisms;
with this difference, that to qualify Williams' obiter
dicta one needs a cold chisel, not a scalpel. He isn't
adjusting his absolutes to existing frailty; by and
..large, he is talking about writing so good it hasn't
been done yet. His knowledge of what it will be
like if anyone succeeds in doing it sustains his in-
tensity of statement. Aspects ofthis unwritten writ-
ing he discerns in the contemporary work that in-
terests him, work which he subjects (amid tut-tuts
from the glowworms) to a scrutinyimplacable as an
electricfurnace. Thewritingofthis half-centurywill
not find a more tenacious reader. Where Mr. Pound
reads his contemporaries to find outif theyare alive,
and Mr. Eliot to see if they merit introductions, Dr.
Williams reads and rereads them to find out what
they mean. He tells his young contemporaries the
simple truth: thathehas "awillto understand them
thattheywill notfind inmanyanother."
"The goal of writing is to keep a beleagueredline It
of understanding which has movement from break-
ing down and becoming a hole into which we sink
decoratively to rest." Hence the virtualnonexistence
ofquotations in Williams' critical essays. He abhors
the notion that the essential poetic nwvement can
be represented by one or two of the points it trav-
erses: as though a railway system were judged by
its station architecture. This abhorrence sets him
squarely against the tendency-not the principle-
ofnine-tenths ofmoderncriticism: against the idea,
originally a classroom strategy, that the poem is in
a fewofitsdetachableparts; thatitconsistsofgems,
for thesakeofwhichitexists, unitedbyneutralbits;
that one ponders this image (what does it mean?),
this image, and this image, and stops with a sum of
images. The whole incorruptible bulk of Williams'
critical achievement is dropped squarely athwart
the beaten track of the ants.
It is not to be supposed that for details he sub-
stitutes"ideas."
Itis in the minutiae-in the minute organization of
the words and their relationships in a composition
that the seriousness and value of a work of writing
exist-notin thesentiments, ideas, schemes portrayed.
It is here, furthermore, that creation takes place.
It is not aplasterof thoughtapplied.
His point is that instances of this "minute organiza-
tion" can't be as readily detached from the whole
61 60 GNOMON
composition's trajectory as we have been led to sup-
pose. What takes place in a work of art is not an ac-
cumulation of beauties but "an alertness not to let
go of a possibility of movement in our fearful bedaz-
zlement with some concrete and fixed present."
Eschewing quotations, then, his method-which
less skillful hands would be ill advised to imitate-is
to exercise his inventive faculty and write a solid
piece of prose which will serve as a sort of equivalent
for "what this writer's work amounts to." This doesn't,
in his practice, mean going back to Sainte-Beuve or
Saintsbury. It means an intense concentration on the
intentions implied by the subject, not on the urbani-
ties of a public-relations job. Occasionally Williams
thinks into the subject perfections probably not in-
herent in it; when he does this, as in the remarkable
essay on Gertrude Stein, the result is not silliness
but illumination not so much of Miss Stein as of the
nature of writing. He notes, for instance, that
Music could easily have a statement attached to
each note in the manner of words, so that C natural
might mean the sun, etc., and completely dull treatises
be played-and even sciences finally expounded in
tunes.
Solid writing, however, tends to use the word "as
reality" rather than "as symbol":
Bach might be an illustration of movement not
suborned by a freight of purposed design, loaded
upon it as in almost all later musical works; statement
unmusical and unnecessary. Stein's "they lived very
gay then" has much of the same quality of movement
to be found in Bach-the composition of the words
determining not the logic, not the "story," not the
theme even, but the movement itself. As it happens,
"They were both gay there" is as good as some of
Bach's shorter figures.
Stein is a laboratory example; turning his method
to writing one willingly rereads, Dr. Williams has
produced, for instance, the only enlightening pages
in print on Marianne Moore, and the meatiest com-
ments on A Draft of xxx Cantos ever written. His
ability to drive a spike with one blow helps single
him out from the critics one wonders whether to
take seriously or not. He writes when he knows what
there is to be said, and conveys his gists without
periphrasis. Of the Greek quotations in The Cantos
("knowing no Greek, I presume they mean some-
thing") he divines correctly, "They are no particular
matter save that they say, There were other times
like ours-at the back of it all." When the Dr-critics
of xxx Cantos were fussing about Pound's pedantry
or his aestheticism, Williams was staring hard at
Pound's theme. Twenty-four years before Rock-Drill
he defined it: "A closed mind which clings to its
power-about which the intelligence beats seeking
entrance": bull's-eye with one shot.
Preoccupied not by the standards of traditional
excellence with which Pound, to the confusion of
most readers, retains contact, but by his own hard-
won perception of the nature of a responsible mod-
ern American poet's job, Williams wasn't alarmed
whenever Pound stopped imitating a Grecian night-
ingale. He was able to see the early Cantos as if the
62 63
GNOMON
Van Buren and Adams sequences had already ex-
isted, classicism not an inert norm but a key-signa-
ture, one of several, controlling the movement of the
poet's intelligence.
It is beside the question in my opinion to speak of
Pound's versification as carefully and accurately meas-
ured. . . . His excellence is that of the maker, not the
measurer....
That is why he can include pieces of prose and
have them still part of a poem. ...
That is also, he might have added, why Pound
could include pieces of "poetry." When Eleven New
Cantos at length appeared, Williams had nothing to
unsay:
There is a good deal to say about money in this
series, 9 per cent, thousands, millions of cash and the
ways of men with it-to the exclusion of love. And
love....
It is the poet who has digested the mass of impedi-
menta which the scholar thinks to solve by sinking
up to his eyes in it and shouting that he has found it.
In the earlier Pound essay (1931) he noted,
, Pound's "faults" as a poet all center around his ran-
cor against the malignant stupidity of a generation
which polluted our rivers and would then, brightly,
give ten or twenty or any imaginable number of mil-
lions of dollars as a fund toward the perpehmtion of
Beauty-in the form of a bequest to the New York
Metropolitan Museum of Art.
In America this crime has not been spread over a
period of centuries, it has been done in the last twenty
or twenty-five years, by the single generation, fifteen
or twenty-five years older than I am:#,ho have held
power through that slobbery period. 9'
This suggests the co-ordinates of Williams' rancor
against "Beauty," his abnegation of poetic attempts
to secure it, and his suspicion of every proposal to
endow it--expensive universities, for instance, "for
the propagation of something that passes for the
arts," which he consigns to the bottom of a list of
amenities beginning with dog hospitals, canine cem-
eteries, and Palm Beach. "Beauty at its best seems
truth incompletely realized"; and to use "beautiful"
language "is to confess an inability to have pene-
trated with poetry some crevice of understanding;
that special things and special places are reserved
for art, that it is unable, that it requires fostering.
This is unbearable."
What fascinates him about Marianne Moore is
that while she is undeniably choosing the things she
puts into her poems, the principle of choice has no
relation to a notion of beauty inherent in the mate-
rials. "The baby glove of a Pharaoh can be so pre-
sented as to bring tears to the eyes," but Miss Moore
doesn't deal in baby gloves (Williams is careful to
say that'her poems wouldn't therefore be bad if she
did). What Miss Moore does deal in is actions, intel-
lectual progressions, the mind moving freely "unen-
cumbered by the images or the difficulties of
thought. In such work there is no 'suggestiveness,'
no tiresome 'subtlety' of trend to be heavily fol-
64
65
GNOMON
lowed, no painstaking refinement of sentiment." Sen-
timents are blocks of emotional stuff; the poet en-
visaged by Dr. Williams doesn't pause to refine what
he encounters in transit, he passes through it like
an x-ray. "A poem such as 'Marriage' is an anthology
of transit. It is a pleasure that can be held firm only
by moving rapidly from one thing to the next. It
gives the impression of a passage through. There is
a distaste for lingering, as in Emily Dickinson."
This is not only an admirable statement of Miss
Moore's quality, it implies, once we remove the col-
oration of the particular example, a poetic of great
interest. Though poems, for Dr. Williams, have a
mode of being which differs from that of raw ex-
perience, they don't thereby inhabit a zone on the
lower borders of the supernatural. Though the mys-
tical quality "still seems to many the essence of
poetry itself," poetry is a secular art, deriving its
illuminations directly from the quality of the mind
that has done the work. "There is a 'special' place
where poems, as all works of art, must occupy, but
it is quite definitely the same place as that where
bricks or colored threads are handled." Since the
poem is itself a force, it won't, while it remains
chaste, incorporate objects by force. Though the
characters, as Aristotle said, are included only for
the sake of the action, we demand assurance that
they are acting and not being pushed, and in the
same way should demand images that aren't being
conscripted. Again Miss Moore supplies the illustra-
tion: in her poems
. an apple remains an apple whether it be in
Eden or the fruit bowl. ..
"dazzled by the apple"
The apple is left there, suspended. One is not made
to feel that as an apple it has anything particularly
to do with poetry or that as such it needs special
treatment, one goes on. Because of this the direct
object does seem unaffected ... free from the
smears of mystery....
These remarks are as valuable as Mr. Eliot's on
the metaphysical poets: which prompts the reflec-
tion that nine-tenths of Eliot's vastly influential
criticism is concentrated in a dozen or so formula-
tions, some of them dangerously succinct and mem-
orable, that have started people thinking, and fre-
quently been applied with clumsy enthusiasm to all
sorts of locks they were never intended to open. The
home-made quality of Dr. Williams' mental furnish-
ings, if it wants ease, fends off glibness; it should be
evident that his Selected Essays probably contains
as many radioactive deposits as Mr. Eliot's book of
the same title, and that they really are intended to
be useful generalizations, not ad hoc formulations
(like the famous sentence about the objective cor-
relative) which some readers allow the pervasive
urbaneness to invest with inappropriate universality.
Critical books also contain outcroppings of less valu-
able minerals, and of these Williams probably offers
a higher concentration per ton of rock fill than does
his eminent rival. His remarkable essay on "The
American Background," though not untinged with
66 GNOMON
crankiness, should be required reading for anyone
interested in American writing; Mr. Eliot on com-
parably panoramic topics (Humanism, for instance,
or Modem Education and the Classics) is after
twenty-odd years chiefly interesting to students of
Mr. Eliot. The mind behind Williams' book is prob-
ably not less catholic, though certainly less urbane;
to say that Matthew Arnold wouldn't have under-
stood him is to bringout strength and weakness to-
gether. Against his impatience with much of the lit-
erary past one can weigh Eliot's rank incuriosity
concerning the present. IfWilliams ignores Donne
and is suspicious of Dante, Eliot was unable to say
why he found the later Joyce impressive, and
I
wrote of The Cantos that Pound's belief that they
meant something was sufficient for him. There can
be no question of the one writer superseding the
other. But we are not likely to find two valuable
critics eachso perfectly the other's complement.
II
'I
1
5. Whitman's Multitudes
HELEAYES OF GRASS CENTENNIAL PASSED AMID ODDLY
T
dispirited jollifications; hardly anyone would ad-
mit to an active liking for the book. There were
public lectures, displays in libraries, and muchhand
shaking; Dr. Williams appeared between the same
covers as J. Middleton Murry; a man skilled at dis-
tinguishing inks and assigning a chronology to revi-
sions, but unprepared by previous experience "for
the close investigation of the work of a nineteenth-
century American poet," was turned loose on the
brouillonsofthethirdedition;!commemoratorsacross
the country splashed their whisky on the honored
corpsein hopes thathemightstartbreathingthe air
of 1955.
Itwasa deedthatwasbeingcommemorated;draw
attention to thebook, andthe company, with anun-
easy look, began talking rapidly about something
more tractable, like Democracy. Even more than
Yeats, Whitman has been removed from the critic's
province to the biographer's, the poems turned into
a man; even more than Swift, the man has been
turned into a case, unfailingly bewildering: the
Genius as Impostor, say, or The Good Gray Pansy.
There is even a sort of subcommittee ambitious to
vindicate his sexual orthodoxy, andthus (somehow)
his poetic validity, bydeducingwhat are called"ex-
periences with women." This sort of trifling at least
has gone far enough to incur some reproof from
1 Fredson Bowers (ed.), Whitman's Manuscripts: Leaves of
Grass, 1860 (University of Chicago Press).
67
69
I ~ I
1
1 ]1.
1I
I
I
68 GNOMON
1
lill
I
I
critics who having delivered the indictmentsign off
I ~ i
without having started to function critically. The
I ~ I most audacious strategy for brushing aside the
celebrants was Malcolm Cowley's in the July 25,
~ I
1955, New Republic; cutting away the whole bloat,
IIII1
he offered for our veneration simply the first edition
~ I itselfwithits mere twelvepoems,theSong of Myself
nearly half the 95-page book, dismissing curiosity
111!i
about the life that came before as irrelevant to this
~ I "miracle,"andshruggingasideboththeposturesand
li'[I..i
the 400-odd poems that came after as mere corrup-
,II'
1
tions of it. Thishas themeritofremoving from visi-
11'1
III: bility that tedious Whitman who isn't a man but a
tfl cyclorama,andleavingussomepoemsratherBlakean
1
not in their cosmic sprawl (the usual common , 1.["
Iii
groundofcomparisonsbetweenWhitmanandBlake)
~
but in the piercing authenticity of their suburban
iii
primitivism:
I ~ i
I
. . . OrI guess itis thehandkerchiefof theLord.

~ i
l
Itis a sortof miracle, like thetalentoftheDouanier i
I)
Rousseau, the grassy spears of whose dream-heavy
Ili
l
'i,i jungles ("OnlythelullI like,thehumofyourvalved
iil"
voice") are painted one by one with the entranced
II,
~ i
energy of a Whitman inventory of dustmotes. Mr.
'i
I
Cowley quotes Walt's notebook description of "...
~
Iii
a trance,yetwithall thesenses alert--onlya stateof
highexaltedmusing-thetangibleandmaterialwith
Iii!
all its shows, the objective world suspended or sur-
~ mountedfor a while&thepowersinexaltation, free-
i,
dom,vision-yetthesenses notlostorcounteracted."
Iii
i
Not even a deed, then, but a sort of anonymous
I'll
j
Whitman's Multitudes
event, a hundred years ago; but the man to whom
this event happened then substituted a succession
of public Walts for the anonymity, andhas beenre-
paidbya draggingaroundeveryTroyonthecritical
map. "Who touches this book touches a man," he
wrote; but he didn't know who; and.spent his life
trying to tum himself into that man. He wasn't a
technician but a sort of mouthpiece; nothing is
more obvious than his failure to develop, to do any-
thing butrepeat himself, shutting batch after batch
of trashy dough into the oven with a little pinch of
thefirst Leaves of Grass for leaven. Nor is thefamil-
iarwork anauthentictransvaluationoflanguage; its
craftymisspellings ("loafe,""Kanada"),its eccentric
violations of diction (''kelson,'' "imperturbe"), its
transgressions against its own decorum ("Of life
immense in passion, pulse, and power") aren't crea-
tions but efforts at compromise between accessible
language and the authentic naive vision. What
wouldn't lie down in the words he jammed in any-
how. The "original" features of Whitman's language
aren't the ones thathave worn well.
Whathas worn is his gesture of contemptfor the
pentameter rhythm, any fixed rhythm. He knew, in
this one sphere, what not to do. The chief event of
the centenarycelebrationwas Dr. Williams'essay in
a collection of tributes edited by Milton Hindus.
2
Instead of trying to make Walt out a seminal poet
(which would mean to identify distinguished prog-
Milton Hindus (ed.), Leaves of Grass One Hundred Years
After, essays by William Carlos Williams, Richard Chase, Leslie
A. Fiedler, Kenneth Burke, David Daiches, and J. Middleton
Murry (Stanford University Press).
71

1III 70 GNOMON
eny somewhere but among the political orators)
Dr.Williamspresentshimasa directrebelliouschal-
lenge, still good after a century, "to all living poets
\11111
l
l'lli
toshowcausewhytheyshouldnotdolikewise."This
lill:1 is carefullyphrased; Dr. Williams is perfectlyaware
that to echo a challenge isn't to take it up, toWhit-
lil,i!1
manize once the gesture has been made (as Walt
:1
11
1
himself did) is to do nothing; but to abstain from
1:1
doing likewise having first shown cause why not,
1 profiting not from Walt's practice but from his per-
1II
.,
ception of the need to "breakthe old apartto make
II!I room for ourselves," would be to writepoetryas yet
r unwritten.
11
'1
"l,
Fromthe beginning Whitman realizedthatthemat-
',I
ter was largely technical. Ithad to be free verse or
nothing. . . . He had seen a great light but forgot
almost at once . . . everything but his "message"
. . . and took his eye off the words themselves which
1:11
I!ill
shouldhaveheldhim. . . .
1'lil I
Poems are made out of words not ideas. He never
showed any evidence of knowing this and the un- 1
1 '1
resolved forms consequent upon his beginnings re-
'II,
mained in the end just as he left them.
I:
I
li
!'
11
'
,1
l
This is, once again, Dr. Williams' familiar critical
1
theme, thatAmericahas a languagewhichAmerican
1.. , :1."", 'I
poets, busy using the old one well, aren't by and
I;i! large aware of. Itwas worthhis repeatingit, to give
us a role inwhichtoseeWhitman. Onceso seen, not
"'.1.,1
,I
,',
simply, as Mr. Cowley sees him, the anonymous
1
,11,1
recipient of a miracle, but the man with a definite
1 '1
1.I,'
:.
address in time who noticed whatought to be done
"
"I
JII'I
1
1':11
1'1
'I
"
i
II
thoughhe failed properlyto do it, he is set free for
us to read what we like of him, immune from the
otherwiseinescapableitchtoturnhisperipheralpre-
tensions into the outline of a Poet and then scratch
through biographies lookingfor that Poet'sprinciple
ofvitality.
Andthefirst thingwesee is justwhythe qualities
one feels him to possess are so elusive. A rhythmic
liberation,unaccompaniedbyeithera positiverhyth-
micinventionora reliablestrainofpoetryotherwise
generated, is a diffuse achievement. Walt Whitman
the poet would seem to be the nearly accidental
juxtaposition of a negative impulse, concerning
rhythm, whichwe obscurelyrecognize to have been
right, and an intermittent Blakean talent for naIve
perception. The rhythm was subsequently freighted
withmiscellaneous gestures whose banalityit makes
shift to disguise, the sharp talent (often confined to
single lines) gotobscured amid pyrites,and in poem
after poem a nullity by its nature almost indiscern-
ible from the real thing was further camouflaged by
the regularityofa habitualrhetorical structure-the
short first line, the systole and diastole of self, cos-
mos, and self, a mechanism, readily mistaken for
animation, which Mr. David Daiches blueprints for
us without suspicion. It is no wonder that Mr. Ken-
neth Burke gets nowhere surveyingthe range of the
vocabulary, associating with Leaves the various uses
ofthe verb"leave," orthat Mr. Murrygives itall up
and writes a paean to Democracy, or that the for-
eigners in Dr. Allen's anthology Walt Whitman
73
72 GNOMON
Abroad 3 tend to take him as a prophet like Marx or
Isaiah, or that everybody else gets somehow in-
volved with biography.
It is impossible, by the usual documentary meth-
ods, to write a "life" of him, as Dr. Allen's massive,
definitive Solitary Singer
4
inadvertently demon-
strates; impossible not because there isn't a life to
write, but because one can't pin down a person liv-
ing it. Either the events must be clamped into a
thesis, or they diffuse into the chronicles of Proteus,
signifying nothing. If it is the feel of the personality
you want, you can get it most easily from the Detroit
Exhibition Catalogue:
5
for instance-
WORDS: WIDTMAN's NOTEBOOK FOR AN INTENDED
AMERICAN DICTIONARY: Bound by Whitman, by means
of cutting out all pages of a book and retaining the
stubs so that sheets of paper, fragments, and clippings
could be tipped in. The sheets of paper used are
various: left-over green wrappers from the first edi-
tion of Leaves of Grass, yellow end-papers left from
the second issue of Leaves of Grass, unused stationery
of the City of Williamsburgh, etc. . . . The cover was
pierced, so that two pieces of cord are holding front
and back covers together. . . .
3 Gay Wilson Allen (ed.) , Walt Whitman Abroad, critical es-
says from Germany, Scandinavia, France, Russia, Italy, Spain,
Latin America, Israel, Japan, and India (Syracuse University
Press) .
Gay Wilson Allen, The Solitary Singer, a Critical Biography
of Walt Whitman (Macmillan).
Walt Whitman, a Selection of the Manuscripts, Books and
Association Items gathered by Charles E. Feinberg, Detroit Public
Library Exhibition Catalogue, 1955.
Some of the notes and memos read as follows:
"There could easily be a dictionary made of words fit
to be used in an English (American) opera-or for
vocal-lyric purposes, songs, ballads, recitations, etc.-
pantaloons-pants-trousers-breeches.. " Words:
Effective-[Fr] [Com] p. 429 Wh. Diet. ... Ei-do-
Ion (Gr) phantom-the image of an Helen, at Troy
instead of real flesh and blood woman.-Names of
persons-These are very curious to trace out.-How
came they? ... -Aboriginal names always tell finely
... -In names a suggestion. The woman should
preserve her own name just as much after marriage
as before," etc.
His notes on oratory are worth transcribing:
The Elocution should be full of pauses and of that
style vocalism which makes a little matter go a great
way in the delivery-yes-short lectures. Proposed
titles are 'America', 'Arena', etc.
-and his memorandum to the managing editor of
the New York Times:
To make a personal item or paragraph for 'Minor
Topics.' qu? to commence for instance: With the
bright crispy autumn weather Walt Whitman again
makes his appearance on the sidewalks of Broad-
way
Amid all these painted balloons-the crafty old
string saver, the reformer of marital nomenclature,
the vaudeville hack, the self-appOinted orator, the
composer of advertisements for himself-a mere
biographer can only assume a glazed objective stare
74
75 GNOMON
and fuss with chronology. It is not as though there
were anything to be found out, in this jungle, about
the poems one willingly reinspects; indeed, in view
of the nonpoetic pressures acting on all his verse
after his public debut, there would seem no reason
for anybody but a psychiatrist wanting to grasp
Whitman entire. But it is probably not merely the
cult of psychiatry that causes the most knowing con-
tributors to Whitman symposia to be fascinated in-
stead of embarrassed by Whitman the poseur. Mr.
Richard Chase, for instance, contributes a well-writ-
ten neo-Freudian attempt to derive the poet from
his early life (which at most could derive the com-
pulsions that shaped his "message," the least viable
part of his poetry because never technically en-
trapped), and Mr. Leslie Fiedler chronicles with a
mixture of condescension and excitement the succes-
sion of Whitmans invented first by Walt and then by
his disciples; and both critics appear to regard their
activities as central to an understanding of the po-
etry. It is hard to escape the conclusion that a corrupt
bard is wanted, for sticking up in the fore-time of a
corrupt America.
This brings us to the very heart of the Whitman
cult as it is at present administered. Its gambit is to
restore the poet, without attending to the verse.
That is why one can be sure that its interests lie not
in the written words, but somewhere else, among
preoccupations Whitman can merely be made to
confirm. It is only from considerations of what is on
the page that literary discussions can set out and re-
main compellingly meaningful, and Mr. Fiedler is a
good example of the man of habitual perception de-
feated by omitting to make the initial perception, to
notice the exact location, and limits, of Whitman's
technical innovation. He is excellent on Whitman's
'Nit, by-product, he acutely discerns, of the initial
anonymity, modified but not canceled by the subse-
quent personae. The latter simply exploit a double-
ness of self of which Whitman was always aware,
allowing him to make faces at himself from around
the piano, the persona of the moment indulging in
great public exchanges of winks with the discarnate
Voice. Having on these grounds undertaken to res-
cue Whitman "from parody as well as apotheosis,"
Mr. Fiedler draws back. We cannot, it seems, con-
front the text, but only the presently relevant stage
of the reputation. "Twenty-five years of dissent can-
not be undone." It is time to proclaim, therefore,
"our own Whitman," who turns out to be-"the
elegiac Whitman, the poet of death."
We find with relief in Leaves of Grass that "blackness
ten times black" which Melville once thrilled to dis-
cover in Hawthorne. . . . Those of us who know that
poetry (God forbid that we should attempt to judge
the man!) is precisely a matter of cardboard butter-
Hies on real fingers ... are grateful to [sundry at-
tackersJ for having rescued Whitman from "life" . . .
and having restored him to art.
It is obviously important to discover who "we" are
supposed to be, who know these bitter things, that
76
77
GNOMON
art is a fake but when vital has death somewhere at
its roots. Mr. Fiedler would seem to be appealing to
the collective wisdom of the Lonely Crowd who
make a cult of European decadence and mistake,
say, Kafka for a physician rather than a symptom.
So far, so banal; it is in the next paragraph (his
penultimate) that Mr. Fiedler allows a revelation
of some significance to escape:
His duplicity is, I feel, a peculiarly American du-
plicity, that doubleness of our self-consciousness,
which our enemies too easily call hypocrisy . . . Con-
demned to play the Lusty Innocent, the Noble Savage,
by a literary tradition that had invented his country
before he inhabited it, Whitman had no defenses.
The whole 'Vestern world demanded of him the lie
in which we have been catching him out, the image
of America in which we no longer believe. . . .
But he was not "America"; he was only a man,
ridden by impotence and anxiety, by desire and guilt,
furtive and stubborn and half-educated. . . .
This not only has the authentic vatic ring, it throws
a Hood of light on the Whitman legend. To represent
an American poet in the 1850s or '60s as defenseless
before the demands of a European dream is to ob-
literate eight decades of American history: to throw
up behind Whitman a vast blank out of which no
sustenance was available: to place him, in Lincoln's
generation, at the inception of the American con-
sciousness instead of at one of its foci of corruption.
This means obliterating not only John Adams' "revo-
lution took place in the minds of the people . . . in
the course of fifteen years before LexingtoI1," but
the whole novel tradition of an aristocratic govern-
ment deriving authority from a popular franchise.
That is why an actively mythopoeic Whitman, not a
man aware of his American past but a man at the
beginning of a story written in France, without any
past, his back to the void, not a technical innovator
but a corrupted prophet, is essential to the current
liberal tradition, which satisfies itself by fondling
a peculiarly American duplicity, that doubleness
of our self-consciousness." The conspiracy to suppose
that American political history begins, effectively,
with Lincoln, is of the same order; it is no accident
that the twentieth century's prairie Whitman should
be Lincoln's most industrious biographer, or that the
accomplished trumpery of When lilacs last in the
dooryard bloom'd" should be the inescapable Whit-
man anthology piece. That Whitman's notions of
political process were rudimentary-the Civil War
merely the foulest crime in history known in any
land or age"-is irrelevant, in this view, to his status
as a political prophet; so is the evasiveness concern-
ing particular conditions of men-documented with
naIve thoroughness by Leadie M. Clark
6
-that lurks
inside his windy championship of the common man.
It would be worth asking why a man so shrewd un-
derstood so little of the past of his own country; but
that is not asked. That he disintegrates under bio-
graphical scrutiny like the scholiasts' Homer is thor-
oughly congenial to current fashion, for which he is
the Homer, behind whom nothing, of the American
Leadie M. Clark, Walt Whitman's Concept of the American
Cornman Man (Philosophical Library).
78 GNOMON
Whitman's Multitudes 79
dawn, of a swarming of pocket Hectors and ant-hill
Agamemnons ("the word En-Masse"). It all fits, even
Mr. Chase's neat presentation of Whitman as a ple-
beian James on grounds of shared misfortunes and
neuroses; one notes as an overlooked feature of the
James revival that it is only to a neurotic James that
it has been thought safe to entrust an aristocratic
tradition.
It seems just now for some reason important to
present an America dominated by an image of itself
as egalitarian paradise, equally important to make
this image not only batten on corruption but to be
corrupt from its inception. (One might here invoke
Mr. Warren's Brother to Dragons.) Hence the cult
of de Tocqueville, who as Senator Thomas Hart
Benton observed "may pass, in Europe, for American
history." Hence the obliteration of Adams, whose
letters are American literature, and the transforma-
tion of Jefferson into a figure as mute as Washington,
only given to tinkering and obiter dicta. Hence, then,
the cult of a bard whose expansiveness lends energy
to the notion of an American consciousness diffused
across the sidewalks of Manhattan. It is after the
most distinguished men in the United States cease
to be discoverable in Washington that American
history, not as a chronicle but as a significant process
reaching to us, is allowed to begin; and the trumpery
Whitman of legend gets promoted as its flawed epon-
ymous bard, the anonymous Homer of a fortuitous
concourse of pygmies.
That is what the centennial celebration would ap-
pear to mean, the part of it that is not mere scholarly
thumb tWiddling and dedication of statues. Though
Mr. Cowley and Dr. Williams have shown where to
begin, there is still room for the separation, in his
verse, of ore from pyrites and of both from mud.
81
6. Faces to the Wall
EVENTY-FIVE YEARS AFTER MATTHEW ARNOLD'S EX-
Spansive prophecy-"More and more mankind
will discover that we have to tum to poetry to inter-
pret life for us, to console us, to sustain us. Without
poetry our science will appear incomplete; and most
of what now passes with us for religion and philoso-
phy will be replaced by poetry"-we observe, among
other symptoms, a student population so illiterate
it cannot read poetry at all, being herded through
a succession of huge anthologies scientifically de-
signed to teach it how.
Arnold in 1880 apparently assumed (by extrapola-
tion) that the Poetry lecture rooms of 1955 would
be crowded by undergraduates stuffed, like so many
young John Stuart Mills, with serried facts (as if by
expert packers in a pencil factory) and requiring
only to have their emotional natures awakened and
ordered. Instead we have, as every teacher knows,
not merely occasional sad sacks who wonder whether
Apollo is in the Bible or Shakespeare, but whole
roomfuls of sophomores who can't follow Marvell's
"Definition of Love" because no one present knows
what the North Pole is! (except that it's a very cold
place, which doesn't seem to fit). Their plight is met
by survey courses which grow so bloated with de-
partmental hobbies that they must occasionally be
trimmed down in committee ("If we put in Hamlet
we'll have to take out She Stoops to Conquer." "Do
1 Testar scriptor. When asked what in heaven's name they
studied in school they reply, "Oh, history ... economics ..."
80
Faces to the Wall
we want She Stoops to Conquer?" "WeIl"-the eight-
eenth-century specialist's jaw setting-"they ought
to know about it" 2).
It is idle to pretend that a defensible idea of lit-
erary tradition or function presides over such delib-
erations. Mr. Eliot's classic description of the histori-
cal sense-"a feeling that the whole of the literature
of Europe from Homer and within it the whole of the
literature of his own country has a simultaneous
existence and composes a simultaneous order"-no
longer defines something widely if obscurely felt: it
is part of a controversial document useful for eluci-
dating the work of poet Eliot, who already belongs
to a vanished age. No comparable formulation today
would mention Homer. Literature in English is sup-
posed to exist on its own, and so is any particular
work within it: suppositions buttressed by the Ricar-
dian heresy that, given the appropriate techniques
for deciphering, one can extract the nourishment
from any poem while considering it as an isolated
event, or as though it were the only poem in the
world. This doctrine goes down well with under-
graduates who want to read as little as possible, or
who like to think of poems as tidy little patterns of
imagery (like Scrabble layouts), and hence recom-
mends itself to their teachers. Father Walter J. Ong
has noted (English Institute Essays, 1952, p. 150)
that the bulk of "mediaeval philosophy" was shallow
and diagrammatic because its discussion was con-
fined to universities where students became M.A.s
at twenty, and at present, for the second time in
Reported from western Canada.
83
82 GNOMON
Western history, thought" and pedagogy are be-
coming one thing.
These parochial confusions have stemmed im-
placably from the attempt, now a half-century cur-
rent, to treat English vernacular poetry as a cultural
norm. The extreme interest at this juncture of the
Chinese Book of Odes (The Classic Anthology De-
fined by Confucius, translation by Ezra Pound, Har-
vard, 1954) consists in the fact that these 305 lyrics
do constitute a cultural norm and have been nutri-
ment for the civilization of China for about 2,500
years. Whether Arnold would have found this fact
intelligible is difficult to say; he found his "healing
power" in the Grand Style-
. . . and what is else not to be overcome .
whereas the Odes extend from "Yaller bird, let my
corn alone" to "... ancestral manes pass ..." It
should also be noted that though Confucius said that
a man who hadn't worked on the first twenty-five
Odes was like one who stands with his face to a wall,
he never claimed that the Odes alone would guar-
antee civilization. He didn't invite his followers to
turn to poetry to "interpret life for us, to console us,
to sustain us"; he said,
Aroused by the Odes;
Established by the Rites;
Brought into perfect focus by Music.
Achilles Fang writes in his Introduction to the vol-
ume, "The word ii, essentially a code of behaviour, is
generally rendered as 'rites' when that behaviour is
Faces to the Wall
directed toward the supernatural or the manes, and
as 'etiquette' when it concerns man's relation with
his fellow men. . .. Perhaps the late Ku Hung-
Ming had insight when he rendered Ii as 'tact'. It
could, as well, be translated 'character'." Kung leaves
no place for the dilettante, nor does he try to make
reading poetry a substitute for religious observance.
Analogies for all these components-Odes, Rites,
and Music-functioned in the West during the
ascendancy of Catholic Christianity. They still exist
but they don't function. Music is the property of the
impresario. Poetry is what is taught in sophomore
surveys. Exiguous rites are transacted inside
churches; in a more comprehensive sense, the term
requires a long footnote.
While the Odes were in Kung's view only part of
the civilizing process, yet they aren't a miscellany
of poems propped and forced into coherence by the
rest of the civilized usages. The great Anthology,
beginning with fifteen books of Folk Songs or "les-
sons of the states," gathering weight and direction
in the two political divisions (eight books of Elegan-
tiae Minores and three decads of quasi-epical Greater
Odes), and reaching a climax with forty Ceremonial
Odes (the last five of which constitute the oldest
part of the anthology), provides, coherent and free
of irrelevancies,3 a sacramental corpus on which
Chinese civilization perpetually feeds. "Less a work
of the mind than of affects/brought forth from the
3 An editor of genius-Confucius himself, it used to be thought
-seems to have selected the 305 pieces from an accumulation of
some 3,000.
85
84 GNOMON
innernature,"wrotea Manchuprinceseekingto de-
scribe their massive anonymity: "all order comes
into such norm." "Have no twisty thoughts," was
Confucius' summary of the entire anthology. It is
not, like Palgrave's Golden Treasury, a collection of
miscellaneously interestingpoeticdocuments. Itwas
apparently the translator's concern for emphasizing
theshapeofthewhole,andthewayeachpoem'ss ~
nificance consists in its beingpartof thewhole, that
kepthimfrom publishingbits separately in advance
ofthe entire volume. A poem like No. 86-
So he won't talk to me when we meet?
Terriblel
I still can eat.
So clever he won't even come to dinner;
Well, beds are soft,
I
and I'm no thinner.
-doesn't,like a poem byLaforgue,implya cycle of
similar poems; it doesn't express an attitude to life,
itis a posture possible to a supple sensibility, an un-
studiedresponseto the behaviorofa particularman.
Thenext poemis saucier-
"III
ill I Be kind, good sir, and I'll lift my sark
and cross the Chen to you,
III(
But don't think you are the only sprig
Illi
in all the younger crew..
11[:
-butthe next transforms indurated flippancy into
1
I
I
I
I pathos:
)1
Ahandsome lad stood in the lane,
Alas, I asked him to explain.
"III
ii I:
,I "
I, .I'
Faces to the Wall
Arich boycame for me to thehall
and 1 wasn't ready. How should it befall?
Who wants a lady? . .
Afewpages awaywefind a differentkindofexperi-
ence and a different poetic language:
Dry grass, in vale:
"alas!
"I met a man, 1
met
a man.
"Scorched, alas, ere it could grow."
A lonely girl pours out herwoe.
"Even in water-meadow, dry."
Flow her tears abundantly.
Solitude's no remedy. [Ode 69]
-anda few pages from that, a different poignancy
(since no one theme monopolizes the emotions):
the plight of the Emperor's divorced mother whom
decorum forbade to returnto court:
Wide, Ho?
Areed will cross its How;
Sung far?
One sees it, tip-toe.
Hostrong?
The bladeofa row-boat cutsitso soon.
Sung far? I could be there
(savereverence) bynoon
(did I not venerate
Sung's line and state).
[Ode611
87
r
I
I
I
86 GNOMON
II
I
This isn't inflated to the dimensions of tragedy, yet
~
the expression is perfectly adequate to the emotion.
III
I Itis perhaps the absence of inflation inthesepoems
II that makes them welcome one another's company;
l!
nonetries toengulftheworld. Itis onlyintheeight-
,
II
eenth century that we find European poets so sure
I,
ofwhat,inthepoemathand,themoralthemeis; the
English Renaissance and Romantic writers are, in
JI
differentways, opportunistswhocan'tbecountedon
notto stickinanythingmovingthatcomes tomind.
4
t Yet the eighteenth-century poet, inheritor of the
scholastic discussionofmoralthemes, specializedhis
!I
themestothepointofetiolationandthen"amplified"
Ii
II
his language. Racine couldhaveturnedthedivorced
dowager Empress's situation into a play on the con-
~
flict of Inclination and Duty, but because he would
~
have thought it discussable in those terms it would
III have been, for all its brilliance, a less moving per-
I formance than the anonymous Chinese Ode.
j
I, The gnomic sentences intheOdes areequallyun-
r
assuming:
t
My heart no turning-stone, mat to berolled
~
rightbeingright, notwhim nor matterofcount,
true as a tree on mount. . . . [Ode 26]
~ l l
This is both explicit and comprehensive; ithas the

~
I
l'lli bite of great poetry; but it doesn't offer itself, like
comparable bits of The Essay on ~ [ a n
'1'\
II Iii -Knowthen this truth (enoughfor Man to know)
I I
'Virtue alone is Happiness below'-
Ii 1
1 1
: 1
I,
Cf. "He is not long soft and pathetick without some idle con-
ceit"-Johnson on Shakespeare.
Ftu;es to the Wall
as a picture postcard of the Universe. Neither,
though itechoes Housman's tone, does this:
...Nor fine nor coarse cloth keep the wind
from the melancholy mind;
Only antient wisdom is
solace to man's miseries. [Ode 27]
By contrast with this tranquil decorum, Housman,
when he is being sententious, implies too much:
commits himself to statements aboutthe way things
are, that beg more questions than they allay, and
excludemoreexperiencethantheyevoke:
. . . Therefore, since the world has still
Much good, butmuch less good than ill,
And while the sun and moon endure
Luck's a chance, buttrouble's sure,
I'd face it as a wise man would,
And train for ill and not for good.
[A Shropshire Lad, LXII]
Thisis a moreprOVincial utterancethantheChinese;
it does not "imply a recognition of other kinds of
experience that are possible"; its Stoicism belongs to
a time, not a tradition. Pound's use of Housman's
idiom in the translation implies a criticism ofHous-
man,the most interestingbecausethe least categori-
calkindof criticism.
Tosaythatthepoems as renderedbyPounddon't
"sound Chinese"-which means in practice that
their rhythm isn't limpid or their prevailing color
blue-is to register both their advance on Cathay,
and the extentto whichCathay has trainedus-and
trained a dozen other translators ofless sharpness-
89
88 GNOMON
to expect of Chinese verse in English a tranquillity,
rather aesthetic than lively, that accords with the
era of Whistler's Japanese prints. Cathay (1915)
begins,
Here we are, picking the first fern shoots
And saying, when shall we get back to our country?
Here we are because we have the Ken-nin for our foe-
men,
We have no comfort because of these Mongols.
The1954versionofthesamepoem (Ode167) runs:
Pick a fern, pick a fern, ferns are high,
"Home," I'll say: home, the year's gone by,
no house, no roof, these huns on thehoof.
Work, work, work, that's how itruns,
We are here because of these huns.
This is a much more convincing soldier's song; the
Odes,allofthem,reallyweresung,andsomeofthem
weredancedto.
But the new work, with its array ofimpliedtunes
and sinewy rhythms, doesn't undothefinest partsof
Cathay-"The RiverSong," forinstance,or"Poemby
theBridgeatTen-Shin,"theoriginalsofwhichinany
I
I'
'I case postdate the Odes by nearly a thousand years;
11
III
rather,itprovides themwith a context. Poundwrote 1. .1
II:
the Cathay poems whenhis ambitions were still en-
1I\i
gaged with visions of a cultural renaissance, en-
visaged by him (see Patria Mia) as a liberation of
II'I!
iil'l
artistic impulses by intelligent patronage. Itwas an
I: ilill
Edwardian dream, already anachronistic by 1915;
',II
but his symbiosis with the T'ang poet Li Po (mis-
called via Fenollosa's Japanese scholarship Rihaku)
Iii
I
II
Ii
Faces to the Wall
was perhaps in part catalyzed by the attractiveness
of Li Po as a persona: an artist who ornamented a
resplendent dynasty, wasn't condemned to journal-
ism or the task of harassing impercipient editors,
didn't need to campaign or form "movements" or
take account of anybut the least worrisome themes,
had no responsibility thrust upon him but that of
perfectinghis craft, and could write
South of the pond the willow-tips are haH-blue and
bluer,
Their cords tangle in mist, against the brocade-like
palace,
andfeel withthe lamentedH. S. Mauberley that
The month was more temperate
Because this beauty had been.
Hencethe immediacywithwhich Pound,whosebest
translations are always profoundly vitalized by his
concurrent interests, was able, as Eliot once put it,
to "invent Chinese poetry for our time." It was an
invention; the poems of"Rihaku" didn'tcome outof
familiarity with Chinese, but out of a senSibility
caressed by Henry James, Whistler, and a vision of
peaceable perfection. In the subsequent forty years
Poundgreatlyextendedhis graspbothoftheChinese
languageandofEnglishversification;thpOdesaren't
less Chinese, merelyless Edwardian. Hereis another
vision of perfection, quickened in a manner wholly
aliento Cathay bythe grotesque andthelegendary:
...The King stood in his "Park Divine,"
deer and doe lay there so fine,
91
1:
GNOMON
90
so fine so sleek; birds of the air
Hashed a white wing while fishes splashed
on wing-like fin in the haunted pool.
Great drums and gongs
hung on spiked frames
sounding to perfect rule and rote
about the king's calm crescent moat.
Tone unto tone, of drum and gong.
About the king's calm crescent moat
the blind musicians beat lizard skin
as the tune weaves out and in. [Ode 242]
Having now learned, in his own phrase, to "control
the procedures" of a remarkable number of poets,
Poundis able,bydrawingondozensofchronological
and formal conventions, to convince uS that we are
handling, inEnglish, anauthentic Sacred Book with
a longhistory. This is theuse ofhis awesometechni-
cal mastery, of his ability to manage the most in-
tricateeffects withthe airofoneimprovising,oradd
anextra dimension to a smalllyric byechoing as he
renders its plain sense the mood of some vernacular
genre or the turnof phrase ofsome familiar English
anthology piece. The use of the Miracle Play idiom
inportionsofPartIIIis themoststrikinginstanceof
this technique; the elan of a chronicler whose mind
is on the most importantfacets ofhis subject comes
throughtherhythmicprimitivenessofthe"Creation"
Odes as it would not through a more enameled
surface:
As gourd-leaves spread, man began
leaf after leaf, and no plan
Faces to the Wall
overgrowing the Tsii and Ts'i,
living in caves and in stone hives
ere ever they knew a house with eaves.
[Ode 237]
The "freshness" of, say, the Towneley Shepherd's
Play, its sense of contact with living beliefs, arises
from a comparable directness:
God is made youre freynd: now at this morne
He behestys,
At Bedlam go se,
Ther lygys that fre
In a crib fulle poorely,
Betwyx two bestys.
More sophisticated idioms abound. The intricate
Proven<;al andTuscan rhymes, first putby Pound to
creative use in his 1931 version of the Donna mi
priegha and greatly elaborated in the Choruses of
the 1953 Women of Trachis, now chime, to suggest
the visual and aural interrelation of the ideograms,
through Ode after Ode:
Pine boat a-shift
on drift of tide,
for Harne in theear, sleep riven,
driven; rift of the heart in dark
no wine will clear,
nor have I will to playe. . .. [Ode 26]
Elevenwordsinthesesixlines arecoupledbyrhyme
or assonance, to articulate the kind of subject for
whichtheTuscanaestheticofrhyme was developed.
In another Ode, with a more public and general
subject, the eighteenth-century couplet
93
92 GNOMON
(Another Age shall see the golden Ear
Imbrown the Slope, and nod on the Parterre)
contributes its assurance of inclusive social order:
Full be the year, abundant be the grain,
high be the heaps composed in granaries,
robust the wine for ceremonial feast
andlackto no man be he highest orleast,
neither be fault in any rite here shown
so plenteous nature shall inwardvirtue crown.
[Ode 279J
Elsewhere an anxious young Emperor echoes a
Shakespeareansonnet:
Whenasmy heartis filled with kings and deeds
I seeking to avoid the cause of new regret. . . .
[Ode 289]
The praise of an ambiguous woman begins in the
cadence oflaterYeats:
Go with him for a life-long
with high jewelled hair-do. .
-but ends in an expressive blend of Elizabethan
definiteness and Swinburnean facility:
Splendour of court high guests to entertain,
erudite silk or plainflax in the grain,
above it all the clear spread of her brows:
"Surely of dames this is the cynosure,
the pride of ladies and the land's allure'"
and yet?
[Ode 47J
I
!
Faces to the Wall
In a very entertaining banquet Ode the meter of
L'Allegro, flavored with Uncle Remus, commits it-
self to quite un-Miltonic indecorum-
Guests start eatin', mild and even
The sober sit an' keep behavin',
butsay they've boozed then they do not.
When they've boozed they start a-wavin' an' a-ravin',
Yas' sir they rise up from the ground
and start dancin' an' staggerin' round
-butsuddenly returns to its Miltonic keynote with
a perfect seventeenth-century line:
each to his own wild fairy fancy....
[Ode 220J
The more we explore the Classic Anthology the
moresuchechoeswefind; butitis alwaysthe"proce-
dures,"neverthepersonalfeatures, ofanolderpoet's
style thatPoundimitates. Thisis strength, notweak-
ness; the trick of personality (a poetic impurity) is
mucheasier to catch. TheversionoftheFifty-eighth
Ode owes a great dealto the Browningof Men and
Women without incorporating a single one of his
mannerisms. Moreover, numerous Odes display no
discernible technicaldebt,onlya decorumandquiet
virtuosity exempt from singularity, as expressive
amidtheharmoniesandechoingsasa barofsilence:
There was no fuss about the fall
of the sash ends, there was justthat much to spare
and itfell, and ladies' hair
curved, just curved and that was all
95
94 GNOMON
the like of which, today, is never met;
And I therefore
express regret. [Ode 225]
There is reason in these echoings; Pound'sbook is
1,1
in part meant as a compendium of English poetic
1'1
,I procedures, set in order, all put to work expressing
I not a chaos of preoccupations but something co-
II
herent. The various themes, devices, and tones of
English verse are the accents of successive phases
I,,'
'il
of a civilization, but the elements of a paideurna
II!
don't reside in them. Nothing comparable to the Shi
I,ll
King, no such compendium of sustenance as Arnold
il
half-implies, can be assembled out of existing Eng-
lish poetry, for all its range, for all its magnificence,
for all the genius thathas gone into its composition.
Its history since Chaucer's time-Chauceris the last
thoroughly civilized English writer-is a history of
mobilized doctrines and counterobsessions, of for-
II
eign injections, chieflyFrenchandItalian,ofdubious
!I
'I'
,
systems and astonishing random talents, all consti-
',I tuting a cultural chronicle but not a cultural norm.
II
Arnold's claims for poetry may have beenbadly ex-
1
pressed, but it wasn't. at least, on behalf of vernac-
1:1
ular poetry that he made them. He saw English
ill
i I
vernacular poetry as part of an order founded on
i,l,
Homer, Vergil, Sophocles, Dante: on the classics
II'
that do constitute a norm for the Western spirit.
Ii
'il
Pound'slistin How to Read mayberegarded,inthis
Iii
light, as his attemptto do for Western culture what
III
.1,
Confucius orwhoever selected the 305 Odes didfor
1'1'
Chinese: nominate the contents ofwhatW. B. Yeats
used to call "a new sacred book of the arts": the
:1
1
Faces to the Wall
things one must know to be fully human in a West-
ero context (taking "know" to mean "incorporate
into oneself").
It is arguable, then, that however hard he works
on twenty-five English poems or 250, the "English"
specialist must stand, in Confucius' phrase, with his
face to a wall. His circumvallation, an eighty-years'
labor of pedagogic expediency, is now nearly com-
plete.Arnoldwasn't a professorofEnglish, hewas a
professor of Poetry; he lectured on translating
Homer. It was after his time that "English Depart-
ments" began to appear, chargedwithdisseminating
works so miscellaneous as Parkman's Oregon Trail,
Shakespeare'sOthello, andCardinalNewman'sApolo-
gia, plus Dante, the Bible, and Greek Mythology,
notto mention Critical Methodand Howto Use the
Library. Forsuchresponsibilities the EnglishProfes-
sor of Raleigh's or Quiller-Couch's generation was,
not surprisingly, unprepared. He was accustomed
to getting his disciplines from whathe remembered
ofthe classics, and treatingthe Englishwriters (i.e.,
the poets; prose seemedmore serious) as diversions.
("If I am accused on Judgment Dayofteaching lit-
erature," wrote Raleigh, "I shall plead that I never
believedinitand thatI maintained a wife and chil-
dren.") Hence the habit described byDr. Leavis, of
treating English literature "in terms of Hamlet's
and Lamb's personalities, Milton's universe, John-
son's conversation, Wordsworth's philosophy, and
Othello's or Shelley's private life": neither a subject
nor a discipline nor a paidettrna, but a collection of
hobbies. Hence also the adoption of historical and
97
I 1,111
Ijl[i
96 GNOMON
il I. 'I
.
,II
philological method from the Gennan universities;
theprofessorwhointroducedintothepoetryseminar
the stooped shoulder and the3 x 5 card didn'tmod-
1,11 ,
II
1
1
'I
'.
ify his conviction that English poetry is essentially
ill
frivolous; all he wanted was a procedure for dealing
II Ifill
withitthatwould give his studentssomethingrigor-
fl[1
ous to do andbe graded on. The New Criticism-in
practice a new pedagogy-was yet a third strategy
III
1 for milking carrots. Its valuable initial polemics
'I,
1
1
1. 1
against "Q's" eclecticism and the graduate school's
,I'i
Wissenschaft havingconsumedthe availablefuel, its
iijl
American exponents have been spending the past
ten years arranging the terms of a truce with the
:1)
MLA, while in England Dr. Leavis, his attempt to
'I
III erect a scheme of values from the close study of
i'II
English literature alone having led insensibly to the
I,i
III
piecing together of a tradition uniting chiefly those
writers who had no foreign interests to speak of,
ii trickled off into a series of desultory articles on
II
D. H. Lawrenceand finally shutdownhisreview.
III The New Critics discerned thatliterature was be-
'II
I1
,III
ing taught, at the time they arrived on the scene,
I'"
as a species of history. This is a simple corollary of
I
I11I
thefact thatananthologyofEnglishpoetryis, when
i',i
j III
comprehensive, a history oftaste, not a thesaurus of
I'!i
values that would interest an Italian or a China-
1.1.'1
,I
man. When stringent, it is-like Pound's ABC of
il
Iii' Reading-largely a succession of fine performances
iiil
in a succession ofmodes orimplyinga succession of
1.'1
11
norms not native to the English temperament but
:1,11
'i imported from France, from Italy, or direct from
I,
the constantly rediscovered classics. No other kinds
:I'
Faces to the Wall
ofanthologyarepossible,usingstrictlyEnglishmate-
rials. The kind used to teach poetry courses result
from an attempt not to compile the historical kind
while ignoring the fact that the other kind implies
background work that is pedagogically embarras-
sing; one can't keep telling innocent freshmen that
they should have read C8.tullus in high school, and
one's college, as likely as not, has no classics depart-
ment. Hence the recourse to methodology; hence
also the tendency, as time passes, to allow the un-
doubted benefit that the least knowing students can
get from studying a few poems carefully to pass it-
self off as the whole of what literature has to offer.
So The Classic Anthology Defined by Confucius
is uniquein English, not only as a piece ofresource-
ful translating, but also with respect to the kind of
book Poundhas translated (andinsisted onpublish-
ing in toto), a kind otherwise impossible in English:
a block oflyric material all ventilated, coherent, im-
plying a full set of civilized values. The constant
echoing of existing modes implies not only the vari-
ousness ofthe original but a criticism, an attempted
ordering of the resources of English poetry, delib-
erately undertaken by a specialist of genius whose
mind has been occupied with the uses and implica-
tions of available idioms for forty-five years. Most
of the time it is the interest of the Chinese original
that predominates, its wisdom and its strangeness;
but over and over we are made aware of Pound's
judgment on some nuance or other of the native
tradition: hereis where thiswouldfit in, hereis how
a fullscaleof values woulduseit.
99

98 GNOMON
Poem58, for instance, opensas a folk song:

Hill-billy, hill-billy, come to buy
silk in our market, apparently?

toting an armful of calico.
1
11
1'11 A few lines later, however, we are apprised that the
1 1,1 :
convention ofthe Browningmonologue is governing '

the whole poem; with an effect reminiscent of
:Ii Browning's slang minus Browning's personality, the
lilll lilt modulates into colloquial modernity-
:IfI
...and then I asked for a notary.
I said: It's O.K. with me,
we could be spliced autumnally,
i
!III be notoffended.
'II'
j i
"Be not offended"complicates thesensibilitybehind
the poem; this woman was never cheap and is not
now hard: she remains in adversity the shiftless
II: pedlar's sworn wife. The pathos of the next lines is
too economicaltobe Browning's:

1I'IIi Autumn came, was waiting ended?
H
,III
I climbed the ruin'd wall, looked toward Kuan pass.
On the Kuan frontier no man was.
I

I wept until you came,
, II trusted yoursmiling talk. One would.
,I,
You said the shells were good and the stalks all clear.
II You got a cart

and carted off me and my gear.
[,'III
,I,
At this point an Elizabethan pastiche intervenes as
lyricinterlude-

Let doves eat no more mulberries
ii'l
, I
While yet the leaves be green. . . .
11: ':
"
Il!
Ii
,I
Faces to the Wall
-itsclear melody not tied to the song books but
weighted, like a song of Ophelia's, by the specific
situation from which its arises and to whichit leads
usback:
The mulberry tree isbare,
yellow leaves float down thru theair,
Three years we were poor,
now Ki's like a soup of mud,
the carriage curtains wet, I ever straight
and you ambiguous
with never a grip between your word and act.
Midway through the final sixteen lines we come
across a cunning acknowledgment to Browning-
"Grow old with you," whom oldyou spite. . . .
-whichis at once a note ofhomage, an intensifica-
tionbycontrast ("Growoldalongwithme! Thebest
is yet to be!"5), and a perfectly natural phrase
whetherone thinks ofBrowningornot. Bytheclose
of the poem we are aware that this tour de force,
making use of at least three identifiable English tra-
ditions to articulate a subject handled by none of
them,hasbeenfittedintoamoralcontextdetennined
by adjacent poems in the anthology: much of what
is valuable in Browning, for instance, salvaged from
his nineteenth-century optimistic Protestantism.
A few poems from Pound's version of the Classic
Anthology will no doubt in time find their way into
the EnglishAnthologies, orturnup ontheAmerican
Lit.surveycurricula;onehopesthiswon'thavetaken
Rabbi ben Ezra.
I
100 G NOM 0 N
Ii
II[ place before the import of the book as a whole has
beenabsorbed,showingwhatanautonomousvernac-
III
ular literary tradition ( if any Western language
'I
couldhaveone) wouldlooklike,andhowunfocused,
!I for the lack ofone, are interests conuned to vernac-
ular poetry. In an ideal world the effect of the
II
Classic Anthology would be to send readers-and
[I educators-back to the occidental classics.
1'1
:
ill
7. Subways to Parnassus
Walter Blair & W. K. Chandler, Approaches to
Poetry, revised edn., Appleton-Century-Crofts,
1953. (Originaledn. 1935.)
CleanthBrooks &RobertPennWarren, Understand-
ing Poetry, revisededn., Holt, 1950. (Originaledn.
1938.)
Wright Thomas & S. G. Brown, Reading Poems,
Oxford, 1941 (tenthprinting, 1950).
Charles W. Cooper, Preface to Poetry, Harcourt
Brace, 1943 (revisededitionnottohand).
Fred B. Millett, Reading Poetry, a Method of Anal-
ysis with Selections for Study, Harper, 1950.
Mark Van Doren, Introduction to Poetry, Sloane,
1951.
N. C. Stageberg&W. L. Anderson, Poetry as Expe-
rience, American Book Company, 1952.
Leonard Unger&\'Villiam Van O'Connor, Poems for
Study, Rinehart, 1953.
Clyde S. Kilby, Poetry for Study, Odyssey Press,
1953.
Etc., etc.
NE CAN FIND MUCH OLDER BOOKS WITH TITLES LIKE
O
these, but most of them are either graduate-
school handbooks on prosody, essays in the classiu-
cation of classifications, or more or less chatty his-
torical treatises. The present books deal with the
technique of reading poetry, which became a text-
book "subject" in the late thirties, as the implica-
tions of Richards' Practical Criticism (1929) spread
through the pedagogical mind like a deep stain. A
dateline can be pretty exactly drawn; the Blair &
101
103
102 GNOMON
Chandler book (1935) remains a souvenirofthe old
order even in its 1953 revision; the revolution was
touched off, if not exactly masterminded, by Messrs.
Brooks and Warren in 1938. Today the market for
how-to-read-poetry books seems inexhaustible; the
revised Brooks & Warren (1950) was promptly
adopted, according to its publishers, by over 250
institutions; at least five new publishers clambered
aboardthebandwagonin thesucceedingthreeyears;
disseminating poetic taste among college freshmen
has become a big business.
Blair & Chandler's "Approaches to Poetry" are
I\i three: via types (Narrative and Lyric), via schools
iii (Metaphysical and Neoclassical), and via personali-
I, ties (inthefirst edition,Keats, Whitman,andVachel
,I
Lindsay; in 1953 the latter two were replaced by
!.
T. S. Eliot, with appropriate fanfare from the pub-
""ill'
lisher). Within these categories are subcategories
1II 1I
1
introducedbydecorousessays ("BalladsandImagery
illiili
in Poetry"; "Epics and Sublimity in Poetry"; "The
idl
il'iilll
Ode andThoughtin Poetry"). In the last-mentioned
we learnthat"the songor sonnetis sufficient for the
l'11illl
expression of a simple emotion or thought, but, for
li,11111
the presentation of a complex emotion or thought,
Illiil
longer and perhaps more complex forms are neces-
I'l'
sary. For such themes poets have long favoured the
1;:,,1
ode. . . ." Turning back after this to "The Sonnet
and Diction in Poetry," we are hardly surprised to
find Mr. Guest and Miss Millay among the son-
neteers, or to be told that while poets may mention
111'11 "kine" or "herds," the word "cows" is not poetic:
I
iill'
"cows cannot make very inspiring poetic flights."
'!II
I
'II
i"
'Ii
Subways to Parnassus
This principleis hardlycompatiblewiththebottoms
of Mr. Prufrock's trousers, and when Eliot's poems
came into the revised edition, the bit about cows
went out. Watts-Dunton's description of the Shake-
spearean sonnet-form as "the sweetest ofall possible
arrangements in English versification"was, however,
retained, so the editorial principles can't be said to
have undergone serious questioning. The book in
fact is still permeated by exactly the notion Brooks
and Warren sought to combat: that some magic in-
heres in forms, so that if you understand what the
sonnet-form, the lyric-form, the ballad-form, etc.,
are good for, and possess in addition a smattering
about Schools and Personalities, particular poems
will give you no trouble.
It was I. A. Richards who effectively undermined
this theory, byshowingthatintelligentbutfatuously
civilized Cambridge undergraduates, bamboozled
byCritical and Technical Presuppositions, Doctrinal
Adhesions, and Stock Responses, could imagine that
they were interested in poetry while being totally
incapable of telling live poetic tissue from dead or
synthetic: a state of affairs no biology department
would have tolerated. Over most of the recent text-
books broods Dr. Richards' implication that if the
value6 conventionally ascribed to good poems really
exist, there ought to be some way of teaching a
freshman to see them for himself.
The manifesto of the pedagogical new order,
Brooks and Warren's "Letterto the Teacher,"is nei-
ther comprehensive nor sanguinary, though it ap-
pears to have been vastly influential. It amounts to
105
~
1II
1
11:,1 "
II II
~
III'
104 G NOM 0 N
lilll [II
a tactful plea that poetry be taught "as poetry." <CAs
II
I
I
I
1
1
1IIII il
poetry" is an easier phrase to understand than to
gloss: one gathers that poems should be read as ade-
111 '
I'I.
1
I
I
ljlll,ll
quately as possible instead of being put to docu-
II1I
mentary or didactic uses, and that such critical gen-
1I
eralizations as are indulged in should emerge from
lill!I::
the ordered and inspected experience of as many
Illll
I
poems as possible. The resulting textbook, Under-
illl: ::
standing Poetry, is pretty substantial under light
IIIII!I
loads, and if not especially exhilarating, is free from
I
ii/
specious exhilaration of the hark-to-that-caroling-
1
'111 ,11
III
dickeybird order.
The mind that is docile when told about poetry is
1111
11
; apt to turn hostile when asked to look at it; hence
1'11111
III
the editors' interminable bedside manner. Their
Ilill
l
great insight was that the salient hostility is likely
)1
1
('['I
to be that of the teacher. It is really the teacher who
II
I111
is being soothed and cozened in the questions and
III,!II
II
discussions that occupy almost exactly half of this
II1
I
700-page anthology, though his face is saved by the
II'
apparent aiming of all the commentary at the stu-
1',1//,: dent (who can probably be trusted not to read it).
With muted affability and infinite tact, the editors
Ii 11'"
apply a steady gentle pressure in the direction of
III/III
I
I
11I
good sense. The audience, as they gauge it, is how-
I ever by turns touchy and sluggish; so the proportion
I/I! ' of emollient to verse is startlingly high and some-
11 1
'
1:1
times strangely distributed. Three sketchy questions
1,1,1
on one of Shakespeare's most difficult sonnets are
I: iii I
followed by a four-page demolition of Kilmer's
lilll
lil!!1
"Trees." Eight-line and six-line poems by Yeats are
il,111
:111
l
li'll
','I'! I'
"I
1'1
'I
1
11':
Subways to Par1Ul.Ysus
followed by six-page and four-page commentaries
on their metrics. There are four pages of "Prufrock"
and eleven pages about it; two pages of "Ode to a
Nightingale" and eight pages of discussion. These
discussions aren't especially incandescent: the one
on "Prufrock" begins, "This poem is a dramatic mon-
ologue. As in Tennyson's 'Ulysses' or Amy Lowell's
'Patterns,' a person utters a speech that implies his
story and reveals his characters." Of the reader who
this late in the book (p. 433) still needs assurance
that the dentist isn't going to hurt, one might fairly
conclude that he will never turn into a reader of
poetry. Unfortunately, as Messrs. Brooks and War-
ren well know, he is probably teaching an "Introduc-
tion to Poetry" course. Such courses remain in many
institutions curricular poor relations like Remedial
Grammar, likely to be assigned either to young in-
structors with the grad-school grave-smell still on
them and still, like Frankenstein's monster at an
early stage, a bit helpless and mechanical; or else to
gray-suited unpromotables who are capable of tell-
ing a class that the "Ode to a Nightingale" is very
beautiful, but aren't markedly resourceful in the face
of "Prufrock" or "The Garden." Of the available
books, Understanding Poetry comes closest to coping
with the conditions under which poetry is actually
taught; it remains open to doubt whether this is
the best way of teaching it.
A textbook, one would assume, should provide a
selection of salient facts set down as cogently as pos-
sible by someone sufficiently interested in the subject
107
106 GNOMON
to know them. This would presuppose a teacher
equally interested.
l
As things are, the postulate that
neither students nor teachers care much about poetry
requires that each grain of information be dissolved
ilililil
in nine ounces of pedagogy, blandly flavored. 1
1:1
The patience required to control this sort of reader
1
11
1 -like coercing a neurotic elephant into a boxcar-
1 11
I,
.1'
affects not only the strategy of presentation but the
tit
choice of poems. The choice, in Understanding Po-
etry, tends to get subordinated to a sort of working
lilil
understanding about the nature of poetry in general,
in which the stress is rather on communication than
lilill
on content. As in the old argument for studying al-
gebra or Latin in order to improve one's reasoning
Ilil powers, poetry tends to be offered as a subject on
which one can sharpen one's reading skills. It is not
I the body of knowledge uniquely available in poetry
-Mr. Pound's "news that stays news"-that the
III
,1
'
11
commentaries stress, but the efficiency with which 1 :1
the poet can organize an appeal to quite common-
!I!II
place intellectual appetites. "Even though the ac-
11,.11
'i:
I
'I' count of a painful accident or a sordid murder seems
:11,[
almost as far removed as possible from poetry, it
:1
arouses the kind of interest which poetry attempts to
III i
1
satisfy, and, as we have already said, comprises the
III
II,;
I 'stuff of poetry'." This approach seems connected
)'illll'
with the editors' apparent preference for moderate
l'I .. II:I:
'Ii 'I
voltages. There is surprisingly little from Shakespeare
t
lilli,
among the 200-odd poems: four sonnets and two
.ili'il'! 1 To guard against misunderstanding, I had better put on
record mv admiration-based on a two-hour classroom visit in
,tl'
1 9 5 f o ~ the skill and enthusiasm with which Mr. Brooks can
i
guide beginning readers.
1!l
,,!'II
'1'1.'
I"
I
I
.'1''
'I!
I!
I"
I
\1
,..
songs, plus a few snatches from plays used to illus-
trate critical points. The total is less than 125 lines.
Pope is represented only by The Rape of the Lock
( entire) and a few lines about Sound and Sense;
Donne by six poems open to discussions of wit and
paradox but no "Ecstasie"; four contemporary Ameri-
can Southerners usurp a third more space than Shake-
speare and Donne together. Linguistic difficulties no
doubt account for the absence of Chaucer. The most
exploited poet is Robert Frost (eleven poems, one
of them five pages long). The criterion seems not to
be intensity but discussability; and the discussion
seems meant to be almost tepidly well bred.
The most useful available selection of verse is
probably that of Thomas & Brown (Reading Poems).
They assume a pretty good teacher and tend to keep
out of his way; which is perhaps just as well, since
their accents when they do intrude are utterly naIve.
("This and the following poem by Landor are note-
worthy because so much meaning is distilled from
so few words": this isn't a gambit but the entire
comment. "What is Keats's experience recorded in
lines 12-14? Do these lines re-create the experience?"
One wonders how either of these questions can pos-
sibly be answered.) Messrs. Thomas and Brown's
comments are all buried out of the way, in small
print in the back of the book. So, unfortunately, is
the authorship of the poems. This device seems to
have been derived from Dr. Richards, who was using
it rather as a laboratory control than as a pedagogi-
cal tool. One can't imagine what purpose it serves
with students so innocent as to be grateful for the
108
109
GNOMON
level of commentary that is offered; this book would
do even less than Brooks and Warren's to develop
the historical sense.
Developing the historical sense and learning to
read poetry should, it seems obvious, go on together.
A poem isn't a cat in an oxygen tank, nor can one,
granted the appropriate techniques, simply con-
template the interaction of its 183 words as though
no others existed. That way lies the conception of
language as a set of signs classified in a dictionary,
which, when people called poets manipulate them,
can produce the fascinating psychological phenom-
ena we call poems. A desire to frustrate the kind of
teacher who turns a course in poetry into a course in
history has, however, led several text authors to
court this Scylla by eschewing chronological arrange-
ment as thoroughly as possible.
Mr. Mark Van Doren's chronological orthodoxy,
on the other hand, marks not a recoil from Scylla but
a fondness for the conventional. "The aim of this
volume is to introduce its readers to some poems
with which they may fall in love." They include Miss
Millay on Euclid, Kipling's "Recessional," and Yeats'
worst poem, "The Ballad of Father Gilligan," con-
cerning the ending of which Mr. Van Doren writes,
"There is only this hymn, this lyric conclusion, with
its rapturous repetition of 'He Who' and its inno-
cent enumeration of God's grandeurs, to prove that
Father Gilligan did understand. Of such for him
was the kingdom of heaven. Of such for us is the
kingdom of poetry."
As for Messrs. Unger & O'Connor, they provoke
not blame but something less than admiration. Their
book is not deadly dull, merely dull. It won't harm
any student who has a good teacher. It seems hardly'
fair to the editors to record that their most mem-
orable page is the one on which the phrase "Dead
cats" is scanned as an iamb.
After these Laodiceans there remain the Muscular
Christians. Mr. Cooper and the Messrs. Stageberg
and Anderson believe in Experience. Mr. Cooper
bounds in from the nearest YMCA to disabuse us of
our habit of confusing poets with flat-chested pan-
sies. We are to "get into the swing of the lines," to
be "conscious of responding physically to the strains
and tensions suggested in the poems." Having read
a poem about a foot race and one about a hammer
thrower, we are asked whether we have indeed re-
sponded in this way. Then we are asked:
Would it seem to you that '.he writers of these
poems are effeminate? Or that re:lding them is just a
waste of time?
Or that they are somehow addressed to the high-
brows?
I believe not.
Like Donne, Mr. Cooper can be as physical as he
pleases. He devotes a page to the structure of the
eye, and the saccadic movements that enable us to
read a poem "with the book held at the proper an-
gle." He discusses the role of chest, diaphragm, and
abdomen in enabling us to read Shakespeare "aloud,
with Vigor and gusto." A good poem, he tells us, "is
one that bursts upon the reader as he experiences it
110
GNOMON
-delights, titillates, surprises, dazzles, stimulates,
engages,puzzles,provokes,rewards,challenges,satis-
fiesl Not so the bad poem. ..."
Stageberg& Andersonareless sweaty;theiruse of
"experience" is Ricardian (see Principles of Literary
Criticism, ch. xxx) and their terminology reeks of
thelaboratory. "A spoken vowel is a complex voice-
tone consisting of two basic parts," commences the
section on Assonance, which includes a table of
characteristic frequencies of common vowels and
refers us to an Appendix where the International
Phonetic Alphabet (abridged) offers further assist-
ance. Poetry as Experience, theblurbtells us,"makes
use of the scholarly work of such men as John
Dewey in philosophy, Wertheimer, Kohler, and
Koffka in psychology, and Bloomfield, Jespersen,
and Sapir in linguistics." Its axes for poetry are less
clear. The selections are capricious, the annotations
eclectic ("When Yeats wrote this poem in 1916 he
was a bachelor of 51"), and the deference to com-
monplaces preposterous ("Of this line John Living-
ston Lowes has remarked, 'The music of the line
. . . is due tothe nice conjunction of recurring con-
sonants with subtly varying vowels''').
Mr. Millett doesn't prate of Experience, buthe is
just as depressingly methodical. He provides a six-
page scheme of "Directions for the Analysis of a
Poem," for instance:
II. Psychological Values.
A. Emotional.
Make a diagram representing the succession of
Subways to Parnassus HI
feelings and emotions that you experience as
you read the poem again and again. . . .
Hediscussesthefive kinds ofpoeticvalues, Factual,
Psychological, Technical, Symbolical,andIdeational,
and observes, for the benefit of very bright fresh-
men,that"thedistinctionbetweenthephilosophical-
ethical approachto poetryandthe discrimination of
the ideational values in a poem may be difficult to
keep inmind, butit nevertheless exists." Embedded
in this discourse on method are exactly fifty poems.
That doesn't seem many, but application of the
Method to each poem takes quite a bit of time, so
the semester will presumably be filled up. "Almost
everystudentthatI havehadha" carriedoutallthe
Directions for Analysis with an assiduity and com-
prehensiveness far beyond the call of duty....
They will never again read a literary work quite
superficially."
It is appropriate that the latest-come
2
of these
awful books should be an attempt by a professor at
Wheaton College (Illinois) to reconcile all of them.
Mr. Kilby's Poetry and Life opens with the proposi-
tionthat"arich, full life is itselfa poem, anda great
poem is the image of fruitful human experience."
Poets, he notes, have "often been men of affairs.
Davidwasa king,Aeschyluswasa soldier . . . dela
Mare was for eighteen years an employee of the
Anglo-American Oil Company...." The table of
contents teems with subject headings like "Poetry
is Sane," "Poetry is Greater than its Rules," "Poetry
As of late 1953.
112
113
GNOMON
is Subject to Critical Abuse," "Poetry and Science
Are One in Their Highest Reaches." This camp-
meeting atmosphere isn't dissipated by the use of
poems like the one which begins
What is a word?
Aword is apulley
To raise up a city in the wilderness ...
or by the citation of Mr. J. Donald Adams against
"the literary fashion created by these poets and
critics with their 'secret by-paths' and 'cerebral
gymnastics'." Against Mr. Kilby, for whom Milton
"had the finest ear of all English poets," for whom
the "Ode to a Nightingale" is difficult "because the
specific occasion of the poem is not known," for
whom Guiterman and Don Marquis exist in un-
abasheddemocratic ragtime a barethreepagesfrom
John Donne-against Mr. Kilby no one is going to
prove narrowness, addiction to "secret by-paths," or
want of somewhat guarded solidarity with sixty
thousandprofessors.
Whoever protests thatitis unfairto snipeatthese
books because they were called forth bya situation
much more confused than they are, should explain
why, in a state of affairs so desperate, he considers
poetry worth teaching at all. It is perhaps the word
"poetry" thatis causing much ofthe confusion. "Po-
etry," once we consider it as a "subject," breeds
every variety of pedagogic fungus. To study Poetry
requires an unusually tenacious mind, fortified by
a wide acquaintance with poems. It is doubtful
whether verymany people shouldbe encouraged to
undertake such a study. But the proposition that,
whateverhis notions about Poetry, there are certain
poems every civilized American should be familiar
with, seems not to be commonly advanced. It is
tenable that a curriculum should consist of these
plus certain other poems which' buttress them,
though only a persistent and experienced reader is
likelytorealize thesolidityoftheunspectacularbut-
tresses. \Vhoeversetoutto nominatea list ofpoems,
with reasons, would be in for a lively time; but he
would perhaps prove to have done more for peda-
gogical enlightenment than the editors of a dozen
textbooks who at bottomdon'tcarewhichpoemsthe
studenthasread,so longas hehaslearnedhow.
115 Tales of the Vienna Woods
8. Tales of the Vienna Woods
CAN VERY NEARLY BE CLAIMED FOR TIlE SUBJECT
I
T
of Dr. Jones' biographyl that he has been the
presiding genius of the early twentieth century. That
he is already as dated as William Archer or Trilby,
and may come to seem as quaint as Boehme or
Swedenborg, are considerations that don't alter this
historical fact. An age in flight from diversity is de-
lighted by one-page explanations of all human phe-
nomena, and Freud has seemed for many years the
most plausible of those investigators in whose name
such pronouncements can be issued. Since the early
nineteenth century the dominant philosophy of the
West has been some guise or other of German pessi-
mism: of this Freud's utterances-at-Iarge are a clini-
cal variant. In the climate of all these philosophies
what a person takes to be his undertakings and
achievements are really just details of some process
he doesn't comprehend: the class war, or the strug-
gle for survival, or the Decline of the West, or the
apotheosis of Emergent Will. What people think
they are doing, and so their conscious life in gen-
eral, gets consequently devalued; the illusion of
being conscious, and of intending and willing, is rep-
resented as no more than an indispensable self-
deceit. So it is not surprising that the sequence of
doctrines represented by Schopenhauer, Darwin,
Marx, and subsequently Spengler should have
reached equilibrium with Freud's promotion of the
1 Ernest Jones, M.D., The Life and Work of Sigmund Freud,
Vol. I: The Formative Years and the Great Discoveries, 8 ~
1900 (Basic Books).
114
unconscious mind. "He would,'" his biographer
writes, "have endorsed the view of the great an-
thropologist Tylor that 'the history of mankind is
part and parcel of the history of Nature, that our
thoughts, wills and actions accord with laws as
definite as those which govern the motion of the
waves'" (p. 366). The difficulty with all previous
attempts to convince Mr. Everyman that he is the
pawn of some Zeitgeist or other has been to demon-
strate a linkage between its actions and what he
persists in regarding as his own. In the wake of
psychoanalysis this difficulty vanishes. Mr. Every-
man carries his portion of the demiurge around with
him in a sack labeled "the unconscious"; and it is
useless for him to protest that he has never known
this, for it is by definition unknowable, is it not?
That the spirit of these remarks seems irreverently
remote from science must be ascribed to Freud him-
self, who was more often out of his depth than not,
and continually the victim of bright ideas. Even the
very short book ( An Outline of Psychoanalysis,
written in 1938) intended as a last resume of his
considered doctrines contains (p. 96) a pot-shot
quasi-identification of Shakespeare with the Earl of
Oxford, whose family history provided the materials
for a really splendid Oedipus Complex.
2
His lucid
and cogent analyses of the machinery of certain
mental happenings-dreaming, forgetting, recollect-
ing, abridging, and substituting-were SOon sub-
Though as late as 1931 he gave his imprimatur to an edition
of The Interpretation of Dreams which adduces, apropos of Ham-
let, biographical data about the Stratford Shakespeare (Basic
Writings, Modem Library, p. 310).
116
117
GNOMON
merged in his theatrical conviction that human
affairs aretransacted in a sortofomnipresentVenus-
berg. "He was apt,"writes Dr. Jones,"to becareless
andimprecise in his useofterms,using, for instance,
'perception' as interchangeable with 'idea,' and the
like" (p. 371). He was even "ill-informed in the
field ofcontemporarypsychology andseems to have
derived onlyfrom hearsayanyknowledgehe hadof
it" (p. 371). His work, it maybe maintained, pre-
sents a small viable corpus of the observed and
comprehended, entrained and nearly smothered in
an interminable afterbirth.
Dr. Jones unintentionally makes it especially easy
for us to see Freud in this way, as one of the vastly
influential philosophic amateurs of the nineteenth
century,peddlinghis ownbrandof gloomymonism.
His properlyscientific work-theanatomizingof un-
conscious mentalprocesses inpursuit ofa technique
for curing hysteria and other psychoses-didn't, the
biographermakes clear, comeeasilytohim; inorder
to concentrate on observing something, he had to
suppress a massive desire to speculate. We hear of
. . . a reply Freud once made to my question of how
muchphilosophy hehad read. The answer was: "Very
little. As a young man I felt a strong attraction to-
wards speculation and rutWessly checked it." [po 29]
The adverb is characteristic; Freud shared the be-
lief of his time that the man of science had to be a
pretty heroic fellow, "ruthless," "fearless," "uncom-
promising," and so on. "Nature," hewroteof himself
in 1883,"endowedmewitha dauntlesslove oftruth,
t
Tales of the Vienna Woods
the keen eye of an investigator, a rightful sense of
the values of life, and the gift of working hard and
finding pleasure indoingso" (p. 118). Onthatocca-
sion he was onhis dignity, writing beneath the eye
of his betrothed. Here is a more romantic version,
excerpted from an effusion to a male intimate: "I
am not really a man ofscience, not anobserver, not
an experimenter, and not a thinker. I am nothing
but by temperament a conquistador . . . with the
curiosity, the boldness, and the tenacity that be-
longs to that type of being" (p. 348).
This volume, the first ofthree, takes the careerof
the hero only to the year 1900, and the Freud it
shows us isn't, despite these self-characterizations,
thefamiliarfigure ofthelaterphotographs,thegray-
ing Mephisto with the cigar, gazing in bleak com-
prehension on the dismal panorama of Civilization
and its Discontents. The Freud of "The Formative
Years and the Great Discoveries" was a victim of
"neurotic suffering and dependence" the kinks in
whose soul included a melodramaticphobiaof trav-
eling by train (which he later connected with fear
of losing "his home and ultimately his mother's
breast": p. 13), a lust for violent attachments (he
"panted"-p. 301-forrare but compulSively neces-
sary meetings with a rhinologist and numerologist
named Fliess, to whom for some years, until a vio-
lent quarrel, he wrote weekly letters, and whose
quasi-astrological jugglings with thenumbers23 and
28 he triedfor years to build into the foundationsof
psychoanalysis); and an equally remarkable com-
pulsion to alienate Violently anyone he distrusted
118
119
GNOMON
(about Josef Breuer, co-author of the Studies on
Hysteria, he later used language so strong the biog-
rapher refrains from quoting it, and of his fiancee
he demanded that she withdraw all affection from
her mother and her brother-"this on the grounds
that they were his enemies, so that she should share
his hatred of them"-po 123). The difference be-
tween this Freud and the more familiar one Dr.
Jones, like a good Freudian, ascribes to the self-
analysis begun in 1897. From this "there emerged
the serene and benign Freud, henceforth free to
pursue his work in imperturbable composure" ( p.
320).
Incipit Vita Nuova; it makes a fine climax for
Volume One, and presumably by the time he gets
into Volume Two it will have blurred in the faithful
reader's mind sufficiently to evade embarrassment.
The orthodox Freudian who conceived the plot of
this trilogy, however, is somewhat undercut by the
chronicler who incautiously included in Volume One
a few glimpses of the "serene and benign" Freud of
later years. The following incident, which took place
in 1912, is recorded within three pages of the sen-
tence just quoted. At a luncheon with five disciples
in a Munich hotel-
... he began reproaching the two Swiss, Jung and
Riklin, for writing articles expounding psychoanalysis
in Swiss periodicals without mentioning his name.
Jung replied that they had thought it unnecessary to
do so, it being so well known, but Freud had sensed
already the first signs of the dissension that was to
follow a year later. He persisted, and I remember
thinking he was taking the matter rather personally.
Suddenly, to our consternation, he fell on the floor in
a dead faint. The sturdy Jung swiftly carried him to
a couch in the lounge, where he sOOn revived. His
first words as he was coming to were strange: "How
sweet it must be to die"-another indication that the
idea of dying had some esoteric meaning for him.
[po 317]
This was fifteen years after the self-analysis started.
As for his having, as we were told on p. 13, been
able to "dispel" the traveling phobia by analysis, we
learn on p. 305 that "he retained in later life relics
of it in being so anxious not to miss a train that he
would arrive at the station a long while--even an
hour-beforehand."
In attending to trivia of this sort we are following
Dr. Jones, whose bosse professionnelle is an almost
comic preoccupation with anything that would or-
dinarily pass as too petty for extensive remark.
3
\Ve
are told that the hero still wet his bed at the age of
two (p. 7), and once urinated in his parents' bed-
room at the age of seven (p. 16); that matches in
Paris in 1885 cost him a whole penny a box (p. 184),
and that he applied chemical tests to the green cur-
tains in his hotel bedroom there "to make sure they
did not .contain arsenic" (p. 183); that twenty years
after his first piece of laboratory work, an inconclu-
sive investigation of the gonadic structure of eels,
he bore a faint grudge against the teacher who had
a Though Mr. Paul Goodman in the Kenyon Review (Winter
1954) complains that the early part of the book is skimpy: "Jones
mentions not a word about toilet-habits and there is no history of
masturbation or its absence."
120
121
GNOMON
set him a task in which he could not make "some
brilliant and original discovery" 4 (p. 38); that an
overseer he disliked was exactly the age of his half-
brother, "the imagined rival with his mother in early
childhood," while one he admired was a contem-
porary of "his omniscient and beloved father" (p.
39). This half-brother is the theme of one of the
funniest paragraphs in the book, the one that deals
with the two-year-old Freud's growing suspicion
"that some man was even more intimate with his
mother than he was" (p. 14). A baby, the infant
Hercules noted, was on the way; "jealousy of the
intruder, and anger for whoever had seduced his
mother into this unfaithful proceeding, were inevi-
table. Discarding his knowledge of the sleeping con-
ditions in the house, he rejected the thought that
the nefarious person could be his beloved and per-
fect father." So he elected to hate the half-brother;
and "his intelligence was given a task from which
he never flinched until, forty years later, he found
the solution in a fashion that made his name im-
mortal."
Dr. Jones is of course quite insensitive to the in-
herent comedy of these solemn remarks. The Freud-
ians, most readers must have noticed, are funnier
than Freud, though the Master, with his usual pen-
chant for overplaying his hand, did psychoanalyze
Moses, and did commit himself to the view that
small boys want to be engine drivers because of the
Dr. Jones' footnote is worth reproducing; "One is tempted to
make the perhaps irrelevant remark that the future discoverer of
the castration complex was disappointed at not being able to find
the testes of the eel."
sexual stimulation afforded by "shaking sensations
experienced in wagons and railroad trains" (Basic
Writings, p. 600). His American translator, Dr. Brill,
unsmilingly relates the case of a scopophiliac who
"was able to sublimate the tendency for perverse
looking" by becoming a dealer in optical instruments
(Basic Writings, p. 18), and gives us an equally
Flaubertian image of conversation at the staff dinner
table of the Burgh6lzi Clinic in Zurich:
No One could make a slip of any kind without imme-
diately being called on to evoke free associations to
explain it. It did not matter that women were present
-wives and female voluntary internes-who might
have curbed the frankness usually produced by free
associations. The women were just as keen to discover
the concealed mechanisms as their husbands. [Basic
Writings, p. 27J
This, plainly, is a sort of comedy not covered by
Freud's celebrated analysis, since no unconscious
energy is being liberated. Its principle is the unwit-
ting disclosure of a monomania. The only thing of
which Dr. Jones, for instance, appears to be unCOn-
scious is the extravagance of his admiration for his
subject. He is more objective than Freud's other in-
timates, he tells us; "my own hero-worshipping
propensifies had been worked through before I en-
countered him" (p. xiii). Yet with the warmth of
Bouvard commending Pecuchet he shakes his head
in dignified admiration whenever the Master opens
his mouth or sets pen to paper. The letters Freud
wrote to his betrothed "would be a not unworthy
contribution to the great love-literature of the world.
122 GNOMON
Tales of the Vienna Woods 123
The style is at times reminiscent of Goethe" Ii (p.
99). Of Freud's touristic descriptions of the various
cities he visited ("Brussels was wonderfully beauti-
ful, an enormous town with splendid buildings.
. . .") he remarks on the "unusually keen powers of
observation" and announces their separate publica-
tion (p. 182). His portentousness has a flavor all its
own. Freud's fantasy of reproaching the Almighty
for not giving him a better brain was "the remark
of a man not easily satisfied" (p. 35). His ritual of
devoting the last half-hour of every day to further
self-analysis was "one more example of his flawless
integrity" (p. 327). When he forsook physiology for
psychology "the struggle must have been titanic" (p.
286). Of "his most heroic feat-a psychoanalysis
of his own unconscious"-Dr. Jones remarks with
fatuous awe, "no one again can be the first to ex-
plore those depths" (p. 319).
Behind these gaucheries lies the reason for the
extraordinary fascination of this book. Through a
lucky combination of professional solemnity and
professional regard for minutiae, Dr. Jones has given
ns all the material we need to see Freud embedded
in his time and place, pursuing a representative
nineteenth-century career. The nonconformists of
that age-Flaubert, Ibsen, and, in his special way,
James Joyce, are familiar examples-seem to have
"Woe to you, my Princess, when I come. I will kiss you quite
red and feed you till you are plump. And if you are froward you
shall see who is the stronger, a gentle little girl who doesn't eat
enough or a big wild man who has cocaine in his body." We are
cautioned that much is lost in translation, though "Meine geliebte
Braut. Soweit das Schreiben. Was nun folgt ist Umschreibung" is
offered in illustration of the evanescent humor of the letters.
been locked into a biographical pattern possessing
a number of standard elements. These are (1) a
youth distinguished by both emotional turmoil and
devotion to an ideal of thoroughness (Cf. Dodgson
and Carroll; Freud performed a number of appar-
ently unimpeachable pieces of physiological re-
search); (2) a period of stormy relationships with
other people, characterized by a loud insistence on
utter and complete understanding which is always
getting snagged on the unwillingness of the other
people to be taken possession of in that fashion; (3)
a phase, setting in at about the fortieth year, in
which the life work ruthlessly pursued erupts sud-
denly into publicity and bourgeois scandal; and
(4), immediately thereafter, a prolonged middle age
during which, from behind a mask of majestic indif-
ference, the hero, all passion supposedly spent,
watches himself being turned into an institution.
This last phase-Joyce in Paris, Flaubert coaching
Maupassant, Ibsen returned from exile-is too com-
mon a feature of the Heldenleben to require the
adduction of a Freudian self-analysis in explanation.
Dr. Jones just isn't aware how commonplace is the
shape of the life he is writing.
Nothing is more "period," for instance, than
Freud's passion, so impressive to Dr. Jones, for
threshing matters out. The theme of the long chap-
ter about the four-year betrothal is "His hatred for
half-measures and his determination to probe the
truth to the bitter end, however bitter" (p. 123).
The end, in those days, was always supposed to be
bitter. "Their relationship must be quite perfect;
124
125
GNOMON
the slightest blur was not to be tolerated" (p. 110).
Having sent Martha's mother a tart letter, he wrote
Martha, "I have put a good deal more of my wrath
in cold storage which will be dished up some day.
I am young, tenacious and active; I shall pay all my
debts, including this one" (p. 123). Dr. Jones should
not ask us to suppose that in reading passages like
these we have a finger on the pulse of Freud's
genius; what throbs through the pages in question
is the shiny brass engine of nineteenth-century im-
placable rectitude. The identical beat is discernible
in many speeches from Exiles, which is about this
state of mind, or in Ibsen's letters to his sister Hed-
vig. Freud's conception of human relations was
rather provincial than otherwise, and this thirst-
masquerading as a love of sincerity-for subduing
other people's wills to his own, was exaggerated by
the social climate of bourgeois Austria, where no
mean seems to have been conceivable between utter
repudiation of another's right to existence and stand-
ing on his feet while breathing protestations of
friendship into his face. Here is part of the saga of
Fritz, who trifled with Martha's affections:
Then Fritz called for pen and paper, and wrote a
letter to her on the spot. Freud insisted on reading it,
and it made the blood rush to his head. . . . Freud
tore the letter in pieces, at which Fritz left in mortifi-
cation. They followed him and tried to bring him to
his senses, but he only broke down in tears. This sof-
tened Freud, whose own eyes became moist; he seized
his friend's arm and escorted him home. But the next
morning a harder mood supervened, and he felt
ashamed of his weakness. "The man who brings tears
to my eyes must do a great deal before I forgive him.
I am made of harder stuff than he is, and when we
match each other he will find he is not my equal." . . .
[po 112]
Every fact supplied by the biographer confirms
Wyndham Lewis' judgment of thirty years ago, that
Freud's is "the psychology appropriate to a highly
communized patriarchal society in which the family
and its close relationship is an intense obsession,
and the obscene familiarities of a closely-packed
communal sex-life a family-joke, as it were" (The
Enemy, No. II, p. 68). He seems never to have
questioned the universality of the family customs
and practices of bourgeois Mitteleuropa. For in-
stance, the severest trauma of a small boy's life, "the
central experience of the years of childhood, the
greatest problem of early life and the most impor-
tant source of later inadequacy" depends on his
mother threatening him with castration as a disci-
plinary measure; and Freud as late as 1938 seems to
have thought that the practice of issuing this threat
was as universal as the practice of breathing. By the
nature of psychoanalytic theory, once a practitioner
gets an idea like this into his head, nothing can get
it out; patients who protest that it never happened
to them merely illustrate the way the event is "so
completely forgotten that its reconstruction during
the work of analysis is met by the adult's most de-
termined scepticism" (Outline of Psychoanalysis, p.
95).
"I always find it uncanny when I can't understand
126
127
GNOMON
!;
I'
'11

II
I

II
d
(,I

I'
"I
'I
II,
someone in terms of myself," Freud wrote in 1882
(p. 320). To this romantic subjectivism, reinforced
by the Mitteleuropiiisch norm of hysterical oscillation
between coldness and intimacy and by the German-
idealist emphasis on the will as the only thing real
or meaningful, we have only to add the Helm-
holtzian tradition of scientific determinism, in which
Freud was trained and which he never forsook, to
arrive at a working model of both the man and his
doctrines.
"Like most adolescents Freud had the need to
'believe in something,' and in his case the something
was Science with a capital" (p. 40). This religion,
which he shared with so many eminent Victorians,
came to him in a form "deeply imbued with the
principles of causality and determinism, so pro-
nounced in the Helmholtz school that had domi-
nated his early scientific discipline" (p. 245). The
moment we can imagine this faith placed at the
service of his preoccupation with how people felt
about other people---especially about him-we have
the key to his severe pursuit of trivia, his stern de-
termination that the verbal slip you uttered in his
presence, or the name he was himself unable to re-
member (for he was as hard on himself as on any-
one) meant something. And of course his "passion
for threshing things out" intervened on the spot. We
shall have this out, here and nowl And since "he
never abandoned determinism for teleology" (p.
45), the meaning of the slip which you persisted in
treating so lightly-to the scorn of this Sinaitic will-
specialist-lay in the past. Backwards, then, the
threads of "free association" were to be traced, if
necessary back to the cradle. The instant unbroken
trains of rigid causality are posited, one is com-
mitted to saying that the events that control one's
behavior now, occurred in remote infancy. It was
Freud's distinction that he pursued these conse-
quences with fanaticism to the end. He even thought
of pursuing them beyond the womb; in a footnote
to a chapter on the Oedipus Complex we read, "The
possibility cannot be excluded that a phylogenetic
memory-trace may contribute to the extraordinarily
terrifying effect of the threat [of castration]-mem-
ory-trace from the prehistory of the human family,
when the jealous father would actually rob his son
of his genitals if the latter interfered with him in
rivalry for a woman." Though we have no record of
this jealous caveman, we have Freud's assurance
that "dreams offer a source of human prehistory
which is not to be despised." The Darwinian view
that ontogeny repeats phylogeny was another prem-
ise he never forsook (Outline of Psychoanalysis, pp.
50,92).
Freud's philosophical achievement-like that of a
chess master who contrives an impregnable opening
-was to combine the ambient premises of nine-
teenth,;;century continental pessimism into the most
impenetrable of orthodoxies. By transforming Scho-
penhauer's "will" into "the unconscious" he placed
the whole complex of interdependent doctrines be-
yond discussion. The axioms of psychoanalysis are
not statements about things in general, nor about a
sort of Lockean working model to be considered
129
128
GNOMON
with dispassion, but statements about you; and
when you question one of them the Freudian cocks
a caustic eyebrow and inquires into your motives
for evadingself-knowledge. Discussion,for thatmat-
ter, always nettled Freud, whether because he took
I,
it as a personalaffront orbecausehe recognized the
futility of its attempts to penetrate the machine he
had constructed. At any rate, in deference to his
wishes, it has always been forbidden at Psychoana-
lytic Congresses. His last book begins with the tart
warning that the teachings of psychoanalysis "are
based upon an incalculable number of observations
and experiences, and no one who has not repeated
j:
I' those observations upon himself or upon others is
1
in a position to arrive at an independent judgment
II 1
of it" (Outline, p. 9). In another late work he says
Ii
that "the recognition we afford to sexuality is-
II
I II
I,I
II
whether they confess it or not-the strongest mo-
11\
tive for our opponents' hostility to psychoanalysis.
Ii, But are we to let ourselves be shaken on that ac-
II' count? It only shows us how neurotic our whole
I'!
"' culture is, when apparently normal people behave
III
I"
no differently thanneurotics" (The Question of Lay
i" Analysis, p. 54). So the mere inquirer hasn't a
,
,I chance. Neither had associates. Breuer, when his
I'
feet cooled on the threshold of Venusberg, was
I'
hurled amid maledictions into limbo. Jung was ex-
communicated (or severed himself; accounts differ
-Volume Two throws less light than one might
wish on that mysterious affair).
From the final volume, we mayperhaps expect to
learnmoreabouttheextraordinaryspreadofFreud's
doctrines. It was of course to be expected that a
body of statements so involuted as to be capable of
absorbing, like a Venus Flytrap, the inquirer who
perches on the rim of its most peripheral conclu-
sions, would achieve a sort of underground popu-
larity, especially among individuals anxious to ap-
pear interesting to themselves. And the constant
incitement to introspection (since you cannot safely
examine your neighbor's unconscious) has led many
readers into a process of self-examination so inexact
it would convince them that all their dreams were
symbolically related to elephants, ifthat was what
theyhadbeentoldtheywouldfind. Again, theBrit-
ish literary and artistic avant-garde of the twenties
and thirties constituted a powerful engine of pub-
licity. Nothing gives the "feel" of that period more
vividly today than the plexus of notions its languid
literati were absorbing. It seemed pleasant, appar-
ently, to be told that your inability to rival Michel-
angelo was the result of a neurosis, or that the
trivialities that flicker at the threshold of a con-
sciousness that isn't attending to anything were the
forked tips of subterranean Hames. No one, in that
milieu, seems to have found the unconscious duU,
though a glance at the files of, say, Transition will
convince us that nothing is deader than "automatic
writing" and no one drearier than a synthetic primi-
tive. There is no Poe-esque energy in those morbid
dungeons beneath the stratum of conscious life:
nothingbut the same dreary OedipusComplex, uni-
versally distributed. Freud's Id, one would think,
could inspire a frisson in nobody. Perhaps it was
130
131
GNOMON
modish to despise frisson; the Freudian years in
Anglo-Saxonry were the enervated decades of
("yes, oh dear yes") Forster and Mrs. Woolf.
For Freud the conscious part of the mind does
nothing but mediate between the monotonous de-
mands of the Id and an external reality which can
be called "real" only by courtesy: an external world
whose phenomena manifest only two sorts of char-
acter-either they comply readily with the Id, or
they don't. There is no question of the mind know-
ing them, or of its life drawing nourishment from
their intelligible species. Rather, there may be such
questions, but Freud isn't interested; and so inter-
locked are his expositions that he soon gives the im-
pression of ignoring their existence. His is a world
in which, ultimately, nothing possesses any interest
at all, except for the sort of tumid interest people
can always derive from themselves.
It nettled him a little that "the pleasure principle
requires a reduction, or perhaps ultimately the ex-
tinction, of the tension of the instinctual needs (that
is, a state of Nirvana)": in other words that what
the machine tries to do is discharge its batteries and
drift. But this parallel with the concept of entropy
advanced by his contemporaries in physical science
didn't arrest him; he merely remarked that the diffi-
culty "leads to problems that are still unexamined"
(Outline, p. 109). A year before he died of cancer
he was writing that we all die of the death-wish
(Outline, p. 23).
Freud made a number of irrefragable discoveries
which haven't enjoyed nearly the acclaim of his
theatrical generalizations. His account of how
dreams work, and where their material comes from,
and their function as protectors of sleep, seems
sound, whether or not it covers all dreams; and so
does his investigation of the symbologizing activities
of the relaxed mind. Symbols thus created aren't
interesting symbols, just as the jokes dissected in
Wit and the Unconscious aren't good jokes. Never-
theless some symbols and puns do get made in the
manner he described, and, properly scrubbed and
sterilized, his descriptions make valuable instru-
ments for investigating the highly peculiar art and
literature of his own century, when writers were
accustomed to let the creative faculty be hypnotized
by prosodic superficies while a florid dream-work
went on beneath. Of his therapeutic achievements I
am unqualified to speak. But he was tillwilling not
to explain the world; and the stuff of his explana-
tion, as Dr. Jones unintentionally convinces us, was
the philosophic flotsam of his time. It dates more
cruelly with every decade, and the decades that
swallowed it most avidly-the twenties and thirties,
pursuing their predilected nexus with the hothouse
nineties--date today most of all.
I
133
r
Ii
I
9. Provision of Measures
ooKSHAVETHEIRDURATIONS. THE Guide to Kulchur
Bbelongs to a small category that before they
pass into nothingness or into history enjoy a greater
or lesser period of active usefulness. This category
should be distinguished from two others: the very
large one comprising books that never get off the
ground, and the very small one of books that achieve
Iii a sufficient "escape velocity" to stay up permanently.
I One can read the Odyssey as though it had been
! written yesterday, but not, after two centuries,
[I
III
Pope's Odyssey. Pope's Odyssey wasn't a failure,
however, nor is it simply a mark in Pope's career.

III
It was a useful and seminal work for some sixty
years. A hundred other English Odysseys have been
II
stillborn.
It is a mistake to suppose that writing ad hoc,
including most "critical" writing, aims or ought to
aim at immortality, or should be judged as ifit did.
The critic who thinks he is writing literature is very
unlikely to write anything useful. He is the more
likely to hit the target in proportion as he under-
stands what he is aiming at, and insofar as his work
achieves its function it ought to render itself un-
necessary. Pound's aim in 1938 was to help "fit the
student for life between 1940 and 1960"; the dura-
tion he forecast for the Guide at the time of writing
was probably about twenty years. Time-lags being
what they are, it seems likely to be useful for another
Ii, thirty, before it turns into a highly delectable cu-
riosity. Ifsuch a document had been left over from
132
Provision of Measures
the nineteenth century, it would be regarded today
as that century's most fascinating book. A certain
amount of it-surprisingly little after two decades
-already seems limited by Pound's view of what
was going on in 1938.
More of Pound's work is worth reading than that
of most prolific writers, because he doesn't play soli-
taire with general ideas. He has been so prolific
because he has had things to say. He has seldom
claimed to be saying the last word, but his least
squib has the validity of some perceived fact with
rudiments of context. His mind has always been tak-
ing in material, and it has always been at work. It
has three main ways of working. The first way,
which accounts for the bulk of his writing, is to seize
a new fact and set it in relation with known facts:
in a letter of 1928 he perceived a relationship be-
tween Remy de Gourmont and Confucius. The sec-
ond is to discern amid these facts the necessity for
some action or other, and urge this action upon the
general reader or upon whatever individual is
handy: in the thirties he was demanding a bilingual
edition of the Ta Hio. The third is to ruminate and
digest, a process which goes on continually behind
the constant intake of new facts, and is perhaps
slower for Pound than for people who call a halt to
all other mental operations while they "think over"
two new ideas: by 1945, nearly thirty years after
first discovering Confucius, he had found out suffi-
ciently what Kung's text meant to make a version
that renders the long enthusiasm intelligible.
Though he often finds out what alignments of fact
135
II! I
I)
II 134 GNOMON
mean years after first perceiving them, Pound has
f
seldom been embarrassed by his earliest formula-
!III,
tions. He is fond of quoting Brancusi's "Toutes mes
I
I
choses datent de quinze ans" andhas remarked that
II
"one of the pleasures of middle age is to find out
II
that one WAS right, and that one was much righter
I!
than one knew at say 17 or 23." Ifit was sixteen
,)1
years after writing Canto XLV that Pound made a
definition of Usura ("A charge for the use of pur-
Ii
chasing power, levied without regard to production;
oftenwithoutregardevento thepossibilities ofpro-
11
1111 duction"), the moral is not that he was bluffing in
: li
ll 1937, butthathecouldidentifyUsuraandsee where
it fitted in long before he could enclose it in his
'II! I
III
mind andsayexactly whatitwas.
That is why the meaning of the Cantos is cumu-
'[I
lative, and why Pound was able to embark on his
II
long poem without having thought out a rigorous
11I 1
scheme. Ifthere is more depth of felt meaning in
II
the Homeric allusions of The Pisan Cantos than in
I
'I,
"
the Odyssey extract of Canto I, that is because
, :1'1
Pound was penetrating and gaining possession of
I 11'1:
that particular subject during the intervening thirty
II
years. Yet he sawat thestart how Odysseus' voyage
,111 1
would lock in with his other materials in certain
'I' ':'
important ways. In the same way, he recognized
lil!:1
I
I 11
thatT. S. Eliotwas animportantpoetatonce,with-
il
out necessarily realizing what Eliot's poetry was.
And when he helped revise The Waste Land, he
knew that Phlebas the Phoenician was necessary to
its structure at a time when Eliot wanted to throw
the section out; and he was able to give this practi-
cal advice without necessarily realizing what the
significance of "Death by Water" was.
Thepassagefrom knowingthat a thingis toknow-
ing what it is always takes a long time. It may be
wrong to assume that many people can negotiate it
faster than Pound, but it is safe to say that he is
unique in our time for the speed with which he
seizes on the first essential, that there is something
or other here to repay attention. In due time the
what seems totakecareofitself, ifyouhavethegift
ofseeingthethat, andthendon'tfake. The Spirit of
Romance, his earliest prose book, is still readable
after nearly fifty years, because of the energy with
which it recognizes the existence and relevance of a
numberoffacts. Thevalueofthebook inheresinits
schema; the facts aren'tverydeeply penetrated, but
our attention is called to them, and many of their
implications arise from their very collocation. The
value of the ideogrammic method is that it enables
you to make statements that don't exceed your
knowledge. Of course you can always improve the
wording. The translations as given in the latest re-
print have been much revised since 1910; some of
this revision was done between 1929 and 1932 for
an abortive French reprint, some is more recent.
Though stripped of "hath" and "doth," they still
sound very pre-Raphaelite. The prose has been less
retouched; Pound was apparently aware that re-
thinking the material "in depth" would require a
wholly new book. The Pound of 1910 encloses the
nature of a topic by disjunct statements and com-
parisons: "Petrarch refines but deenergizes." The
137
IIII!I
II!
II:
136 GNOMON
11
111
Pound of 1929, having better grasped many of these 111 1,1,
II!'
topics, can spring the appropriate image in a word
or two: "No, he doesn't even refine, he oils and
Illili'l
smooths over the idiom . . ."
I,
As for the Pound of 1938, he presents in the Guide
1,1[,
II
to Kulchur, as one might expect, all three sorts of
I mental activity: things he is just discovering, things
he has long explored, and innumerable programs for
II
action. The facts he has lived with longest have
1'1
1l
been assimilated into a kind of wisdom ("Culture
begins when one HAS 'forgotten-what-book''') in
Illill
which the incitements to action and the tessellations
,:!II
of his most recent facts have their setting.
,II
The overall intention is clearly stated on p. 23:
i'll
"Certain ground we have gained and lost since
Rabelais' time or since Montaigne browsed over 'all
III human knowledge.' Certain kinds of awareness mark
the live books of our time, in the decade 1930--40.
'III
Lack of these awarenesses shows in the mass of dead
matter printed." And eleven pages later, a distinc-
tion between "ideas which exist and/or are dis-
1\1,]'
1111
cussed in a species of vacuum, which are as it were
'1 I!I:
toys for the intellect, and ideas which are intended
1
111 '
j,l, to 'go into action,' or to guide action and serve us
III as rules (and/or) measures of conduct. Note that
II
the bloke who said: all flows, was using one kind,
"I
II
"I,ll and the chap who said: nothing in excess, offered a
1 1,1,
I II
different sort."
:li,1
In a later chapter the author reverts to Rabelais
,II and Montaigne, from whom "you would, I believe,
I"i'
acquire curiosity by contagion, and in a more mel-
low form than from the 18th century collectors of
heteroclite items laid out all of 'em from the same
point of view, all dealt with by an identical process,
whereas Montaigne and Rabelais are handling them
with a more general curiosity." Pater's Renaissance,
he reminds us, "made a limited circle of readers
want to know more of a period"; a few pages later
there is a reference to "general incuriosity, while
faddists and university infants carded out again the
overcombed wool of a limited set of 'classics.'''
The Spirit of Romance is an orderly book; the
contents of the Guide on the other hand aren't
grouped under familiar headings. One reason for
this is that the Guide images Pound's own extremely
interesting mind, which at any given moment holds
a multiplicity of related topics, some newly gripped,
some wholly digested, the rest at various intermedi-
ate phases. Another reason is strategic: Pound
wishes at all costs in this book to incite curiosity, the
sine qua non of the world he would open up for the
reader. His own limitless curiosity has made him the
poet he is, and it underlies the fact that virtually
every sentence in the Guide registers a mental effort,
an inquiry, a setting of things in relation, a reach
for the appropriate analogy. "Bad writing," he has
said, "comes from insufficient curiosity." The incuri-
ous mind won't look at the subject long enough to
discover its shape, an act which is the prerequisite
for finding the right words; nor will it reach far
enough for those words. And whether its activity is
intended to issue in written words or not, the in-
curious mind will float within the tepid confines of
received curriculum divisions, studying now history,
139
~
I!
. ~ ~
II!
138 GNOMON
I:I ..~ .
d: now currency, now poetry, now mathematics, with-
~ out ever seeingtheworld ofinteractingprocesses in
1 1 ~
which these are not "subjects" but ways of discuss-
Iii!
ing a single complex subject.
I I ~
There are, in short, several different kinds of ma-
i
terial in Kulchur, and their interrelation in the na-
"I
~ I
tureofthings isn'tsimple. Itis foolish, Poundthinks,
to suppose that a single abstract statement like
, ~ I , I I
'I
"everything flows" would have made Heraclitus'
I
reputation among a people that prized "the quite
1 1 ~ 1 1 1 1 1 1 H. Jamesian precisions of the Odyssey." More likely
III
he was respected for trying to "carry a principle
I
through concrete and apparently disjunct phenom-
ena and observe the leaves and/or fruits of causa-
v
\11
,
tion." The principle carried through disjunct phe-
nomena was what Fenollosa noted in the Chinese
sentence, "Man sees horse," wherein all three ofthe
jl
ideogramshavelegs: notonlythemanandthehorse
butthe moving eye thatunites them. Fenollosa, and
~ Pound after him, prized the "continuous moving
Ili
lll
11
1 '111
'11
picture" by which the Chinese syntax depicts what
is in fact a process, nota mere relation betweentwo
~ I entities. "Atrue noun," wrote Fenollosa,"anisolated
lill"
11,1,
thing, does not exist in nature. Things are only the
~ I
~
terminal points, or rather the meeting points, of ac-
,.,
1
'[.'.'.'1...
tions, cross-sections cut through actions, snapshots.
~ .
Neithercana pure verb, anabstractmotion, bepos-
'1,1
sible in nature. The eye sees noun and verb as one:
I I ~
. II'!'
things in motion, motion inthings."
Apply this to history, and you have what Pound
I "I:"
calls the "totalitarian" grasp, a good term that has
J'
II:,
~ I ,
unluckily gotten spoiled. He notes the blankness of
those who have tried to study history from his-
torians, and don't read verse. "Can we," he asks on
anotherpage, "sort out'greekthought'from theiron
money of Sparta, and the acute observer who re-
markedthat the great mass ofgold inAthens served
merely to assist theAthenians with their arithmetic?
. . . Does anyreally good mindever'geta kick' out
of studying stuff that has been put into water-tight
compartments and hermetically sealed? Doesn't
everysane ruler feel thatPlato was a faddist? ..."
If you can't divide the study of Greece into art,
thought, monetary custom, language, etc., neither
can you so divide "Culture." "The one thing you
shd. not do is to suppose that when something is
wrong with the arts, it is wrong with the arts
ONLY." This observation is connected with Pound's
often-repeated dictum that there is no necessary
placefrom which a generaleducationoughttostart,
so long as you eventually get the whole of it. There
aren't, for the kind of knowledge he seeks to im-
part, first principles from which the others can be
deduced. He has written, for instance, a great deal
about poetrywithout implying that the subjectnec-
essarily starts from imagery, or from narrative, or
any of the other textbook starting places. In fact
the ABC of Reading is prefaced with the remark
that it doesn't matter which leg of the table you
make first, so long as it eventually stands up. When
you get it made, no one will doubt the interrelation
of the parts.
This amounts to saying, not that study-that
thought-has no method, but that the existingcate-
141
I
....
,,",,1,
'l
140 GNOMON
II
gories are misleading and even deadening. They
I
imply divisions where the facts have none, sepa-
I
I
ratingPlato-as-philosopher (philosophy) from Plato-
I
I
as-faddist (Realpolitik), and cauterize sets of facts
just when they are reaching out into the domain of
other facts, or into action. In an illuminating page
devoted to Leo Frobenius, Pound quotes, "Where
we found these rock-drawings, there was always
waterwithinsix feet ofthe surface," and comments,
"That kind of research goes not only into past and
forgotten life, but points to tomorrow's water-
supply." Frobenius couldn't have made an observa-
tion of that kind had he been content to be an art
critic.
The allusiveness of modern poetry needn't be a
sign of cultural breakdown, but a manifestation of
one of poetry's oldest functions. Confucius listed
amongtheuses ofpoetrythatithelpsyouremember
the names of manybirds, animals, plants, andtrees.
In the schools of Rome and of the Middle Ages,
wholetractsofknowledgenowdealtwithseparately
as "subjects" were discussed in the grammar and
rhetoric classes as ancillaryto the exegesis ofHomer
and Vergil: botany, strategy, history, geography.
"Real knowledge," Pound notes, "goes into natural
man in titbits, a scrap here, a scrap there: always
pertinent, linked to safety, nutrition, or pleasure."
Theteacher of modern poetry finds himself discuss-
ing the Grail legend, Heraclitus, Cuchulain, the
Odyssey, Dante's trimmers, Chinese ideogram, the
culture of Provence, usury, spirit writings, the Noh.
"
'!Iii
What justifies the use of such materials bythe poet
is that they are worth learning about anyway.
The Guide to Kulchur aims to teach us to deal
with knowledge as the poet does. There is always,
as in a poem, a relation between two adjoining sen-
tences orparagraphs, butit isn'tthetraditionaltext-
book relation ofcommoncategories. Henceonemay
expect to find on a single page (56) Cambridge
economics, Dante's interest in living, the effect of
Schonbrunn on a visitor of sensibility. The thread
that runs through these particular three coins is a
discussion of live vs. dead learning. At the end of
one chapter (p. 75) Pound warns the reader that
"thesedisjunct paragraphsbelongtogether. Gaudier,
Great Bass, Leibniz, Erigena, are parts of one ideo-
gram, they are not merelyseparate subjects."
This isn't to imply that Pound regards the intel-
lectual world as an endless circle of bright sayings.
In addition to inciting to curiosity and indicating
tissues of relationship, thebook has a third aim, the
provision of measures. A measure, a criterion, of
directness in working through the medium of one's
artis impliedina referencetoa pictureinthePrado
inwhich a fire in the background"is therewith two
strokes or perhaps ONE of the brush." One may
connect this observation withtheauthor's exemplifi-
cation, in an essay now forty years old, of the kind
of poetic effect that is highly charged without any
"device" beyond common words in a prose order.
Another measure is supplied in the advice on how
to see works of art: "Think what the creator must
142
143
G NOM 0 N
perforce have felt and known before he got round
to creating them." This may be connected with Fro-
benius' distinction between "knowledge that has to
be acquired by particular effort, and knowing that
is in people, 'in the air:" The artist's knowledge is of
both kinds. There is yet a third measure in the re-
mark that "The moment a man realizes that the
guinea stamp, not the metal, is the essential com-
ponent of the coin, he has broken with all material-
ist philosophies."
The conception of the critic as one who gathers
specimens and aphorisms for his reader to use in
measuring whatever else he encounters is Pound's
major critical discovery. The ABC of Reading con-
tains a long series of examples, each illustrating some
specific quality of verse at its highest potential. Mat-
thew Arnold's "touchstones" by contrast all illus-
trated the same thing, not a variety of qualities,
though Arnold deserves credit for realizing that
criticism must proceed by comparison rather than
deduction. In the Guide, a book to help one read
many kinds of other books, Pound undertakes to
provide useful measures for a very wide body of
~
experience. Such an undertaking is by its nature a
I ~
challenge; the contents aren't meant to be swal-
I
lowed as dogma. One would like, and presumably
Pound would like, to hear an intelligent Aristo-
telian's detailed comments on Chapter 54, for in-
stance, or an intelligent musician's evaluation of
Chapters 7 and 42. The critic's intelligence would
have to be pretty high to make the commentary of
any interest; neither sneers nor corrections of detail
will damage the book. In longing, as he did when
the book was first published, for someone both
learned enough and intelligent enough to take issue
over some of the points he raised, Pound was setting
forth yet another measure for "Kulchur," one that
has always dominated his mind: the possibility an
age affords for conversation between intelligent
men.
1
145
Ili
l
111:
h
I
,I
10. Remember That I Have
Remembered
I
I
I,
II
o KNOW WHAT PRECEDES AND WHAT FOLLOWS,"
III Tthe translatorof Confucius reminds us, "is nearly
II,
as good as having a head and feet." That"the Pres-
I
I'
I
ent can only be revealed to people when it has be-
11',1
come Yesterday" is unfortunately a concomitant
I
II, maxim, as Wyndham Lewis, whoformulated it, long
III
knew to his cost. Themap of English literaryevents
III
for the first third of this century is only now atlong
last emerging; the importance of the republication
II
III
of Ford Madox Ford's Parade's End a quarter-
I!
century after it was written is that an entire con-
I
,I
tinent has been added, and it is now possible to
'I
Iii
explain to people why they can't sail directly from
Naturalism to Joyceland across the Freudian sea.
Theworkinghypothesisofputativegood will con-
fronted by"modernliterature"usedtobethat"mod-
ern psychology" explained its differences from Ten-
i'l!
nyson and Thackeray. The Unconscious and Free
l
ill"
Association wrote and underwrote the vagaries of
Woolf, Lawrence, Eliot, Joyce, Auden, Pound, and
even Miss Stein.Itis now becomingpossible topub-
licize the fact that Lawrence, the only one of these
writers who couldn't be suspected of using "Freud-
ian" techniques, was the only one exhibiting a rela-
tively uncritical interest in Freud; that the key to
"1!1
twentieth-century English poetry is nineteenth-cen-
',I
144
ii,
1,l
fl
I Have Remembered
tury French prose; and that the writers of the half-
century just closed "weigh" in exact proportion to
their grip On this key.
As Mr. Pound has been telling us for forty years,
Stendhal'srepudiationof"poetrywithitsfustian ala
Louis XIV" was a crucial event in the history of
letters. "At that moment the serious art of writing
'went over to prose,' and for some time the impor-
tant developments of language as means of expres-
sion were the developments of prose. And a man
cannot clearly understand or justly judge the value
of verse, modern verse, any verse, unless he have
grasped this." Again, "No man can now write really
good verse unless he knows Stendhaland Flaubert."
It was Ford, and Ford almost alone, who in the
first decade of this century absorbed and retrans-
mitted the discoveries of Stendhal and Flaubert on
an English wavelength. It was a long time (1915-
The Good Soldier-aetat. 42) before his practice
really caught up withhis conversation; butfrom the
time of his collaboration with Conrad at about the
turn of the century until the emergence of the
Pound-Eliot-Lewis"Vortex"in 1914he was virtually
alone inhis tireless insistenceon (1) the adequation
of language to the thing perceived or the sensation
undergone rather than to an overriding concept of
"style"; (2) the importance of making every epi-
sode, sentence, and phrase function-carry forward
the total effect ("progression d'efjet" ); and (3) the
principle of juxtaposition without copula of chapter
with chapter, incident with incident, character with
147
I
I
II
I
I 146 GNOMON
Ilil
character, word with word, as the mainspring of
poetic effect.
II!
The qualityof Bouvard and Pecuchet's rapture at
their inheritance is both rendered and placed in
~
twelvewords byjustonecollocationofenthusiasms:
III
"Nous ferons tout ce qui nous plaira! nous laisserons
,I
pousser notre barbe!" In the technique of that sen-
tence lies all modem letters in embryo: the exact
words, the thematically relevant detail, the hokku-
fl
III
l
like juxtaposition of imperial felicity and an un-
I1
I1
checked beard. Ithas nothingto do withtheuncon-
Ilil
scious or private associations; neither has anything
~
~ i
in The Waste Land. And it was Fordwho discerned
II![ and propagated that technique.!
I1
1I
Mr. Yeats had frequented the Symbolists but not
the prose writers of France; Ford the prose writers
I: but not the Symbolists. The young Ezra Pound in
j
the London of 1912 or so, seeing Ford in the after-
noons andYeats onMonday evenings, effected some
'III
III
1 In The March of Literature (1939) Ford traces the principle
~
of juxtaposition to, for contemporary purposes, Stendhal or per-
haps Jane Austen. "The point," he adds, "cannot be sufficiently
111
laboured, since the whole fabric of modern art depends on it." A
~
page or two later he adds, "Nothing in the way of incident or
character sticks far outof the story, but the effect of ordinariness
~
1;
set against ordinariness in a slightly different plane gives precisely
I,
the effect of not ill-natured gossip, which to the averageintelligent
mind is the most engrossing thing in the world, and of slight sur-
i:
prise which is the prime quality of art." A comparable and much
II!I more elaborate account is given in the invaluable third part of the
~
'"
,
Conrad memoir. The term "gossip" should be noted. Ford's unob-
I
trusive good manners made it necessary for him to efface these
principles by washes of casual verisimilitude. He got no further
than a sophisticated impressionism, but as the English novel
J.I' [.. 1 I ill
.
stood (and largelystands) it was a major innovation to getso far.
II,
I
I"
ii,
:1,1,.,1: ',I,
Ii
.
f
II!'
Illill
~
,'!ii
11
r
I Have Remembered
transfusion ofironic discipline into Yeats as well as
a notable synthesis in himself. Joyce acquired inde-
pendently a corresponding synthesis of the same
French components. So did Wyndham Lewis. As-
similating Gautier at Pound's instigation, Mr. Eliot
acquired a "hardness"-ultimately Flaubertian-
that underlayhis great work of the twenties.
Hence the "Vortex" of 1914-16; Pound, Lewis,
Eliot, Gaudier-Brzeska, with Joyce a saluted ally;
perhapsthe only time-certainlythe only timesince
l600-when a group of masters was doing things
inEnglishthathadnotbeendone betteronthecon-
tinent. And as if in certification of his magisterial
status, Ford's first masterwork, The Good Soldier,
commencedserialappearance in the Vorticistorgan,
BLAST.
That World War I dissipated the Vortex may yet
prove to have been its most far-reaching effect: as
though the Armadahad broken off English intellec-
tual life in 1588. The mind of England was aban-
doned to Bloomsbury, to its perdition. Some half-
baked milieu or other becomes the intelligible con-
text ofthe careerofeach ofthe survivingvorticists:
Eliot's ironic truce with Bloomsbury and Lewis' fe-
rocious anatomizing of its fauna, Joyce's involve-
ment with the Transition gang, Pound's quest of
new vortices in Paris and Rapallo (maelstroms in
bathtubs) and Ford's in Paris and New York. Hem-
ingway, Mrs. Woolf, the Sitwells, all writers subse-
quent to the Vortex, however disparate in quality,
are dominated ifnot bounded by such milieux.
149
148 GNOMON
II
The false dawn and nightfall we have been out-
lining is in effect Ford's lifelong theme, though it
is not at that level of realization that it engages his
attention. Itdoes not detract from his honor, but
does a great deal to illuminate his orientations, that
'I
he neverreallyknewwhattheVorticistsweredoing.
II
Theyknewwhathewas doing;2 theyprintedhim in
I

~ BLAST; yet BLAST seems the oddest possible con-
text for his prose. His subsequent avuncular ironies
about the impatient young "parading those respec-
, table streets in trousers of green billiard cloth and
Japanese foulards" connote equal amusement with
I
the paraders and with the respectability. Ford was
I
to that extent allied with the morning-coat ethos.
I
That alliance was perhaps a condition of the skill
I
with which in Parade's End-his second master-
I
l
piece-he achieved its indestructible record. For
~
f
thatis very largely what Parade's End is.
,1
The artist who can actually get down on paper
)!
I
1
something not himself-some scheme of values of
~
l
which he partakes-so that the record will not
~ waver with time or assume grotesque perspectives
~
II
;1 1
as viewpoints alterandframing interests vanish, has
I'
"I
1
achievedtheonlypossiblebasisfor artistictruthand
~
theonlypossiblebasisfor literaryendurance. Homer
I'll so registered values andwas theeducatorofGreece.
II
Itis thehardestandrarestofjobs. Thisorthatnovel 111
1
1,]1
\ 2 One at least was only half-persuaded. "I am afraid an inven-
,III tion of Ezra's," said Lewis of Ford, November 1956. As to what
~ of Ford's most needed preserving, Pound answered, "The tradi-
tion of his intelligence" (September 1953).

II,:'
"':1
I Have Remembered
which we in haste mistake for a mirroroftheage-
The Forsyte Saga, for instance-usuallyturnsoutto
be a reflection in moving water. Language alters,
connotations slither, the writer leans on what his
audience understands, and that understanding does
not endure. What Pope meant by "Nature" and
"Reason" in the Essay on Criticism must be labori-
ously filled in bythe archaeologist oftraditions; that
is the technicalfailure of a firmly intendedeffort at
definition, clear in Pope's mind, that it is now im-
possible to praise as Dr. Johnson, living closer toits
terminology, could praise it. Thirty years' subse-
quent work made possible the almost lexicographi-
calexactnessofthefourthbookoftheDunciad. The
point at which a writer defines something, whether
one moral term-"wise passiveness"---or an entire
civilization-Cummings'Eimi-is thepointatwhich
he drives his peg into the cliff. That was the work
Ford undertook for the values of gentlemanly Eng-
land. It was in its way a harder job than Dante's,
sinceitis theessence ofthose values thattheycom-
portwithextremeconventionalityofarticulation. La
sua voluntate e nostra pace relies not only on the
image structure of the Paradiso (ella equel mare)
but on ~ tradition in which terms were defined.
DespiteFord'sthirtyyears'cultivationofeverytech-
nical wile, only his vastly allusive diffuseness could
have done the job for "'Bad form!' she exclaimed.
'You accuse me of bad form.''' I am not prepared
to say that he needs every word on his 836 pages;
but he needs nine-tenths of them.
151
150
GNOMON
The two youngmen-theywereof theEnglishpub-
lic official class-sat in the perfectly appointed rail-
way carriage. The leather straps to thewindows were
of virgin newness; the mirrors beneath the new
luggage-racks immaculate as ifthey hadreflected very
little; thebulging upholstery in its luxuriant, regulated
curves was scarlet and yellow in an intricate, minute
dragon pattern, the design of a geometrician in Co-
logne. The compartment smelt faintly, hygienically of
admirable varnish; thetrain ran as smoothly-Tietjens
remembered thinking-as British gilt-edged securities.
Ittravelled fast; yet had it swayed or jolted over the
rail-joints, except at the curve before Tonbridge or
~
I
over the points at Ashford where these eccentricities
are expected andallowedfor, Macmaster,Tietjens felt
II
certain, would have written to the company. Perhaps
he would even have written to the Times.
I
That is the train that was, figuratively, wrecked
II'
at Sarajevo. Its "mirrors, immaculate as ifthey had
!
reflected very little," convey with sufficiently potent
wit the limitations of theTietjens world, limitations
II
which generate theagonies andcatastrophe of parts
I
II II and III of the tetralogy. Yet the great achieve-
ment of the first quarter of the work is the weight
II
iii
with which Ford manages to invest the code of
"Somedonot,"hithertoaccessibletoAmericans only
'I', '
via the stridently understated snobbery imparted in
"I
thepublic schoolsto thesons ofdrainage inspectors.
'\'
'Ii
This felt and realized sense of a flexible, scrupulous
,
i,1
~ order cannot beillustrated by quotation; indeedthe
"I
II
paragraph just quoted is almost the onlyone inthis
I'
gargantuannovelthathassomethingofitsfulleffect
alone, becauseitis thefirst. Progression ifetfet-the
I I ~
I
III
I
"I"
lil'
,II,
tt
I Have Remembered
reliance of every word on all the words that have
comebefore-hashardlybeencarried so far inEng-
lish. A sort of scrupulous lexicography working by
the exact reproduction of the tones of numerous
speakingvoices invests thenumbcountersof"right,"
"wrong," "honour," and "gentleman" with the con-
text of sensitive values informing the best minds of
EdwardianEngland. "Admirable," inthat first para-
graph-"admirablevarnish"-issucha counter. Itis
a recurrentword; andinwhatnovelistbutFordis it
anything but a clumsy blur of approval? To have
registered a code in which "admirable" denotes a
definite, complex congeries of values is a technical
achievement sufficiently astonishing.
OnetestofFord'smethodis thatthepseudo-values
of the lacquered, ingratiatingupstart Macmasterare
demarcated without caricature from those of Tiet-
jens. "MacmasterwasobviouslyScotchbybirth,and
you accepted him as what was called a son of the
manse. Nodoubthewas reallythesonofa grocerin
Cupar or a railway porter in Edinburgh. Itdoes not
matter with the Scotch, and as he was very reticent
as to his ancestry, having accepted him, you didn't,
even mentally, make any enquiries."This inits con-
text is not snobbery; it registers exact and-again,
in context-perfectly acceptable mental processes.
Hereis Macmasterenactingwhat heconceives to be
pre-Raphaelite grand passion:
...He heard himself quote:
"Since when we stand side by side!" His voice
trembled.
"Ah yes!" came in her deep tones: "The beautiful
153
152 GNOMON
I Have Remembered
lines.... They're true. We must part. In this
world. . . ." They seemed to her lovely and mournful
words to say; heavenly to have them to say, vibrat-
ingly, arousing all sorts of images. Macmaster, mourn-
fully too, said:
"We must wait." He added fiercely: "But tonight, at
dusk!" He imagined the dusk, under the yew hedge.
A shining motor drew up in the sunlight under the
window.
"Yes! yes!" she said. "There's a little white gate from
the lane." She imagined their interview of passion and
mournfulness amongst dim objects half seen. So much
of glamour she could allow herself.
Afterwards he must come to the house to ask after
her health and they would walk side by side on the
lawn, publicly, in the warm light, talking of indiffer-
ent but beautiful poetries, a little wearily, but with
what currents electrifying and passing between their
flesh.... And then: long, circumspect years....
This is magnificently "placed." It is handled more
sympathetically than the analogously derivative
amours of Gerty Macdowell; but no less critically.
Parody is the clue to everything in Joyce, because his
subject is itself a parody: aristocratic values pre-
'iii served in Ireland, but preserved in alcohol; pickled
fetuses; paralyzed. Ford's subject, on the other hand,
is not a parody but a wraith; values obeyed but never
:I!
enunciated, or merely felt against Philistine disobe-
dience, or enunciated with ineffable monosyllabic
1:1
1
1111
clumsiness.
"
"III
"God's England!" Tietjens exclaimed to himself in
!
high good humour. "'Land of Hope and Glory!'-F
l
I:,,:
I'i
natural descending to tonic, C major: chord of 64, sus-
II!I
1\lil
II'
;,
I"
I'
pension over dominant seventh to common chord of C
major.... All absolutely correct! Double basses, 'cel-
los, all violins, all woodwind, all brass. Full grand organ,
all stops, special vox humana and key-bugle effect....
Across the counties came the sound of bugles that his
father knew.... Pipe exactly right. It must be: pipe
of Englishman of good birth: ditto tobacco. Attractive
young woman's back. English midday midsummer.
Best climate in the world! No day on which a man may
not go abroad!"
This, with its ironically technical choric imagery,
must not be confused with mere prose Rupert
Brooke. It is as near articulation as Tietjens ever
gets. And Ford builds it up from thousands of careful
observations of cadence, idiom, tone, and gesture.
The recorder and re-creator is at work: at work, not
asprawl.
This point needs to be made. There is every reason
to suppose that the Ford boom, like the recent
Mozart, Austen, and Pope booms, is bottomed by
nostalgia for an innocent bucolic order.
3
All these
artists were civilized" in a leisurely and ample n ~
ner: so we are told, despite Miss Austen's sardonic
regulated hatred" and Pope's explicit feeling of liv-
ing at the verge of the darkness of the Uncreating
Word: as he was. One might have supposed, to read
some reviews, that
There's some corner of a foreign field
That is forever England. . . .
Written in 1950. Eight years later it only remains to be added
that the boom was indeed a puff of smoke, and Parade's End was
remaindered.
154 GNOMON
was, for some 800 pages, Ford's substance. A Brooke
revival, really, would have made in these terms con-
siderably more sense. Ford's constant concern is to
record and anatomize, not to wallow. The reasons
for the impending smash (the matter of parts II and
III of the tetralogy) are thoroughly implicit in Some
Do Not. And the postwar world in which "There will
be no more parades. ... No more Hope, no more
Glory, no more parades for you and me any more.
Nor for the country . . . nor for the world, I dare
say" emerges in The Last Post with as much tough-
ness and as little nostalgia as, given the donnees of
the novel, could be desired. The English Horatian
ideal, now half-wordless and hence fated ("But what
II
chance had quiet fields, Anglican sainthood, accuracy
ofthought, heavy-leaved, timbered hedge-rows, slowly
creeping plough-lands moving up the slopes? ...
Still, the land remained"), bore in its increasing re-
gressiveness the seeds of doom. George Herbert,
Tietjens remembers, wrote Sweet day, so cool, so
calm, so bright, the bridal at the earth and sky; but
as for Tietjens, "the basis of Christopher Tietjens'
emotional existence was a complete taciturnity-at
any rate as to his emotions. As Tietjens saw the
world, you didn't 'talk'. Perhaps you didn't even think
about how you felt." Ford takes ample account of
the "other England" (the ruling classes as distin-
guished from the governing class) who inhabit Mr.
Pound's scabrous Hell (Cantos XIV and XV). The
inarticulate Tietjens order with its massive tolerance
permitted these to rise. Tietjens' thorough approval
of the right of every man to use his own weapons is
i
I
i
I Have Remembered 155
what, in a sense, undoes him and his world; Groby
Great Tree that a Yankee tenant cuts down in the
final pages, wrecking half the house and ending an
era, represents not only the Tradition but its suicidal
component. "It had always been whispered in Groby,
amongst the children and servants, that Groby Great
Tree did not like the house. Its roots tore chunks out
of the foundations and two or three times the trunk
had to be bricked into the front wall of the house."
Yet its presence was not only tolerated but revered:
"Christopher set great store by the tree. He was a
romantic ass. Probably he set more store by the tree
than by anything else at Groby. He would pull the
house down if he thought it incommoded the tree."
Ford, it should be noted, sought without irony his
final audience and milieu among the compatriots of
the Yankee tenant.
III
This order incompatible with the very exertion by
which it might save itself corresponds with whatever
prevents Ford from ranking as a very great writer.
He is great enough. Such writing, page by page,
phrase by phrase, mass by mass, employing every
wile with utterly self-effacing virtuosity, can scarcely
be equaled in English. But there is a component of
softness-not etiolation as in the late Henry James,
a reflex of the remorseless urge to explain, but some-
thing here and there a little closer to whimsy than is
comfortable in an extrapolation from Flaubert. When
he was not yet thirty Ford had written in the final
paragraph of his second collaboration with Conrad,
157 156 GNOMON
"And, looking back, we see Romance-that subtle
thing that is mirage-that is life. It is the goodness
of the years we have lived through, of the old time
when we did this or that, when we dwelt here or
there...." It is remarkable how early in life he
began writing memoirs. Memories and Impressions
is dated 1910 (aetat. 37), and it is at least the fourth
volume drawing on Ford's pre-Raphaelite childhood.
His first books, fairy tales and historical romances,
I regress in an analogous way. From 1910 till his death
I
his eyes are turned backward; the original title of
"Iii The Good Soldier was, we remember, The Saddest
IIi
Story. Pathos, until the Tietjens tetralogy, was his
I
metier: pathos superbly controlled and objectified,
but a little soft, a little naively susceptible to Ed-
wardian ladies cool and finely gowned.
That his marvelous childhood had ended, then that
his Edwardian years had ended, were successive
III
themes of Ford's early books. The Good Soldier is
probably the best of these books because it holds
1111"
these themes of loss in a rarely articulated and deper-
sonalized balance. And The Good Soldier plus all
that the War implied gives us Parade's End: im-
mensely complex personal misery plus the shattering
of all the externals of the order that had sustained
the poise of gentlemen. An important strand of
11,1111
Parade's End, then, leads us back to Ford's youth
I
and out to his public persona of incorrigible remi-
niscer. On this strand may be blamed such lapses as
occur.
Nice to be in poor old PufHes' army. Nice but weari-
some.... Nice girls with typewriters in well-
I'
Ii 'I:'
i,,11
I Have Remembered
ventilated offices. Did they still put paper cuffs on to
keep their sleeves from ink? He would ask Valen . . .
Valen. . . . It was warm and still. . . . On such a
night ...
That "poor old Pumes" passes because it is Tietjens'
word, but Tietjens at his least exigent. Tietjens here
as often is a little too close to being Ford himself,
vastly wearied and regretful, and whimsical. One
doubts whether in propria persona Ford would have
troubled to invent a better name than "Puffies," or
cast a better phrase, because he too felt like that: as
we can tell from reading Great Trade Route or It
Was the Nightingale. Tietjens, that is, is much more
literally Ford-as to his emotional quality-than,
say, Prufrock is Mr. Eliot.
The success of Parade's End depends upon the
way it exploits all Ford's skill while using just the
material that will conceal his defects. They are the
defects, however, which deprive him of co-status
with Pound, Eliot, and Joyce, a little anachronistic,
writing from a basis a little closer to the time in which
the novels are set than to that in which they were
conceived. The fact that he seems never to have
noticed Eliot gives us one way of bringing this out.
(The writer recalls two references to Eliot, both
ironic, in the whole of Ford's oeuvre with which he
is acquainted; and The Waste Land does not appear
in The March of Literature reading lists, whose
standards are not so exigent as to exclude Auden,
Masefield, Cummings, and Rupert Brooke.) Impres-
sionism, Pound justly observes, meant something to
Ford that it did not mean to Arthur Symons or
158 GNOMON
I Have Remembered 159
George Moore; it meant a technical rigor that es-
chewed "fine writing" in the interests of the subject.
But symbolism meant something to Mr. Eliot that
it didn't to Ford, who seems not to have undergone
the Symbolist impact at all.
Intensity, for Ford, was a matter of mass: progres-
sion d'ef/et. He saw this dimension alone in Eliot's
work, apparently; and at the level of progression
d'effet, Prufrock, however sound, was nothing more
remarkable than the verse Ford himself could turn
out in a morning. (His On IIeaven was at this level
skillful and moving enough to be-deservedly-an
Imagist wonder in 1916 or so.) Ford presumably saw
something absurd in the massive reputation erected
by Eliot on a very slender output. Slender, that is,
by Impressionist standards. Sound enough, but short-
winded.
4
Confronted by
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas
Ford would have recalled Bouvard's 'Tai envie de
me faire saltimbanque sur les places publiquesJ" and
reflected that the technique was easy after all. The
"tentacular roots" of those precise images, "reaching
down to thc deepest terrors and desires," would not
have seemed relevant to him. He describes the effort
of the good stylist to make sure "that the word
chosen was not too ;uste. A too startling epithet, how-
ever vivid, or a simile, however just, is a capital
Mr. Pound has supplemented this account by remarking that
Ford was the only man in London who foresaw the likelihood,
and the consequences, of Eliot's becoming a literary dictator.
defect because the first province of a style is to be
unnoticeable." "Impressionism" implied author-sup-
pression at that level. The Eliotic "impersonality"-
an anonymity quite compatible with great local
intensity, so that line after line lodges in the memory
-apparently did not strike him as a meaningful ex-
tension of that principle. He could not have started a
poem with the word "Polyphiloprogenitive." The
Impressionist aim-"above all, to make you see"-
immolates language to subject in a futile as well as a
salutary sense. The poet's language is something
vastly more than himself; it contains the past of the
race and, in its potentialities for juxtaposition, the
intelligible species of all the mysteries. His subject
is, as it reflects his pattern of interests, something
much more like himself, invested with his limitations
of emotion and vision. Parade's End is a fine and
moving novel because its author was a great and
massively honest craftsman, and a fine and serious
and sensitive person. But apart from Joyce's oeuvre
there is still no fiction-unless some of Lewis'-
great, as is much poetry, because the language, which
does not merely extend the author but transcends
him, has gone into independent action and taken on
independent life.
IV
To talk about other possible novels is not to wish
that Ford had written a novel other than the one in
hand. It would be worth most novelists' while to
spend some years of study and emulation on the
161
160 GNOMON
procedures and felicities of Parade's End. It opens
slowly, amid a multitude of leisurely and supple
flashbacks, because Ford must begin by getting down
that age now gone in all its complexity and implica-
tion. Christopher Tietjens, whether or not he "comes
off" as a detachable human being (which is irrele-
vant ), succeeds as the multifaceted incarnation of
the virtues of an age; nor even confined to an age,
but backed by the traditional mass of centuries. The
counterpointing of Tietjens' marital troubles and the
debacle of Tietjens' England achieves with enviable
tact what would in clumsier hands be Cavalcade
superimposed on Goodbye, Mr. Chips. And the rich-
111'1
ness of the dozen marvelous closing pages is backed
by the elaborately differentiated planes of reference
I
of the preceding hundreds. It is into the overgrown
but still unblocked tunnels to dialect and faery Eng-
land that the dying Mark Tietjens glimpses: it is
from them that he extracts his legacy for the living:
"How are we to live? How are we ever to live?"
I "Now I must speak," Mark said to himself.
He said:
I
"Did ye ever hear o't' Yorkshireman.... On Mount
I
Ara ... Ara ..."
III
He had not spoken for so long. His tongue appeared
to fill his mouth; his mouth to be twisted to one side.
It was growing dark. He said:
"Put your ear close to my mouth. . . ." She cried out!
III
I
He whispered:
I
"'Twas the mid 0' the night and the barnies grat
And the mither beneath the mauld heard that."
,
I
... "An old song. My nurse sang it.... Never
I
I
I
I Have Remembered
thou let thy barnie weep for thy sharp tongue to thy
goodman A good man! ... Groby Great Tree
is down "
He said: "Hold my hand!"
o o o
She said:
"Perhaps it would be best not to tell Lady Tietjens
that he spoke.
. . . She would have liked to have his last words.
. . But she did not need them as much as 1."
163
11. Conrad and Ford
HE OLDEST OF TIIESE BOOKS HAS BEEN ACCESSIBLE
Tfor fifty years, the youngest for thirty.
1
All three
are books the reader of novels cannot afford not to
know. All three are faintly old-fashioned now; their
solidity is Edwardian; the novel has moved on. Joyce
solved problems Conrad never faced; Wyndham
Lewis in The Revenge for Love-the finest "un-
known" book in fifty years-brought politics into
fiction in a way that has been neither surpassed nor
examined; Ford himself, in A Call and elsewhere,
developed Jamesian latencies that escaped the later
interests of James and so made possible the finest
parts of Parade's End. Joyce, however, goes unex-
amined except by card indexers; The Revenge for
Love was ignored in England and suppressed in
New York; and the recent Ford boomlet confined its
interests to what seemed "safe." The critical avant
garde is busy discovering Under Western Eyes
( 1911), "appallingly corroborated by events that
have become ominous reality in modem history" (in-
troduction by M. D. Zabel), Nostromo (1904), an
image of "man . . . precariously balanced in his
humanity between the black inward abyss of himself
and the black outward abyss of nature" (introduc-
tion by Robert Penn Warren), and The Good Sol-
dier (1915), the sort of novel of which one can ask,
"But are not these 'realities,' in effect, 'appearances'?"
while in the course of reading it "we slowly learn to
1 Joseph Conrad, Under Western Eyes (New Directions).
Joseph Conrad, NostTOmo (Modern Library).
Ford Madox Ford, The Good Soldier (Knopf).
162
Conrad and Ford
read ourselves" (introduction by Mark Schorer). It
should be possible to see them better than that in
mid-century, though it is something that they are
seen at all.
The three books are thoroughly "written." Conrad
and Ford-it is becoming commonplace to observe
-accepted from Flaubert the view that the novelist's
job is to find words, sentence by sentence, for the
unique instance, the particular case, the light of
torches making the letters of an inscrmtion leap out
black from end to end of a long wall.' the plash of
fountains from the mouths of stone dolphins, a ter-
rified student looking down a staircase: "Gazing
down into the black shaft with a tiny glimmering
flame at the bottom, he traced by ear the rapid spiral
descent of somebody running down the stairs on tip-
toe. It was a light, swift, pattering, sound, which sank
away from him into the depths: a fleeting shadow
passed over the glimmer-a wink of the tiny flame.
Then stillness." This-from Under Western Eyes-
not only neatly illustrates Conrad's formula, ". . .
above all, to make you see," it illustrates the mode of
his most memorable effects. One is made to see not
a man going down stairs, but a certain man, Haldin,
with his characteristic manner of running, descend-
ing the stair of Razumov's lodging house with the
lamp at the bottom, running out of Razumov's life
(the sound "sank away from him into the depths")
to a police trap and doom ("a wink of the tiny flame.
Then stillness"). The whole first part of Under West-
ern Eyes is a tour de force of pregnant writing, the
presented fact become the economic metaphor. Hal-
165 164 GNOMON
II
din, a political assassin, had come to Razumov for
asylum, because he supposed Razumov was a kindred
spirit. Razumov declined to compromise his own fu-
ture and arranged the trap. The next sentence reads:
"Razumov hung over, breathing the cold raw air
tainted by the evil smells of the udHean staircase. All
quiet." The air of freedom, the smell of his own
treachery. Then composure: "He went back into his
room slowly, shutting the door after him. The peace-
ful steady light of his reading-lamp shone on the
watch. Razumov stood looking down at the little
white dial. It wanted yet three minutes to midnight.
He took the watch into his hand fumblingly." The
imbalance of his composure is reserved for the last
word in the fourth of these sentences; "fumblingly"
strikes the reader with much the same surprise as
the fact that his hand was unsteady must have struck
Razumov. Such minutely dramatic writing, never
overtly "symbolic" but always in touch with larger
! meanings through the presented facts which hold
the reader's attention from sentence to sentence, car-
ries Flaubert's techniques into areas where Flaubert,
the Stoic comedian, never ventured. Under Western
Eyes affords ninety-nine such pages, unbroken.
Then Conrad's devotion to "the way of doing a
thing that shall make it undergo most doing" takes
over. The Western Eyes of the elderly language
teacher are interposed between the reader and the
Razumov saga, and the narrative never really regains
momentum. This frustration for the unsophisticated
reader, in quest of a story, corresponds, it is impor-
tant to note, to a disappointment for the critical
I
;RI
II
Conrad and Ford
reader. It is not that the change of the perspective
breaks the action; there are artistic reasons for break-
ing it. It is rather that the presented fact is with-
drawn to a considerable remove from our attention;
commentary, the arranging and presenting con-
sciousness of the detached man who is supposed to
be editing Razumov's diary and narrating what came
under his own observation, becomes a medium
through which, so to speak, the subsequent events-
often crashingly melodramatic events-are reviewed.
The phony revolutionaries who begin to swarm-
Peter Ivanovitch, Madame de S.--don't weigh as
they should against the genuine moral dilemma of
the Razumov whom they take for an ally, because
they don't exist. They coincide too closely with the
skepticism of the elderly narrator to have a life of
their own; that they are bundles of quite predictable
mannerisms isn't an ironic element in their character
but a defect in their presentation, for we come to see
this fact as a mere manifestation, a cruder manifesta-
tion than is the narrator, of the temperamental
skepticism which Conrad is determined to inject into
the book. Conrad's ironies of character are almost
always facile; The Secret Agent, for instance, is a less
interesting book than current accounts suggest.
"Technique," in the "detached" parts of his books,
becomes a cover-up for the fact that his mind has
ceased to be obsessed by the reality of his subject,
that he has withdrawn from his material and begun
to manipulate it, as he considers, philosophically.
Nostromo, as much his most anxiously meditated
fiction, is the fullest case of this curious phenomenon.
166 G NOM 0 N
Much of the time-when he is "creating" the town
and characters---one can see very little. It is exactly
when the narrative breaks loose-in the marvelous
night voyage of Decoud and Nostromo with the
treasure-that the prose unclogs and one reads on
unfatigued. Nostromo is a brilliantly excogitated
book, wrought detail by detail with barely a chink;
but Dr. Leavis' grudging verdict that its reverbera-
tion "has something hollow about it" corresponds
to a pervading forced "significance" that localizes
itself in analytic images like "The sense of betrayal
and ruin floated upon his sombre indifference as
upon a sluggish sea of pitch" and statements like "In
our activity alone do we find the sustaining illusion
of an independent existence as against the whole
scheme of things of which we form a helpless part,"
which are neither sufficiently grounded in the pre-
sented facts of the book nor sufficiently backed by a
communicated sense of the author's experience. This
last sentence is part of the analysis of Decoud's
breakdown, but it doesn't stay within its donnees;
it comes as a portentous aside from Conrad. The
minutely wrought solidity of Nostromo derives, as
much as anything, from its being willed into exist-
ence, the characters created to illustrate a theme, the
theme worked out in an elaborately balanced plot
with appropriate symbols in incident and setting,
every detail arranged, and the whole painstakingly
focused so that Conrad's essential want of belief in
the reality of what he is presenting is disguised as a
"detachment" intrinsic to the book's philosophy. It
is perhaps the very intimacy of the creative impulse,
Conrad and Ford
167
in this instance, with the philosophical that has won
Nostromo its reputation as Conrad's supreme achieve-
ment; it is certainly an achievement of sheer scrupu-
lousness that the result appears so solid, but there is
very little in Nostromo as immediate as whole sec-
tions of Under Western Eyes. Conrad, at bottom,
doesn't know what his attitude to his events and
characters is, and that is what "detachment" con-
ceals; nor will Mr. Warren's Kafkaesque speculations
about "the true lie," "fidelity," "moral infection and
redemption" bring the book really to any but a
~ ~ ~
Ford had no "philosophy"; that is perhaps the rea- I
son for his long neglect. Far more impressively than
Conrad has he the ability to invent exactly the right
words from moment to moment; the prose texture of
The Good Soldier is unfailingly vivid: "I had forgot-
ten about his eyes. They were as blue as the sides of
a certain type of box matches. When you looked at
them carefully you saw that they were perfectly
honest, perfectly straightforward, perfectly, per-
fectly stupid. But the brick pink of his complexion,
running perfectly level to the brick pink of his inner
eyelids, gave them a curious, sinister expression-
like a mosaic of blue porcelain set in pink china. And
that chap, coming into a room, snapped up the gaze
of every woman in it, as dexterously as a conjuror
pockets billiard balls." The Good Soldier is in more
than one way a tour de force. Ford arranges words
so as to produce constant surprise, constant small
shocks to the attention. He arranges incidents in the
same way. Theme words drop into place, key scenes
168 169 G NOM 0 N
recur in new contexts, an intricate tangle of cross-
reference conveys the illusion of living complexity
assuming no more and no less order than life as-
sumes. With a technique of far greater virtuosity
than Conrad's goes a far greater sense of flexible life.
Ford's heroes, like Conrad's, undergo mute ordeals,
but without suggesting to the reader a "symbolic"
remoteness. If Conrad wrote out of his capacity for
skepticism, Ford wrote out of his capacity for com-
passion and worry. Worry is the shill of his situa-
tions; on Edward Ashburnham is heaped a worry so
intolerably complex that he breaks. As in Parade's
End, the impasse is adulterous; it is essential to the
structure of The Good Soldier that it shall be an im-
passe. The narrator suffers on his own account as
much as on Edward's; he is himself in fact a party
to the impasse. Within this simple matrix Ford de-
ploys with consummate virtuosity his trivial, melo-
dramatic incidents. A book was never, from one point
. of view, better written.
- There is no pretense of detachment; the whole is
ordered by a shocked narrator. And the narrator's
bewilderment is Ford's most serviceable device; for
it prevents him from having to resolve the book. The
convention of the book is that the narrator resolves
it by writing it: the last tum of Ford the technician's
screw. If one seeks for a center, one is driven through
ironic mirror-lined corridors of viewpoint reflecting
viewpoint, and this is of the book's essence; an opti-
cal illusion of infinite recession. Ford, one uneasily
supposes, doesn't himself know what his attitude is
to the situation he presents. The gap between pres-
Conrad and Ford
entation and "values" is never bridged. Ford's pre-
sented values are those of the craftsman; the man
Ford, most compassionate of novelists, is himself in
an impasse, an impasse of sympathy for all sides.
It is impertinent to tum to biography: Ford's
Catholicism, his adulteries, and the unresolved con-
flicts of his life. At ease, he threw off in his memoirs
(in some respects, his best fiction) masks of himself
so engaging as to make these factors of negligible
weight. But that he presents himself more convinc-
ingly than he does any other character throws light
on what the virtuosity of The Good Soldier is mask-
ing; a suspension of judgment that looks like tech-
nique and is in fact bewilderment. If Conrad forced
into "philosophy" a naive nineteenth-century skep-
ticism: man alone in a meaningless universe, mak- ,
ing fictions to live by, Ford forced into "technique" /
a more permanent plight: that of a man incapable
of squaring his values with his actions, incapable
of repudiating anything that has once laid claim on
his sympathy.
Though his achieved fictions haven't Conrad's
weight, Ford should have come nearer to being a
great novelist; he had more to work with; Conrad's
central theme may well in another fifty years seem
as dated as In Merrwriam. Both of them might have
been weightier if technique hadn't seduced them,
hadn't persuaded them that they had solved at the
level of judgment problems which they were accus-
tomed to coping with at the level of literary presenta-
tion. But technique seduced them because it was
important; no one but Henry James, in those years,
170 G NOM 0 N
understood its claims so clearly; almost alone they
had to redeem the English novel for the intelligent
world. They did that, and they wrote memorable
pages. They might have done more in another lan-
guage, or at another time; but perhaps they did more
than we might reasonably expect. It was no small
achievement to maintain an artistic conscience in
Balfour's England, to wrestle in those times of_facile
writing with the exact enduring word, Razumov
leaning over the banister listening to the light swift
pattering sound which sank away from him into the
depths, or Edward Ashburnham, sentimentalist to
the last, speaking with the penknife in his hands the
precise last words that will epitomize a sentimental-
ist's life: "So long, old man, I must have a bit of rest,
you know."
12. In the Wake of the Anarch
DOPE WAS AWARE, WITH MORE THAN YEATSIAN LUCID-
r ity, that in his lifetime millennial traditions were
suddenly fading. The Universal Darkness into which
he gazed with such prophetic horror was no mere
sensational reflex of a provincial inability to grasp
the mutability of cultures. Misled by a look of grad-
ualness, however, we suppose that he was misled.
When Mr. Eliot reminded us that the eighteenth
century was, "like any other age," an age of transi-
tion, he was speaking of its poetic sensibility, which
alters from generation to generation, whether we
will or no," impelled by the accumulation of events,
retarded by the tenacity of human habit, not a seis-
mograph to register intellectual cataclysms but a
turbid fluid medium of awareness holding in suspen-
sion their settling dust. The gradual downward
sloping of the arts into the Romantic century mis-
leads us into supposing that Pope's age modulated
into Shenstone's just as Dryden's modulated into
Pope's; but to approach history through poetry an-
thologies, with an ear for the morphology of sensibil-
ity, is to apprehend not events but their protracted
reverberations. Scholarly ears, attuned to this mull of
sound, readily suppose that when Pope spoke of Art
after Art going out he was "exaggerating magnifi-
cently" (as his Twickenham editor puts it) the death
of an age which he refused to believe was like all
ages mortal: a first trombonist standing up in the pit
to announce the extinction of music because the
171
172
173
GNOMON
phrases allotted for the passage of which he bore the
burden were drawing to a close.
Yet it is easy to show that he was not exaggerating:
the proof is that Pope himself became in fifty years
all but unintelligible. His editors could not read him;
his commentators cannot read him. Though our dic-
tionaries contain all his words and our handbooks
all his allusions, his poems have grown as inacces-
sible as (to exaggerate magnificently) those of the
Etruscans. We are situated, since the Romantic ex-
plosion, on another planet; in the finale to the
Dunciad we intuit a desperate vatic urgency and
applaud a pomp of sound, but suppose that the same
thing is being said over and over. On the contrary:
a most precise analysis goes forward, according to
premises desperately in need of recovery.
She comes! She comes! the sable throne behold
Of Night primeval and of Chaos old!
Before her Fancy's gilded clouds decay
And all its varying rainbows die away.
Wit shoots in vain its momentary fires ...
The light that is being negated is no mere blurry
metaphor for intelligence, but an illumination whose
modes of operation are conceived with speculative
exactness. Fancy stands in relation to it as sunset
colors and rainbows to the sun: the clouds and rain-
drops not objects made visible but pretexts for a
tenuous virtuosity of the luminescent principle itself,
to be anticipated (Coleridge, Shelley) just after the
full light has vanished. Wit in its absence is con-
In the Wake of the Anarch
demned to be self-luminous and transient, a fugitive
display (Byron, Peacock)-
The meteor drops, and in a Hash expires.
The sun of learning has set before, but in a previous
Dark Age the stars held their places: an Erigena put
Greek tags in his verses, a stray monk took bearings
from Vergil. But this time the primal light itself is
being withdrawn from all things luminous:
As one by one, at dread Medea's strain,
The sickening stars fade off th' ethereal plain,
As Argus' eyes, by Hermes' wand opprest,
Closed one by one to everlasting rest,
Thus at her felt approach, and secret might,
Art after Art goes out, and all is Night. . . .
The arts are stars as civilization's steering marks,
flowers as its products and ornaments, eyes as its
guardians; now the flowers fade, the eyes close, the
very stars are occulted. Hermes, the undoing of the
many-eyed Argus, was the god of luck and wealth,
the patron of merchants and of thieves: in Pope's
usage, emblem of the opacities of commerce. The
booksellers and the money spinners of the City are
among the efficient causes of the Dunciad's action.
The "Universal Darkness" that buries all is there-
fore a negation of a universal light concerning whose
functioning Pope was willing to be more specific
than elocutionists suppose. We hear about it, in fact,
as early as the Essay on Criticism, published when
he was too young (twenty-three) to have done any
174
175
GNOMON
more than intuit a set of regnant intellectual conven-
tions.
Unerring NATURE, still divinely bright,
One clear, unchanged, and universal Light,
Life, force, and beauty must to all impart,
At once the source, and end, and test of Art.
This Light comes, by a long tradition, out of St.
John's gospel: it shone in the darkness and the dark-
ness did not comprehend it, it was in the beginning
with God, and it was the Word, the Logos which the
Romans, lacking a single term, denominated as ratio
et oratio.
In some fair body thus th' informing soul
With spirits feeds, with vigor fills the whole,
Each motion guides, and every nerve sustains;
Itself unseen, but in th' effects remains.
These passages, to be sure, are flaccid gestures to-
ward the conventional: but a lost convention. The
identity of the Universal Light and the Universal
Reason was a commonplace of a thousand sermons;
St. Augustine's doctrine of human knowledge, never
abandoned from the fourth century to the Cambridge
Platonists, turns on this identity. The Holy Spirit,
furthermore, stood to the world in the same relation
as the human soul to the body; hence a tissue of
analogies whereby the polysemous "Nature," divine,
human, and created, could be "at once the source,
and end, and test" of a human activity which paral-
leled that of the Divine Artificer. All this, by Pope's
time, had come to be believed "in memory only,
reconsidered passion"; and Pope for his part reports
no VISIOns of the light, though he talks about it
with a born paraphraser's suavity. He has nothing
comparable to Dante's
Che la mia vista, venendo sincera,
e piu e piu intrava per 10 raggio
delf altra luce che da se e vera,
or even Mr. Pound's
that the body of light come forth
from the body of fire .
He handled the ideas that were in circulation, and
rubbed them smoother; he was content enough in
Locke's ambience, and allowed Bolingbroke credit
as a philosopher, and wrote about
strong connexions, nice dependencies,
Gradations just. . . .
What rouses him to visionary intensity isn't meta-
physical radiance but the processional triumph of
obfuscation:
She comesl she comesI . . .
The Dunciad, as Mr. Aubrey Williams shows in his
well-mannered, vastly informative study,! plays its
energies on a process of thickening and fattening,
perceived with hallucinatory particularity: literature
inertly copied from other literature, drama no longer
aspiring to conceive with austere passion an action
like a moving arrow, plunging instead into stupefy-
ing sensation, the stage manager rather than the
1 Aubrey Williams, Pope's Dunciad, A Study of Its Meaning
(1955).
177 GNOMON
176
dramatist "immortal";2 the prestige of learning be-
come aninducementfor pedagogyto ally itselfwith
advertisement and scholarship to agitate itself like
a tirelessworm:
Let standard-Authors, thus, like trophies born
Appear more glorious as more hack'd and tom,
And you, my Criticsl in the chequer'd shade
Admire new light thro' holes yourselves have made.
Leave not afoot of verse, afoot of stone,
APage, a Grave, that they can call their own.
'I
Itis a terrible, compelling apocalypse, and when its
detractors complain of spleen its champions have
found nothing better to do than concede exaggera-
tion, albeit magnificent.
Onewouldneverguessfrom Mr.Williams'genteel
manner that he had walked into the professional
Popeans' Natchez-Augustan manor with the com-
ponents of a timebomb underhis raincoat. Possibly
he doesn't guess it either. In his first two chapters
he appears to be setting up the equipment for a
lantern lecture, complete with map. The impatient
readermaywellstartonthelastfourchapters,which
are informative enough to discount the lecturer's
tone; and then reflect that the large perspectives of
learningthere afforded maywellbemore systemati-
cally accessible to Mr. Williams' generation than
"Immortal Rich! how calm he sits at ease
'Mid snows of paper, and fierce hails of pease;
And proud his Mistress' orders to perform
Rides in the whirlwind, and directs the storm."
Asfor the spectator, he goggles like a tourist in Radio City:
"Joy fills his soul, joy innocent of thought;
'What pow'r: he cries, 'what pow'r these wonders wrought?'''
they were to Pope's. As one may sail along coasts
without a map, or any idea of what a map would
look like, so a reader living in Pope's age would
have encountered the capes and headlands of the
poem with a readiness of habitual response which
the historian, mistaking tradition for doctrine, can
extrapolate into a statement ofprinciple the Augus-
tanmightnot haverecognized.Thewaytoprofitby
Mr. Williams' exposition is to transpose it into the
specific assumptions behind Pope's local devices.
The chief technical device in the Dunciad is to
mime perversity by systematically perverting what
we are meant to recognize as the normative images
of orderly encomium. Bentley's great paean to the
scholars affords a condensed instance:
Like buoys, thatneversinkinto the:Hood-
his learning a mark to steer by, he and his fellows
fixed points amid tempests and opinions; it seems a
neatly predictable image, until the denouement-
On learning's surface we but lie and nod.
In the passage about standard-Authors, the first
couplet perverts into Yahooesque jubilation the
regimentalprideandorderlydecorum ofarmies, the
second .into simian self-congratulation a tranquil
pietism about the fullness of age. Wearemeant to
recall howWallerhadwritten,
The Soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd
Lets innew light thro' chinks thattime has made;
butthe plenitude of senescent wisdom gives wayto
its parody, the annotator's idiotic delight that new
179
/)
I
I
178 GNOMON
beams penetrate a text (which before his arrival on
the scene had been merely an impediment to .the
light) every time his forefinger punches a hole in it.
Pope's way of moving mock earths requires his
taking a stand on such minimal and cliche-ridden
orderliness as can still be evoked; he postulates the
intelligibility of created things, the normality of their
symbolic functions, the rationality of poetic images.
We hear much about the aptness of his literary
parody; but the literary order upon the prestige of
which Pope depends for so many effects isn't to his
mind venerable because it happens to exist, but
radiant because sanctioned by those very analogies
between divine and human intelligence which permit
and render fructive the ready resemblances between
wise men and seamarks, light and intelligence, the
Playwright and God; which enable the writer to see
in ordonnance an image of order, to co-operate with
his material rather than fight it, and make with ease
intelligible statements about the intelligible: which
in short reveal a world interesting enough to write
about.
When no one believed such things any longer, no
one could read in depth what had been so written.
The mind coming close slips over Pope's mirrorlike
surface, and drawing back sees reflected there its
own banalities. "Not a classic of our poetry," said
Arnold, "a classic of our prose." Pope opened his
fourth book with a prophetic apostrophe to the
powers of oblivion:
Ye Powers! whose mysteries restored I sing,
To whom Time bears me on his rapid wing,
Suspend a while your force inertly strong,
Then take at once the Poet and the Song.
It was so: a criticism which assumed that the writer
situated before an opaque world expressed only him-
self, transformed Pope into a spiteful little hunch-
back.
Which is the point d'appui of Mr. Donald Davie's
book on syntax.
3
If Mr. Davie, the most gifted British
critic now functioning, has opened up a subject for
which his book isn't ambitious enough, he has gone
beyond any previous theorizer in opening it up.
Syntax postulates an intelligible world; whoever
frames a sentence claims to have performed an anal-
ysis, corresponding in complexity to the articulation
of the sentence. "Jack threw the ball and Will caught
it": we have observed these activities, and concluded
that they were disjunct. "Jack threw the ball to
Will": either a different throw, or a closer analysis.
The thriving plants ignoble broomsticks made,
Now sweep those Alleys they were born to shade.
-syntactic neatness miming a perception that For-
tune's wheel can tum with headlong precision. But
an arrangement like the following, though officially
a sentence, corresponds to no observed architectonic
of events:
There was rapture of spring in the morning
When we told our love in the wood.
For you were the spring in my heart, dear lad,
And I vowed that my life was good.
3 Donald Davie, Articulate Energy, an Enquiry into the Syntax
of English Poetry (1955).
181 180 G NOM 0 N
I The only identifiable event ("told"; for one can't be-
lieve "vowed") buries its face in a subordinate clause
1\'\
shielded by a falling rhythm; while the first and third
lines expend their clockwork confidence in saying
Iii
nothing. The tawdry appeal the poem puts forth (it
i' is Poem IV in I. A. Richards' Practical Criticism,
where it is shown to have pleased 53 per cent of the
III'
college readers on whom it was tried) depends on a
mere Gestalt of reliable words: rapture, spring,
lill
morning, love, dear lad. Any gimmickry that will set
III
these partners jigging in a suitably brief stanza will
suffice, or any gelatine that will hold them in con-
'I
II,
joint suspension. The syntactic machinery is plainly
1'1,
a sham.
I:!I
Now Mr. Davie's argument is that it is not merely
ii' bad poems that trifle with counterfeit syntax in that
II
way. It has become customary for the best poets
to either (1) dispense with syntax altogether, em-
ploying "a language broken down into units of iso-
lated words, a language which abandons any attempt
at articulation," or else (2) utilize a pseudo-syntax,
"syntax as music," which he analyzes subtly and
persuasively in his brilliant third chapter, and which
makes use of syntactic units-sentence lengths,
phrases-as elements in "a silent music, a matter of
tensions and resolutions, of movements (but again
not rhythmical movements) sustained or broken, of
ease or effort, rapidity or languor," playing for a sort
of empathic response to a Swedish drill of move-
ment, communicating before it is understood or even
when there is nothing to understand, in which "noth-
ing is being lifted, transported, or set down, though
the muscles tense, knot, and relax as it were."
Music flourishes in the dark; and at the end of
Chapter 5 Mr. Davie makes it clear that he is at-
tempting a fundamental account of the poetic strate-
gies that have prevailed since Pope's Great Anarch
dropped the curtain and engulfed us in the romantic
night-world: "The point I want to make is this: in
the 17th and 18th centuries poets acted on the as-
sumption that syntax in poetry should often, if not
always, carry a weight of poetic meaning; in the 19th
and 20th centuries poets have acted on the opposite
assumption, that when syntactic forms are retained
in poetry those forms can carry no weight. I have
sought only to make those assumptions explicit, so
that we may know just what we are doing, and what
we are turning our backs upon, when we agree with
the symbolists that in poetry syntax turns into music.
Is Pope's handling of poetic syntax really so irrele-
vant to the writing of poetry today? And are we
really so sure of ourselves that we can afford to
break so completely with the tradition he repre-
sents?"
Since twentieth-century poetry has all along con-
ducted its affairs on the principle that we can afford
to sacrifice much of the nineteenth, Mr. Davie's
lumping of these poets and those in one regretful
but firm dissent seems open to suspicion. So does his
principal strategy, a joining together of Susanne
Langer, T. E. Hulme, and Ernest Fenollosa, whose
interests don't overlap, to make a sort of tripartite
I,
I
183
1,[ 182 GNOMON
advocatus diaboli whose principles, with a little
I
adroit give and take, will blanket twentieth-century
literature, and, with a little dampening, smother it.
III
II'
Mrs. Langercan be used to define the key concept,
"syntaxas music,"themorphologyoffeelingwithout
Ii
specific content, which we may facetiously graph,
I
? ....! ....
Hulmechampions imagerywithout structure, for in-
I:
stance
Ii
'II
. . . on rose and icicle the ringing handprint .
(The example is from Dylan Thomas, on whom
Mr. Daviehas some exactand disablingcomments.)
1,1
II
As for Fenollosa, he applauded specific images and
transitive verbs, as in Shakespeare, but has, it ap-
pears, been co-opted to sanction doingwithoutsen-
i,1
1:1
tences, as, wearetold, in Pound.Generallyspeaking,
Iii I
Hulme will cover the barbarous cases, Mrs. Langer
"II
"il
I,
thesubtle; andthe polemicuse of Fenollosaconsists
I
li:1
'i
in showing that his views, being illuminating but
I.!
",
incomplete, must insofar as they have been trans-
I'I
I,ll
, lated into twentieth-century poetic practice, con-
I
I'j
demn that poetry to attempts at running on one
1
'.'1,
I
III
leg.
ill
iii!
Mr. Davie's unpromising procedure nevertheless
'!,
opens enough incidental doors to convince us that
'il
he has something of fundamental usefulness to say.
III He is absolutely right in focusing our attention on
the eighteenth century ifwe want to see the begin-
nings of a landslide; that was also, we recall, where
Pope cautioned us to look. It may also be deduced
II
i
that the standard accounts of post-symbolist poetry
are in a state of confusion, since a poetryanswering
in essence to those accounts would deserve all Mr.
Davie's suspicions. Itseems worth while to attempt
some restatement.
One might begin by applauding what Mr. Davie
says about Hulme, whose status is symptomatic of
an important muddle. Pope, we saw, stood for a
world interesting enough to write about; Hulme, to
put his position briefly, doesn't; which may explain
why he never finished any of his projects. "One
could make an impressive list from the present vol-
umealone oftheworks which Hulmeannouncedhe
would write but didn't:' notes his latest editor. He
leftno books, numerous notebooks anduncompleted
mss. quarriedbyHerbertReadforthe1924Specula-
tions, a diary and a few dozen hand-to-mouth arti-
cles quarried by Sam Hynes for the 1955 Further
Speculations, letters, a legend, and the memory of
muchconversation. He participatedintheCartesian
nightmare, and described its sensations so pictur-
esquely that they sounded like a new and authenti-
callytwentieth-centuryWeltanschauung. Theworld
is random, chunky, and irreducible: he compared it
to a heap of cinders. In satisfaction of an appetite,
weimposewordsonitandpretendthattheirelisions
andfluidities betokena coherencein theworld.This
gives us the Cartesian satisfaction ("Why is it that
London looks prettybynight? Becausefor the gen-
eral cindery chaos there is substituted a simple or-
dered arrangement of a finite number of lights"4 ).
Speculations, 221.
184 G NOM 0 N i
In the Wake of the Anarch 185
Thus "The ideal of knowledge: all cinders reduced
, tocounters (words);thesecountersmoved abouton
achessboard,andso allphenomenamadeobvious." II
II,
As against the chessboard method, however, the
I

I
moving about of smooth counters, we have the
method of poetry, which corresponds to--no, not to
reality, but to the way we really experience it, the
waywethinkitwhenwearen'torderingandsmooth-
ing our thoughts to impress someone else, or our
least honestselves. Hereis Hulmehonestly thinking
~
to himself:
~
I

Dancing to express the organization of cinders,
finally emancipated (d.bird).
I sat before a stage and saw a little girl with her
,
head thrown back, and a smile. I knew her, for she
~ was the daughter of John of Elton.
But she smiled, and her feet were not like feet,
but.....[sic]
Ii Though I knew her body.
~
All these sudden insights (e.g. the great analogy of
~
,llil
i
a woman compared to the world in Brussels)-allof
these start a line, which seems about to unite the
whole world logically. But the line stops. There is no
unity. All logic and life are made up of tangled ends
" IIII!
like that.
~ i l
Always think of the fringe and of the cold walks,
'II I ' of the lines that lead nowhere. [Speculations, 235]
111 ..
!'II Such reflections are Hulmean pre-poetry. Hence his
distinctionbetweenproseandverse: verseletsthings
ill
lead nowhere; "It is not a counter language, but a
~
visual concrete one. Itis a compromise for a lan-
ii"
1
Speculations, 230.
1.11
:II.
I '
illl
11,1
, ~
iii
guageofintuitionwhichwouldhandoversensations
bodily." It is physical, primitive, and sketchy; and
as Mr. Davie at this point cunningly shows, it has
bythis accountnouse for syntax, whichcorresponds
for Hulme to the licit and preordained moves of
chess. Having gotten a firm grip on Hulme, Mr.
Davie then so places a fulcrum that he can uproot
withone heave everythinginthe present-daypoetic
landscape: "I get the impression thatHulme'sviews
about the nature of poetical language are the ideas
most generally current, almost the standard ideas,
among poets and their readers today ..." (p. 13;
andd.102).
The short answeris, thatwhatever Hulme'svogue
he can be jettisoned without embarrassment. His
ideas, with their postulation of an opaque universe
handled one wayby"reasoners andmechanists"and
another way by poets, are those of Shelley stripped
of the Defence's jittery eloquence. If his critical
repute is high, it is because most critics still live in
1820. Ofcourse his admirers have beenclaimingfor
thirty years that Imagism, Vorticism, Pound, Eliot,
Lewis, modern poetry, the modern mind, are just
applied Hulme (" through Pound particularly,"
writes Mr. Hynes, " Hulme's theories became
current, and changed the face of English poetry");
butthe inventorsof modern letters have declinedto
endorsesuchclaims. Heis a stimulatingwriter,espe-
cially in the aphoristic writings he didn't publish,
notably the "Cinders" section of Speculations and
the "Notes on Language and Style" in the newer
collection: so heterogenous you can always find
In the Wake of the Anarch 187
186 GNOMON
something you nearly agree with. His death was a
loss to England: he had a persistent howitzer of a
mind which ranged itself by preference on otiose
nuisances; he differed from the ordinary journalist in
his ability to apprehend the subtlest distinctions, and
from the scrupulous philosopher in his tendency to
become obsessed by them once apprehended. The
survivors of his age remember him with evident af-
fection. There is no reason to belittle him. But his
views aren't sufficiently representative of significant
poetic practice to have taken up, for instance, so
much of Mr. Davie's attention, and it is generally by
confounding the actual practice of the twentieth-
century inventors with some Hulmean extreme that
Mr. Davie is misled.
Bending the rays of light, Hulme's proximity
exerts an Einsteinian deformation on Mr. Davie's
treatment of Fenollosa, whose seminal value ("the
only English document of our time fit to rank with
Sidney's Apologie, and the Preface to Lyrical Bal-
lads, and Shelley's Defence, the great poetic mani-
festoes of the past") he is admirably equipped to
register. Thus he notes that Fenollosa is "as insistent
as Hulme that poetry should get close to 'things,'''
then supposes that the way to get at the Fenollosan
essence of "things" is to differentiate his view of
"things" from Hulme's; which is like defining dogs,
in a discussion bedeviled with pigs, by asserting that
they are anyway not porcine. Fenollosa, he states,
"realized as Hulme did not that 'things' were bun-
dles of energies, always on the move, transmitting
or receiving currents of force." True, but off center;
though it is fair to add that Fenollosa himself, re-
futing blindly a Hulmean view of the universe,
thought it was central. We needn't subscribe to a
buzzing vitalism to make use of Fenollosa, only to
a pervading intelligibility. What Fenollosa does is
install us once again in a universe where intelligi-
bility does not need to be imposed by the mind:
Pope's universe and Chaucer's, as well as Shake-
speare's. Such a universe, as Mr. Davie is aware,
restores the possibility of syntax to poetry; it also
makes its use optional. The moment intelligible
things approach one another, "webs of force" spring
into being. Mr. Davie is compelled to argue that on
Fenollosa's own showing "the Chinese sentence . . .
does not just put things together, it moves from one
to another, knitting webs of force." Hence Fenol-
losa's preference for transitive verbs seems essential,
and it is a mistake to claim his authority for a poetic
of juxtapositions; hence also a syntax indifferent to
transitive verbs falls somehow outside Fenollosa's
sphere. But Mr. Davie is compelled to argue in this
way because he apparently supposes that the poetic
microcosm is the statement, a linking of opacities
which diction and tone, both attributes of the au-
thor, not the subject, render pregnant. But the state-
ment can be regarded as a special case, useful when-
ever the "transfer of force" in question has a name:
"John threw the ball." What a ship does to the waves
has no name; so writing "The ship plows the waves"
we operate by analogy from the plow's operation on
the ground, juxtaposing two intelligibles. Formally
this sentence has a verb; but the verb is meaningless
188
without the whole of the analogy. And by extension
of this principle, Dr. Williams can write "By the
road to the contagious hospital ..."-a poem about
a nameless process which is wholly real though
only felt as a potentiality, not a sum or sequence of
actions occurring, subject-verb-object, before one's
eyes-and do it with perfect lucidity with no formal
verb for the first fifteen lines. For the poetic mi-
crocosm isn't the statement but the Aristotelian
action, the process by which the poem gets from
its own first word to its own last word, sometimes
a syntactic process, sometimes not. This action, be-
cause it occurs in arrangements of words, is an intel-
lectual action, traced as the mind moves through
the poem; and it can be called mimesis because it
parallels the similar movements of apprehension per-
formed by a mind moving among intelligible things
and situations, knitting webs of intelligibles. It was
the possibility that the mind could so move, that
Pope's Great Anarch negated. That possibility once
Ii
I
negated, syntax, as Mr. Davie sees and brilliantly
1 '111
shows, is meaningless except as a binder for the
1
stimuli of more or less subtle stock responses. But it
does not follow that on every occasion when formal
I
syntax is absent we have what Yeats described as
11.1' ... 1,1 ill
"mere works of an heroic sincerity, the man, his
1'111
active faculties in suspense, one finger beating time
to a bell sounding and echoing in the depths of his
own mind."
13. Supreme in Her Abnormality
HE ACHIEVEMENT OF MARIANNE MOORE'S VERSION
T
of La Fontaine is to have brought over a number
of the 241 poems virtually intact, and (by dint of
persevering with the least tractable) to have dis-
covered the principles of a badly needed idiom,
urbane without slickness and brisk without impre-
cision. Since Chaucer's fell into disuse, English
verse, constantly allured by the sonorous and cata-
chrestic, hasn't had a reliable natural idiom that can
imitate the speech of civilized men and still handle
deftly subjects more complex than the ones whose
emotions pertain, like Wordsworth's, to hypnotic ob-
viousness; hence nothing existed for a La Fontaine
to be translated into. Pope's ease (as distinguished
from his wit) is slippery, treacherous even in his
own hands; Dryden's directness clangs on iron
stilts; and the "naturalness" of various minor
eighteenth-century compoundings-tinctured by bal-
lads and diluted by preoccupations with nerveless
diction-offers no equivalent at all for La Fontaine's
hard neatness. Miss Moore's best work demonstrates
that a specialization of one language may be the
best possible parallel for the simplicities of another;
the very artlessness with which she can employ a
Latinate diction without sounding as thuugh she had
read Vergil ("Clemency may be our best resource"
for "Plus fait douceur que violence") helps to keep
her least natural locutions in touch with speech.
Her artlessness isn't at all like La Fontaine's trans-
parency; it resembles the "unconscious fastidious-
189
191
19() GNOMON
ness" which she once illustratedbyadducingchild-
ish . . . determination to make a pup eat his meat
from the plate."1 Her air of plunging without pre-
meditation into tortuousness which she subdues am-
bulando is sometimes annoying, butitconfers virtue
too, complicating the plain sense enough to fend off
simplesse. La Fontaine's curiously pastoral urbanity
(not the least like Pope's), his devaluing of lions
andbusy kings, his citation ofself-sufficient foxes or
asses wise too late, and his implicit appeal to the
wisdom of a Greek slave who perceived a wealth
of analogies betweenthe courtly world and the ani-
malkingdombecausehestoodoutsidebothofthem,
presentthe translator withproblemsperhaps greater
than those posed by his intricate rhythms and
rhymes. Previous translators, assuming that the
transparent sense will look after itself, have been
misled into foisting on their author a world of sim-
ple follies from which one can detach oneselfbyan
act as facile as walking out of the zoo, in order to
live by a few simpliste maxims. His situations are
postulated with misleading ease:
Maitre eorbeau, sur un arbre perehe,
Tenait en son bee un fromage;
Maitre renard, par fodeur alleehe,
Lui tint apeu pres ee langage:
Acrowwithsome cheese, and a fox attractedbythe
smell; nothingmore casual (assumingthatfoxes like'
cheese).Thefox has a few conventionalphrases:
1 "Critics and Connoisseurs," in Marianne Moore's Collected
Poems.
Supreme in Her Abnormality
He bonjour, Monsieur du Corbeau.
Que vous etes toli! que vous me semblez beau!
Sans mentir, sivotre ramage
Se rapporte a votre plumage,
Vous etes le phenix des hates de ees bois.
Perceiving, however, thattheFrenchneatnesswould
make for empty English, Miss Moore with incom-
parable deftness complicates the diction very con-
siderably:
On his airy perch among the branches
Master Crow was holding cheese in his beak.
Master Fox, whose pose suggested fragrances,
Said in language which of course I cannot speak,
Aha, superb Sir Ebony, well met.
How black! who else boasts your metallic jet!
If your warbling were unique,
Rest assured, as you are sleek,
Onewould say thatourwoodhadhatched nightingales."
The airy perch," the pose suggesting fragrances,
Sir Ebony," the metallic jet," the warbling," the
sleekness and the nightingales we owe to Miss
Moore; La Fontaine by contrast sketches his situa.
tion with a few swift platitudes. What has hap-
pened, however, is not simply the interposition of a
more crinkly language; the tone, and so our rela,
tionship to the fable, is newly complicated. A peu
pres ce langage" is one of La Fontaine's negligent
gestures of paraphrase; he wasn't there at the time
(as he frequently tells us in other fables), butfeels
it safe from general knowledge of flatterers to as-
sume that the sense was about as follows. Miss
193 192 GNOMON
Moore's deliciously practical "language which of
course I cannot speak" effects at a stroke, however,
the complete separation of this incident from its
human analogies: this is fox- and crow-talk. Hence
the "Sir Ebony," the "metallic jet" and the rest of
the specificities; hence too the pervading strange-
ness of idiom, which she isn't at all atpains to miti-
gate. Intheauthoressof"TheJerboa"and"ThePan-
golin"this strangeness maybeidiosyncrasy,buthere
idiosyncrasy is as good as principle.
2
La Fontaine's
crow, responding to the fox's flattery, "pour montrer
sa belle voix, ouvre un large bee." He reminds us of
a man. But in Miss Moore's version,
All aglow, Master Crowtried torun a few scales,
Risking trills and intervals,
Dropping the prize as his huge beak sang false.
Exquisitely absurd, because he is unambiguously a
crow; and his corvine ungainliness gives the twen-
tieth-century fable an edge the seventeenth-century
ones acquire, in a different language, by different
and more insinuating means.
Mr. Eliot made the fundamental observation about her diction
in 1923: "...a peculiar and brilliant and rather satirical use
of what is not, as material, an 'aristocratic' language at all, but
simply the curious jargon produced in America by universal uni-
versity education. . . . Miss Moore works this uneasy language
of stereotypes-as of a whole people playing uncomfortably at
clenches and clevelandisms-with impeccable skill into her pat-
tern. She uses words like 'fractional,' 'vertical,' 'infinitesimal,'
'astringently'; phrases like 'excessive popularity,' 'a liability rather
than an asset,' 'mask of profundity,' 'vestibule of experience,'
'diminished vitality,' 'arrested prosperity'," In America this jargon
forms part of popular speech; Mr. Eliot was illustrating the prin-
ciple that "fine artis the refinement, not the antithesis, of popular
art."
That a Marianne Moore crow even in a transla-
tion should be unmistakably a crow, not a symbol,
is what we should expect from the use to which
she puts the celebrated animals in her poems. Her
characteristic beast is the only thing of its kind,
prized for its uniqueness ("an aye-aye is not/an
angwan-tfbo, potto,orloris"3);her"zebras,supreme
in their abnormality," and"elephantswiththeir fog-
coloured skin" don't impress us as members of the
animal kingdom but as grotesque individualities;
while the indubitablyhumancat in the same poem
4
who speaks the astringent moral isn't "people" but
a well-remembered person. When she uses an ele-
phant to voice her characteristic theme in "Melanc-
thon":
Openly, yes,
with the naturalness
of the hippopotamus or the alligator
when it climbs out on the bank to experience the
sun, I do these
things which I do, which please
no one but myself . . .
it isn't the elephant's abstract ponderosity that rec-
ommends it to her as a persona: rather, the gesture
it performs by existing at all
(forthe
patina of circumstance can but enrich what was
there to begin with)
"Four Quartz Crystal Clocks."
"The Monkeys,"
I
194
195 Supreme in Her Abnormality
GNOMON
allies itself with her own temperamental taut self-
sufficiency, mutating primness into resilience.
The uncompromising inhabitants of Miss Moore's
zoo, cross-bred with the citizens of the urbane
La Fontaine's hierarchic animal kingdom, lend to an
enterprise endangered by obviousness a jaunty man-
ner of speaking that always arrests and often wholly
entrances the modern reader:
A mite of a rat was mocking an elephant
As it moved slowly by, majestically aslant,
Valued from antiquity,
Towering in draped solemnity
While bearing along in majesty
A queen of the Levant-
With her dog, her cat, and sycophant,
Her parakeet, monkey, anything she might want-
On their way to relics they wished to see. . . .
Every word has its presence, and the tone is inimi-
table. Some of the beginnings (less often the end-
ings) are less happy:
When warm spring winds make the grass green
And animals break from winter captivity,
A certain wolf, like other creatures grown lean,
Was looking about for what food there might be.
As said, a wolf, after a winter that had been hard
Came on a horse turned out to grass....
11111i
' This isn't the way to begin this story, though it is a
desperate attempt to include all the words that are
in the French. La Fontaine, however, arranges them
differently; he begins with the wolf CUn certain
loup dans la saison/Que les tiedes zephyrs ont
l'herbe raieunie ...") and the "Un loup, dis-ie"
five lines later is accompanied by a discreet cough
as he realizes that he has been drawn into digressive
poetizing about the spring. Miss Moore, on the other
hand, began with the spring, then got around to the
wolf, and looks excessively awkward when two lines
later she has to pretend that she is remembering
with a start a subject only just introduced. Given
her opening, omission of the "As said, a wolf" clause
would make infinitely better sense; it is probably a
sound rule in translating to omit what won't func-
tion in your new poem. Whether her native stub-
bornness interfered, or a failure to comprehend La
Fontaine's delicate gesture involved itself with a
determination to render his faults word for word as
well as his beauties, there is no guessing. There is a
third possibility. From an exceedingly odd foreword
to the volume we learn of a condition-presumably
the publishers'-"that Professor Harry Levin exam-
ine the work to ensure a sound equivalent to the
French";5 further that after Mr. Levin's "scholastic
intensities of supervision" Mr. Monroe Engel of the
Viking Press "ameliorated ... persisting ungainli-
nesses"; finally that "as consulting editor at the Press
Malcolm Cowley pronounced certain portions of the
text 'rather far from the French'; he has contributed
lines in addition to pedagogy." With such a com-
mittee at work, one may trust that every word of
the French has gotten represented somewhere; it
Though no one's vigilance prevented "Le fantome brillant
attire une alouette" from getting rendered by". . . allured by his
bright mirroring of her a lark" (p. 131). Surely it was the sun's
reflection, not her own, that attracted her?
196
197
GNOMON
is perhaps surprising that Miss Moore was able to
get away with inserting "Aha, superb Sir Ebony."
It is only her habitual nonchalance that prompts
inquiry into Miss Moore's poetic lapses; their mag-
nitude is seldom sufficient to damage even single
poems, andtheenterpriseas a wholesucceedsaston-
ishingly. As often as not they occur where oddness
of expression (forthe sake of tone) complicates the
sense beyond easy decipherment:
Where in spring find the flowers gardens bore,
LikeFlora's own in bloom athis door?
seems an unnecessarily tortuous way of saying that
Flora's choicest gifts grew in this man's garden.
When Miss Moore gets preoccupied (understand-
ably) with tucking all the words into the given
rhythms and rhyme schemes she frequently pro-
duces what may be the neatest solution to this par-
ticular crossword puzzle, but is not the best way of
conveying the subject at hand in English.
It is often, however, the best way of creating a
climate of mind, notheretofore available in English,
in which the wit of the Fables can thrive. All con-
vincing translation remains miraculous, butthe nor-
mal excellence of this one is surprisingly sustained:
the work of a deliberate and indefatigable intelli-
gence, which earns its reward when the translator's
special diction, personal and by existing literary
standardsimpure, re-creates theFrenchaplombwith
an absoluteness no careful reader is going to ascribe
toluck. Thefable, alreadycited,abouttheratmock-
ing the elephant illustrates this order of triumph as
well as any. Hereis the restofit:
But the rat was not one whom mere weight could
daunt
And askedwhy observers should praisemeresize.
"Who cares what space an object occupies?"
He said. "Size does not make a thing significant!
All crowding near an elephant? Why must I worship
him?
Servile to bruteforce at which mere tots might faint?
Should persons such as I admire his heavy limb?
I pander to an elephant!"
About to prolong his soliloquy
When the cat broke from captivity
And instantly proved what her victim would grant:
That a rat is not an elephant.
199
14. At the Hawk's Well
I: A Parable
HE OLD MAN WAS ASLEEP WHEN THE WATER BUB-
Tbled; the young man, his blood entranced with a
dance, was pursuing the Guardian of the Well when
the water bubbled. Some years after Yeats' death,
a Scholar came to the Hawk's Well. The Dance of
the Guardian bored him, and he began to turn over
his index cards. When he put them down he noticed
a sheen on the stones. "It is lacquer," he said, "clev-
erly applied with a brush. I wonder how she did
that without my seeing her." He put one of the
stones into his pocket for chemical analysis. Then
he noticed that some of the leaves were wet. "The
details are marvelously attended to here," he said.
"If those were lacquered, they would be brittle. It
must be done with tiny glass tubes, by capillary
action, and the water must come from little vials
hidden amid these sticks." He then gathered up all
the leaves and sticks from the dried bed of the well,
took them home with him in a cardboard box, and
in due time wrote a book.
II: Sticks and Leaves
The 900-page selection of Yeats' Letters-"those
which can, in the widest sense, be considered auto-
biographical"-manifests all the disabilities of a
compendium. It is a book to read in, not to read.
Like the Encyclopaedia Britannica, it contains a va-
198
At the Hawk's Well
riety of matter and itself adds up to nothing new,
though numerous sums can be extracted from it. It
is also, through no fault of the editor's, shockingly
incomplete. The letters to Ezra Pound were inacces-
sible in Rapallo; letters to James Joyce were entoiled
in buyer's and seller's red tape; letters to George
Moore were destroyed by the recipient; letters to
Maude Gonne destroyed by the Irish Civil War; let-
ters to William Sharp ("Fiona Macleod") destroyed
unexamined, under instructions, by his widow's ex-
ecutor; letters to Bernard Shaw are concealed in a
mass of documents in the hands of the Public
Trustee, not yet sorted; and "some letters to Lionel
Johnson were lent by Miss Johnson to a gentleman
who was writing a book on that poet, and have not
been heard of since."
Such perforce omissions are especially irritating,
not so much because we are deprived of the kick
of listening in on the intimacies of giants, as because
until late in his life the interest of what Yeats is say-
ing in a letter depends to an unexpected degree on
the person to whom he is saying it. Unlike Mr.
Pound, whom his published letters reveal to have
functioned with the same voltage whatever ear
trumpet he was connected with, Yeats was exceed-
ingly sensitive to the interests and receptivity of the
correspondent. If in conversation, as Olivia Shake-
speare is reported to have remarked, he was "con-
scious only of what he's saying at the moment, ex-
cept sometimes the person he's saying it to," in letter
writing he was, until about the age of fifty, all com-
pliance. Thus on neighboring pages we find him
201
200 GNOMON
writing easy gossip to Katherine Tynan, deferential
second thoughts to an editor:
Thank you very much for the cheque. What you say
about the style of the article is I think true. And one
of the ballads is certainly morbid (the woman about
whom it is, is now in the Sligo madhouse or was there
some while since). However I do not think the Howth
one morbid, though now in thinking it over I quite
agree with you that neither are suitable for a news-
paper.... [38]
-and heavily Briticized irony in a public complaint
about misprints:
Dear Sir, I write to correct a mistake. The curious
poem in your issue of the 19th inst. was not by me,
but by the compositor, who is evidently an imitator of
Browning. I congratulate him on the exquisite tact
with which he has caught some of the confusion of his
master. I take an interest in the matter, having myself
a poem of the same name as yet unpublished. Yours
faithfully, W. B. Yeats. [55]
Within this early prose style, leisurely without dis-
tinction, one observes a constant shifting of center,
a complaisant mutation of what seems too amor-
phous to be called personality, while a mind active
at intervals, like a chameleon's tongue, comes at un-
expected moments into view. The early letters are
mostly taken up with small talk and the practical
details of making a hack's living:
I told you about the man who came and asked me to
do literary notes for the Manchester Courier. They
give me very little trouble and are fairly profitable.
At the Hawk's Well
I got .. 7 for an article in Leisure Hour and have had
two in Scots Observer and I sent off another. The
Scots Observer pays well, about .. 1 a column. These
matters have made the Countess [Cathleen] fare but
badly I shall have a day at the Countess tomor-
row [122]
He even wrote, for money, verses to illustrations sup-
plied by the Tract Society, for publication in the
Girls' Own Paper:
. . . The sunlight flickering on the pews,
The sunlight in the air,
The Hies that dance in threes and twos,
They seem to join her prayer...
This sample he sent, good-naturedly, to Miss Tynan,
to show her, he explained, how orthodox he could
be. "You see how proud of myself I have been for
being so businesslike. I have been making amends
to myself by doing little else than planting sunflow-
ers and marigolds all afternoon." But by the end of
the letter he had lost confidence in the efficacy of
his genial poise; there is an anxious postscript: "Do
not be disgusted at these trite verses for the Tract
Society. I shall never do any more, I think." [122]
That isn't the Byzantine Yeats; but midway in the
same letter we come across this classic paragraph:
What poor delusiveness is all this "higher education
of women." Men have set up a great dull mill called
examinations, to destroy the imagination. Why should
women go through it, circumstance does not drive
them? They come out with no repose, no peaceful-
ness, their minds no longer quiet gardens full of se-
203
202 GNOMON
cluded paths and umbrage-circled nooks, but loud as
chaffering market-places. Mrs. Todhunter is a great
trouble mostly. She has been through the mill and
has got the noisiest mind 1 know. She is always deny-
ing something.... [123]
It is like crossing a sudden loop in time. Yeats might
have written that at sixty; he wrote it at twenty-
four. And there are many such loops. By careful se-
lection one might compile from the first third of the
book (1887-1900) all the elements of developed
Yeatsism: for instance-
Yet this 1 know: 1 am no idle poetaster. My life has
been in my poems. To make them 1 have broken my
life in a mortar.... 1 have brayed in it youth and
fellowship, peace and worldly hopes. 1 have seen
others enjoying, while 1 stood alone with myself-
commenting, commenting,-a mere dead mirror on
which things reflect themselves. 1 have buried my
youth and raised over it a cairn-of clouds. [84]
-not from the decade of The Tower, not from the
year of "The Wild Swans at Coole" and "Men Im-
prove with the Years," but from the months just pre-
ceding the publication of The Wanderings of Qisin
(aetat. 23). The matrix for his famous confronta-
tions of impotent wisdom and uncomprehending
passion is this more fundamental antithesis between
those who participate and the artist whose soul re-
flects.
What portion in the world can the artist have
Who has awakened from the common dream
But dissipation and despair?
At the Hawk's Well
-in 1915 a more trenchant expression, but not a
newly discovered theme. Time, in the conventional
scheme posited by Yeats criticism, has received
credit for bringing him many things which were part
of his initial kit.
What happened with time was not so much that
the essentials were augmented, as that the inessen-
tials were evaporated. The unpurged images of day
recede. The small talk fades from the letters, or is
transmuted into accomplished anecdotage; the con-
cern for practical detail is turned away from his own
affairs, away from fascination with the Robinson
Crusoe mechanics of getting a writer's living, and
directed outward on programs of ameliorative pub-
lic action: the Irish Literary Movement, the Abbey
Theatre, work to be done because it needed doing.
Finally the personality attains the dimensions, and
the confidence, to engulf both gossip and business.
The letters of the last ten years are, unlike all the
rest, continuously exciting. Nothing seems trivial,
and as the time shortens the pace mounts:
. . . One reason why these propagandists hate us is
that we have ease and power. Your tum ti-ta-tum is
merely the dance music of the ages. They crawl and
roll and wallow. You say that we must not hate. You
are right, but we may, and sometimes must, be in-
dignant and speak it. Hate is a kind of "passive suf-
fering," but indignation is a kind of joy. "When 1 am
told that somebody is my brother Protestant," said
Swift, "1 remember that the rat is a fellow creature";
that seems to me a joyous saying. We that are joyous
need not be afraid to denounce.... You say we
204 GNOMON
At the Hawk's Well 205
must love, yes, but love is not pity. It does not desire
to change its object. It is a form of the eternal con-
templation of what is. When I take a woman in my
arms I do not want to change her. If I saw her in
rags I would get her better clothes that I might re-
sume my contemplation. But these Communists put
their heads in the rags and smother. [876]
Three weeks before his death he is writing,
I know for certain that my time will not be long.
I am happy, and I think full of energy, of an energy
I had despaired of. It seems to me that I have found
what I wanted. When I try to put all into a phrase I
say, "Man can embody truth but he cannot know it."
I must embody it in the completion of my life. The
abstract is not life and everywhere draws out its con-
tradictions. You can refute Hegel but not the Saint
or the Song of Sixpence.... [922]
III: Unpurged Images
There is nothing essentially new here. The reader
will already be familiar with the outlines of this de-
velopment from diffident youth to outrageous pas-
sionate sage. It has been for some years the theme
of the standard books about Yeats, which, bending
to the temptations of the subject, have gotten them-
selves written out of a division of interest in which
poetry-the part of himself Yeats designedly gave
to the public-is treated chiefly as a body of evi-
dence throwing light on the personal integration of
an old man now many years dead. He wanted the
integration so as to be more wholly a poet-"Man
can embody truth but he cannot know it"-but one
is led to suppose that it had some independent im-
portance. Dr. JeHares' book is called W. B. Yeats,
Man and Poet; it ends, "He had made himself a
great poet." Mr. Ellman's first book is called Yeats:
The Man and the Masks; in its summary chapter we
read how "with great courage and will, he tried to
become the hero of whom he had dreamed. . . .
His amazing achievement was to succeed partially.
. . . He looked the poet, and he lived the poet."
Even Miss Koch, who pretends (W. B. Yeats: The
Tragic Phase) to guide us through the last poems by
the unaided light of the poems themselves, in fact
does nothing of the kind. Her initial premise is but
the orthodox one inverted: "In old age, Yeats be-
came a great poet but he was more than conscious
that he had not become a great man." She dilates
on the Steinach operation, fusses with interim drafts,
and boxes the bibliographic compass in--of all places
-her discussion of that cryptic but admirably direct
poem "The Statues."
It is arguable that Yeats would be better read if
less were accessible that he didn't mean the reader
of his poetry to see. One advantage of having the
Letters to plow through is that one can learn in an
evening how the principle of obfuscation operates.
We find him thanking Sarah Purser for her "charm-
ing embroidered book cover" (235), or anxiously
writing Lady Gregory about his forgotten trouser
stretcher (543), or requesting Olivia Shakespeare to
send him from a bird shop a bundle of nesting ma-
terial "to help my canaries who are nest-making but
r
206 GNOMON
At the Hawk's Well 207
with sheep's wool and green moss which they dis- i
like" (680), and observe, in the contexts, a progres-
sivetightening. Itis aneffortforhim (1894) toseem
at ease about the book cover, but it is part of the
serene bardic role (1922) to be occupied in the
Tower with his canaries. The random social ges-
tures, we note with satisfaction, are becoming the
very repertoire of the self-dramatizing style. But
there are hundreds ofparagraphs thatwon't fit into
this comfortable progression, and these contain the
very things that Yeats is intent on telling his corre-
spondents, in a constantobsession withstatingwith
exactness somethingofimportance:
It is not inspiration that exhausts one, but art. [87]
The best argumentative and learned book is like a
mechanical invention and when it ceases to contain
the newest improvements becomes, like most things,
not worth an old song. [246]
I hold as Blake would have held also, that the intel-
lectmustdo its utmost"before inspirationis possible."
It clears the rubbish from the mouth of the sybil's
cave butitis not the sybil. [262]
I do not understand what you mean when you dis-
tinguish between the word that gives your idea and
the more beautiful word. [343]
The subjects which people think suitable for drama
getfewer every day. [361]
Drama for them consists in a tension of wills excited
by commonplace impulses, especially by those im-
pulses thatare thedriving force ofrathercommonna-
tures. . . . The commonplace will, that is, the will of
the successful business man, the business will, is the
rootofthewholething. Indeedwhen I seetherealistic
play of our time, even Ibsen and Sudermann, much
more when I see the plays of their imitators, I find
that blessed business will keeping the stage most of
thetime. Whatwould such writers ortheirstage man-
agers do with the mockery king of snow? Or with
Lear upon his heath? [441]
Onething I am now quite sure of is thatall thefinest
poetry comes logically out of the fundamental action,
andthatthe errorof late periods like this is to believe
that some things are inherently poetical, and to try to
pull them on to thescene at every moment. [460]
These are all early; the date of the latest ofthemis
1904. Theirrangeandpointneednocomment. They
exhibitnoneofthedreaminesswehavebeentrained
to expect from the Yeats of that period. Nor, really,
does the context from which they are excerpted,
muchofita tissue ofshrewd maneuvers for earning
necessary money or arranging sympathetic reviews.
Whatdevelopedwasn't the grip ofhis mind,though
it came to grip more and more things; what devel-
oped was the art: specifically, the art of putting
things more and more arrestingly, and setting the
mattersthatinterestedhim incloser, more electrify-
ingrelationshipwithone another. This is a technical
development; whatmakes itlooklike a development
ofpersonality is ourproneness to forget thatwe are
notafterall intouchwitha person, butwithwritten
words.
The reader of the early letters, then, confronted
209
208 GNOMON
by so many things pointing in so many directions,
soon grows inured to their penetrative force and
starts listening to the Yeatsian voice, which grows,
plainly, more assured. In the same way, it is natural
to assume that that is the outline of Yeats' poetic
development too--the personality ramifying, con-
solidating itself, assuming control; hence that what
his published books are "about" is the effort to fabri-
cate a durable self. This is an especially natural
assumption for the reader of the Letters because of
the color it acquires from whatever he remembers
of whatever books about Yeats he may have read:
Mr. Henn's, Mr. Jeffares', Mr. Ellman's. Each of
these writers, one may surmise, has fallen victim to
the experience of reading through a great deal of
material which Yeats did not intend for the public
eye; this is exactly the position of a reader of the
Letters. His ostensible subjects, when he writes for
himself alone or for friends, are so miscellaneous
that one ignores them and attends to the constant
element, the style; and what the developing style
does-so runs the account-is to parallel, as one
mushroom does another, the fostered growth of the
famous personality. Q.E.D.
il :
Hence the Yeatsian critical tradition: an industry
erected on the premise that the coherence of the
II
poetic oeuvre not only reHects supinely some co-
herence lying outside the volumes of poetry them-
II
I selves, but cannot even be said with confidence to
I!I
exist until that external center has been located, de-
II
,I'
ii
limited, and surveyed. The usual procedure is to
II
At the Hawk's Well
play down his activities as too miscellaneous to keep
track of, and offer, as fulcrum, A Vision, of which
Yeats wrote in a letter of 1931,
The young men I write for may not read my Vision-
they may care too much for poetry-but they will be
pleased that it exists. Even my simplest poems will be
the better for it. . . . I have constructed a myth, but
then one can believe in a myth----one only assents to
philosophy. [781]
He was sanguine if he thought that the books about
him would be one day written by these young men
who cared much for poetry. Instead of addressing
themselves to the poems, a brief generation of critics
assaulted the doors of that Gothic fortress, A Vision,
or scrutinizing its interior by periscope reported that
it was full of bats. Worse followed: an immense
limbo, consisting of the poet's diaries, notebooks,
drafts, and unpublished mss., was opened to certi-
fied explorers after his death, and the heady possi-
bility that the clues to what Yeats had been making
lay in his lumber room, or in the chips from his work-
bench, overwhelmed everyone who has so far re-
ported. It is doubtful if what a major writer actually
published has ever been so little trusted.
What you can reconstruct from such materials is
the poet's biography, or one level of it; the current
postulate of Yeats criticism is that the poems de-
pend from the life, not so much the public life as
the inner life, the diary life, and are explicated one
by one in the light of their author's private obses-
sions and self-communings:
',II
Ii
211 210 GNOMON
Caught in that sensual music, all neglect
Monuments of unaging intellect.
One hears at great length what Yeats' notebooks
contained on the subject of Byzantium ("Idea for a
poem . . ." etc.), and receives assurance, from a
letter to Lady Gregory on the death of Mabel
Beardsley, that Yeats didn't invent the rouged
cheeks or the trousered dolls. It grows harder and
harder for the tradition to preserve him as a major
poet, except by an act of assertion, or by transposing
to the verse the impressiveness of the persona of the
last decade. Gradually, in the texture of critical em-
phasis, the poems whose strings lead back to some
inner crisis are allowed to supplant all the rest
(which, when clues tum up, get explicated as puz-
zles ), and no poem is allowed, as Yeats intended, to
explicate its neighbor in the cunningly arranged vol-
umes.
IV: The Water
Yeats, to be sure, had his mind all his life on more
things than the technique of verse. It is fashionable,
however, to apologize for the sort of intellectual in-
terests displayed by a man of his admitted intelli-
gence, while conceding that they did keep his poetry
going: as though their function had been to redupli-
cate the images presented by a sensibility inherently
as limited as a dentist's mirror. No attempt seems
commonly made to gauge the extent to which he
may have held them half in jest. To determine and
weigh his tone is frequently difficult; in A Vision
At the Hawk's Well
and the Autobiographies the significant humor is a
concomitant of weight and tension, like the sheen
at the brink of a massive waterfall. The public Yeats,
executing the Dance of the Guardian of the Well,
had another kind of humor besides, which consisted
in pretending that there was no waterfall at all,
only a few intermittent bubblings among the sticks.
It was the kind that appeared when he spun out-
rageous anecdotes like the one about George Moore
and the three Miss Beams (Autobiography, p. 270),
and while this humor hasn't usually been missed by
his readers, it has tended to obscure the existence
of the former kind, since people are supposed to
have only one way of being funny. Yet the tone in
which the symbolic Moon is adduced, in a remark
(Autobiography, p. 202) about an amorous friend
-"For him 'the visible world existed' as he was
fond of quoting, and I suspect him of a Moon that
had entered its fourth quarter"-isn't as solemn as
expositors of the System would lead us to expect.
For assessing the implications of this tone, and
hence of the System, the volume containing his cor-
respondence with T. Sturge Moore is of peculiar
value, partly because Moore was neither the Public
nor a revered lady, so that Yeats didn't feel it in-
cumbent to generate any of his bardic personae. He
could even smile at them-
I . . . walk about in the sun feeling very old and dig-
nified, and look forward to some weeks of the gardens
of the Alcazar, dropping crumbs to some equally old
and dignified goldfish. [115]
213
212 G NOM 0 N
"I liked him best alone," Moore wrote; "then the
provocative truculence of his talk often gave place
to seductive delicacy." It was the presence of others,
less intimate, such as the reading public, that called
out the sometimes impenetrable provocativeness.
Moore seems to have been a man in whose presence
no public man was tempted to ride a patent high
horse: we even hear of his holding casual conversa-
tion about God with Wyndham Lewis. Certainly
the Yeats who appears in his presence, even in the
thick of philosophical discussion, is the most relaxed
Yeats we encounter anywhere:
You say Bertrand Russell says that Kant smashed
his own philosophy by his doctrine of practical rea-
son. So indeed he does say, and what more can you
expect from a man who has been entirely bald during
the whole course of his life. . . . [124]
Russell's symbolic baldness is a recurring joke; if it
had appeared in A Vision some biographer would
have noted it as an example of Yeats' solemn mysti-
cism. "I am reading that baldpate daily," he writes
in another letter (115); three sentences later he re-
marks of Wyndham Lewis, "What an entangled
Absalom!" This game of arranging his current inter-
ests into whimsical systems keeps peeping through
his side of the correspondence; it was not out of
solemnity that he kept pegging argument after ar-
gument for his own brand of idealism to a phantom
called "Ruskin's cat." This cat (which no one else
could see, and which Ruskin threw out of the win-
dow claiming it was a demon) was adduced by
At the Hawk's Well
Yeats in a letter of 1926; he recurs and recurs in the
correspondence for twenty months. He is just absurd
enough to key Yeats' tone---one paragraph cites the
fact that he "does not seem to have kittens"-yet
the arguments through which he prowls are logi-
cally serious.
Yeats wields his logic ironically, aware that he is
Hashing what his own premises would force him to
regard as a tin sword. He never tires of denouncing
"the rat-catchers and cockle-pickers who would deny
us the right to draw conclusions from those expe-
riences common to all men before they have caught
the last rat and picked the last cockle." Sturge
Moore (whose brother was a philosopher) kept re-
plying courteously and persuasively (the philosophi-
cal phase of the correspondence lasted some six
years, while Yeats was preoccupied with A Vision),
without ever quite grasping the scope of Yeats' cen-
tral intuition-that the data the mind is to take into
account can't be selected by a majority vote. The
worldful of people who did not see Ruskin's cat
didn't worry him in the slightest. The botanist who
has seen an agapanthus or a night-blooming cereus
can't be expected to base his classifications on the
experience of fifty million Higginses who have seen
nothing but daisies and buttercups. "Provocative
truculence" perhaps determined the examples Yeats
chose to underwrite, but the principle is sound. The
least escapable form of tyranny restricts by tireless
suggestion the things we are at liberty to think
about. Like Blake, Yeats was aware that a middle-
class tyranny of this order had been in force since
214 G NOM 0 N
1690. Wyndham Lewis' Time and Western Man,
the fullest account of this racket, has of course itself
been proscribed by the forces it anatomizes; the
public has not been allowed to hear of Lewis, though
it knows all about the expression-aesthetic of Croce,
of whom Yeats remarked that he knew how the bird
got out of the egg but had no notion how it got in
( 113). In the course of the Sturge Moore corre-
spondence we discover Yeats reading Lewis' last
chapters "again and again." "Henceforth I need not
say splenetic things for all is said."
There is still room for a book on Yeats which nei-
ther affords breathless peeps into "his brown calf
1893 Order notebook bearing a rose cross on the
cover and marked PRIVATE," nor numbers every
stone of the great System and its outbuildings for
future identification, like an Irish castle knocked
down for shipment to America, and then heaps
them into piquant effects, like Bouvard and Pecu-
chefs landscaped Garden, nor rehandles the stand-
ard plot in which an earnest young man who did
not know how to do what he wished forged a self
that could do anything it wished at all; but examines
what he had to say.
15. The Devil and
Wyndham Lewis
Nous sommes
La triste opacite de nosspectres tuturs.
The Human Age, WYNDHAM LEWIS ENTERS, AND
I
N
fills with his inimitable voice, very lofty mansions
indeed, challenging, without swank or irrelevance,
comparison with Swift and Milton. That it is surely
the only book in English that brings to mind these
two great writers simultaneously is a measure of
Lewis' authenticity; no one concocting a novelty
would cross-breed such ill-matched giants. Lewis,
the least literary of writers, doesn't reshuffie styles,
he discovers the unique and natural tone of what he
has to say; any likeness to past stylists is a by-
product. What Lewis has to say is, first, that man-
kind must, as a working hypothesis, be considered
as an agglomeration of hopeless brutes, preserved
for consideration by the presence of a very few men
of intelligence, and by the exertions of these men
maintained above a void; second, that this hypothe-
sis, though wrong, must not be replaced by anything
less austere, more sentimental, or merely self-flatter-
ing, but modified by a context of inexplicable gran-
deur ("God values man: that is the important thing
to remember"). One might have expected to be able
to state this second theme more precisely had Lewis
lived to complete the final part, The Trial of Man;
positing and then eroding the first theme is the busi-
215
[I.
I
, I
216 GNOMON
:11
ness of Parts II and III, Monstre Gai and Malign
Fiesta. Lewis did complete a revision of Part I, The
II
I,
Childermass, which served to bring certain disparate
"I
details-Pullman's religion, for instance, or the num-
IIII
,[1
III
ber of World Wars-into accord with the parts pub-
1
1,1
lished twenty-seven years later, but hardly perfected
Illil
a junction between that showpiece of Vorticism and
illl
Il,
the maturer narrative. There is a discrepancy of
I
I"
I'
I
style, readily illustrated; it incarnates a radical dis-
II
III
crepancy of conception. By 1955, Lewis was no
iii!
longer, in the smallest degree, showing off, nor was
I,il
his imagination any longer dominated by the now
III!I faded phenomena of the decade that bungled its
'1,1
chance to remake the world. In The Childermass
III
( 1928) he was bucking not only a massive political
,'1 11"
and philosophical trend, but the most impressively
li'i
,J
staffed and glitteringly publicized literary move-
,1
ment in two hundred years: the age of Joyce, Stein,
Lawrence, Hemingway, the Paris expatriates, the lit-
erary Freudians, and the Bloomsbury set. One of his
intentions was, singlehanded, to outdo them in bril-
liance. Another was to incarnate in a ruthless and
permanent mask that particular grimace of the Zeit-
geist which in "the twenties" came to apotheosis.
These two intentions somewhat interfered with one
another.
The age demanded an image
Of its accelerated grimace
-and was discouraged by a surface of inchmeal py-
rotechnics from learning that it had been accorded
The Childermass and its memorable Bailiff.
The Devil and Wyndham Lewis 217
In thin clockwork cadence the exhausted splash of the
waves is a sound that is a cold ribbon just existing in
the massive heat. The delicate surf falls with the abrupt
clash of glass, section by section. [7]
Virginia Woolf, we concede, couldn't have written
that; unfortunately such a surface is so arresting that
it is difficult to see past it. Everything, for 322 pages,
is in a documentary present tense. The minutest
flashback is rigorously excluded, even from details
of syntax. The long sentences are compound, not
complex: they evade time (on principle) by eschew-
ing the normal gesture of Western syntax, the hold-
ing of one thing in the mind for the duration which
another thing requires to modify it. Lewis (1928)
does not write, "Each time the ass brayed, the man
who was holding it stiffened and straightened up."
He writes: "One holds by the bridle an ass, which
trumpets with sedate hysteria. Electrified at each
brazen blare, its attendant stiffens. He is shaken out
of an attitude to which on each occasion he re-
turns, throwing him into a gaunt runaway perspec-
tive... ." (13) There are three more lines of this;
when you lift events out of time, instead of render-
ing them as processes, you can dilate on them for-
ever; the great difficulty in organizing such writing
is to get to the next idea; it always presents itself
(when you do at length admit it) abruptly, a new
card from the deck. The determined reader gets the
hang of the book by discerning and connecting pas-
sages in which the doctrinaire objectivity of presen-
tation locks, somehow, with the theme. This account
218 GNOMON
of the locale, for instance, induces malaise, like the
mise en scene of the newspapers:
Thescene is steadily redistributed, vampedfrom posi-
tion to position intermittently at its boundaries. It
revolves upon itself in a slow material maelstrom.
...Never before have therebeen so many objects of
uncertain credentials or origin: as it grows more in-
tricate Pullman whisks them forward, peeringinto the
sky for lost stars twirling aboutas he has to face two
ways atonce, onthequi vive for thenewsetting,fear-
ing above all reflections, on the look-out for optical
traps, lynx-eyedfor threateningambushesofanomalous
times behindthe orderly furniture of Space, or hidden
in objects to confute the solid last moment....[35]
Wehavereadenoughaboutthepostwarbreakupof
a settled order---{)r at any rate read enough com-
mentaries on The Waste Land-not to find this I
I
phantasmagoric landscape baffling. It is dominated
by the walls of a Magnetic City, supposed to be
Heaven, which everyone wants to get into. Vast
troops ofpeople who have died out of life on earth
are assembling in the plains to await interrogation
and possible admission. Theyrecall verylittle ofthe
past, find the small shocks of the new life--espe-
III
dallyits costumes---{)utrageous until gotten used to,
iii I and settle down to await a millennium which seems
I" i
interminably postponed by noisy public discussions.
[II'
Iii
"The ice is broken," the doll-like Satters reflects on
II his new state. "Fresh bearings have to be taken.
Ii'i'
'i:
New worlds for old-allis in the melting pot" (5).
These are the cliches of the twenties; gradually it
,III
dawns onus thatwhat the souls atthis Feastof the
iii
III
'Ii
',I "
Ii
II!
Innocents have been catapulted into is the ante-
chamber of the Marx-Lawrence-Transition-Bertrand
Russell-Daily Mirror heaven, and that the "peristal-
tic process" by which they have been extruded on
thisplain, feeling"as natural ...thankstothe effi-
cient nature of . . . the process of psychic mum-
mification they have undergone, as though it were
their natural life that they were still enjoying," was
simply the highly salvationist alchemy of the Great
War. The Bailiff, at whose daily court proceedings
for admission to the Cityare supposedtobe carried
on, is a protean Mr. Punch, a shameless entertainer,
a vulgarizer of useful ideas, and (possessingno per-
sonal center distinguishable from the congeries of
effects he produces) a tireless mimic. His official
status is ambiguous, but his artistic use is clear: he
is the incarnate Zeitgeist, the irresponsible clownish
will behind the linked political, philosophical, and
aesthetic programsofthe 1920s. Hecanmimic Law-
rence, Joyce, or Stein, delude like Bergson, pontifi-
cate like the BBC, or coruscate with the purposeful
breeziness of a newspaper pundit. The Lewis who
created this figure is one of the great virtuoso per-
formers ofliterature, convincingus bysheer vitality
and technical resourcefulness thatthe Bailiff, for all
his shoddiness, is a focus of energy, of mythological
proportions, the incarnate implacable frivolity, in
fact, that makes the quotidian world go round. He
so fastens on the magnetized reader's imagination,
and so fills it, that when Miss Stein rhapsodizes
about Tender Buttons, or Professor Whitehead in-
vokes his magical flux, or pages of glossy advertise-
220 GNOMON
il
ments exude the good fellowship of abstract busi-
II!
ness, we grow accustomed to reflecting that it is
i!!
simply an aspect of the Bailiff that is performing.
There seems to be no precedent for the creation '!.I
"
I:
of a satiric figure whose reality so obliterates that
I
I!'I
of the milieu out of which he is drawn. A Volpone,
I;!
"'i by contrast, isn't an age, or an omnipresent force,
iii
I;,
but simply a permanent human type among other
i":
Ii,
'.1
types. One reason why the Bailiff has no predeces-
Iii
sors is thattherehas beenno previousneedfor such
",Ii
a creation. Swift, for instance, dealt with material
'I
ofsufficient structure to be brought within the con-
ii!I!I.1
,ii'
fines of such a communal image as Lilliput. He cre-
!I'ili
ated mock commonwealths. It was one of Lewis'
I"
key insights, that one could do nothing with such a
time as his own but personify it. Its phenomena
aren't rationally interrelated, they merely cohere,
with the restless radiance of a Bergsonian "person."
"Our period is like a person, in short," Lewis wrote
in the first number of The Enemy, "just as we are
less and less like one; the secret ofits beingis tech-
:11
,ii'
nically expressed in terms of'mass-psychology'."
:!I'
To this gay monster, "what every creature ought
I:!
'!'I
ill'l
to understand is thathe is never worth a fraction of
'I'
'I
the trouble we take with him here" (221). His
1:1
I',
Heaven, a miscellaneous clutter of fa'.;ades like a
Ii
111
.1 Paris art movement-"the upper stages of wicker
,II towers; helmet-like hoods of tinted stucco; tama-
risks; the smaragdine and olive of tropical vegeta-
tions; tinselled banners; gigantic grey-green and
speckledcones, risinglike truncatedeggs from a sys-
tem of profuse nests; and a florid zoological sym-
bolism ..." (7)-this place is, he explains confi-
dentially, "in the truest sense an asylum, and our
patients are our children" (224). The sensational
milieu over which he presides makes no sense; it
isn't the coherent product of some man's will, like
the Caliph's Design of Lewis' 1919 parable, nor the
fulfillment of an orderly document like Jefferson's
Constitution, but an assemblage of time-serving
whims, "built in a bare thinking cube innocent of
the compass, a microcosm indifferent to physicalpo-
sition, nowhere innothing" (222). Itis a vulgar sen-
sational corruption of what might have been ex-
pectedto ariseintheclearingleftbytheWar. Lewis
hadwritten, in 1921, ofa newepochinwhich"crea-
tures of a new state ofhuman life, as different from
Nineteenth Century England, say, as the Renais-
sance was from the Middle Ages" might move "for-
ward, and away from the sealed and obstructed
past."
A phenomenon we meet, and are bound to meet for
some time, is theexistence of a sort of No Man's Land
atmosphere. The dead never rise up, and men will not
return to the Past, whatever else they may do. Butas
yet there is Nothing, or rather the corpse of the past
age, and the sprinkling of children of the new. There
is no IDature authority, outside of creative and active
individualman, to supportthe new anddelicateforces
bursting forth everywhere today.
[Editorial in The Tyro, No.1]
Instead there had burst forth-it is true, in a No
Man's Land-the Sitwells, Miss Stein, Bergson, Be-
haviorism, a hundred inanities devoid offocal inter-
1
1
11 111:
I11I
I
ill.. III, 222 GNOMON
.
II
est but symptomatic of a dismally cheery freudo-
II
I'I!.'
1":
marxist collectivism, the frivolous annihilation of all
i!III,11 that traditionally won't herd. "Whatare your inten-
tions as regards the mass of men, wicked or char-
itable, old mole?" a Lewisian spokesman twits the
II
! Bailiff. "You know, you sugaryruffian, ofwhatqual-
ity is your charita! Heaven preserve us from-your
Heaven!" (153).
II
Amidthe greatdebatebetweenthis figure andthe
!ili
'II
"
Bailiff The Childermass breaks off, possibly in part
'II,..
because, in order to go on, Lewis needed to know
111
more about the inside ofthat celebrated Heaven. It
,II
is facile to say that he at length got on with the 1
work after the Magnetic City had finally material-
ized itselfaround him for detailed inspection as Mr.
Attlee's Welfare State; facile because, though Mon-
stre Gai draws heavilyonthewriter's experiences in
postwar Britain, he has raised those experiences
from the plane of ebullient documentation atwhich
he presents them inRotting Hill (1951) to a dimen-
sion of fantasy whose function is to make the near-
Sartrean absurdity of life in the Bailiff's bailiwick
crushingly real. An image of this nauseous reality
occurs early in the new book; from "abare thinking
cube . . . nowhere in nothing" the protagonists of
The Childermass are translated into "a cheerless
twentieth century side-street," uncompromisingly
physical, which epitomizes what lies behind the cy-
clopean battlements:
Meanwhile, the bodies of both Satters and Pullman
were subjectto internaldisturbances of some violence.
. . . Thena sensation, originating in thebladder, gave
him a clue: for neither the bladder nor intestines had
played any part in his life in the camp. He had not
made water since his death on earth. Satters whis-
pered, hoarse and urgent, "I must find a urinal!"
Like the personnel of a circus parading a mediter-
ranean city, the Bailiff's bigdrums, thuddinglike artil-
lery, wheeled into a grandiose boulevard.
"Is this Heaven?" Pullman at last blankly inquired
ofthe air. ItremindedhimofBarcelona. TIlls, like the
Rembla, was a tree-lined avenuewithhugepavements,
across whichcafesthrusthundredsoftablesandchairs,
to the edge of the gutter....[ll]
The novel necessities of the body ("'I say, I just
can'twait anylonger!' Hewas stampingabout, with
his hands in his trousers pockets") and the idiocies
of the cafe-lounging populace (for whom, with a
pension adequate to keep them at the cafe all day
and indulge their love of pink hats, hand-painted
ties, and strident socks, it is without qualification
Heaven) receive sufficient stress in the first thirty
pages of Monstre Gai to posit a new kind ofworld,
whichis infact a newangleofvision onthispresent
world. Their fidelity in sustaining this unique vision
would alone entitle these books to rank among
Lewis' principal artistic achievements. Here is Pull-
man's response to what would be in an ordinary
piece of fiction a commonplace enough experience,
a glimpse into a vacantly exhilarated crowd:
. . . Lastly came three, who had not the vigour to
think about a sock. Their mouths hung open beneath
stupidly smiling eyes, their skins like vellum, their
teeth like a mummy's; they encouraged one another
224 GNOMON
to laugh-for if you cannot think you can always
laugh-at the stars. They seemed to believe that these
were bubbles of light, and that they might at any mo-
ment burst. Pullman would have said that they were
showing off for the benefit of the strangers, but they
seemed too absorbed in themselves to be doing that:
their eyes, also, looked aloof and demented. . . .
"Vacuous as London is," Pullman observed, "it does
not manufacture a citizenry so mentally void as you
do."
Their guide received this with a laugh so harsh and
troubled that Satters was visited with an icy touch of
goose-flesh, and Pullman glanced sideways inquiringly.
Were these skeletons in somebody's cupboard?-Was
Mannock responsible for this lunacy? Mannock's voice
was as uneasy as his laugh had been, and all he said
was, "We are not all like that." [18]
Lewis can not only make mere commonplace idiocy
chilling ("Everything to do with human life is, was,
and always will be a little terrifying"), he can ren-
der casual hostilities with imperishable directness:
"Pulley, 1 say, these people give me goose-flesh. 1
feel I am walking among dead people, Pulley, all of
them cracking jokes."
"So you are," Pullman told him. "Can you smell
them?" ...
"Ugh, ugh, Pulleyl" How sad they look, don't they?
When they make a crack their faces break up into a
hundred tiny little wrinkles."
There was a croak in their ear, "You two stop whis-
pering. We don't allow that. All cards on the table."
Pullman half-turned round, and said, "My friend is
so young that is why we whisper. We won't any more."
"1 don't mind," shrugged the mask-and it was so
terribly like a mask that Pullman felt that that was
what in fact it might be. This one had a monocle, and
he fluttered his hands. "1 am a newcomer myself."
"1 don't think you are, buddy," Pullman blew at
him through his beard.
"1 think you're a horrid old man." There was a nasty
look in the eye of the mask. "Go away . . . and have
a good wash. You are filthy both of you. You stink."
Pullman drew Satters away, towards one of the
shops.... [44]
This isn't Swiftian: there is no rictus. When the
Legions of Hell visit their thunders on the City,
Lewis portrays with equal impartiality the victims
("Beneath him Mannock lay trembling on the floor,
but it was an automatic rattle of his flesh, not one at
which his consciousness assisted. He adhered to the
floor like a piece of paper, a gasp stifled and stuck,
his mouth as round as a penny-piece. Satters' head
adhered to Pullman's body at about the level of the
hip, like an unsightly wen of dough texture. He was
quite motionless. It was a stricken group") and the
violence (. . . three or four mammoth voices on
high, crashing out the alphabets of Heaven and of
the Pit. The nasal tongues of giant viragos at one
time conducted a screaming argument among the
clouds, which, if translated, was totally absurd. . . .
The giant sounds shrank to a hubbub of monkeys,
and a psittacine screaming. As abruptly as it had
begun this chaotic orgasm ended ...").
Behind that crisis lies a London air raid; behind
the street throng lies a London street; behind the
226 GNOMON
men who laughed at the stars lies, say, a vignette
of Boat Race Night. It is with surprise, long after
finishing the book, that one so reflects; within the
book the phantasmagoria imposes its own reality,
capacious enough to handle, without change of man-
ner, an encounter between giant angels:
With the little garments of a mere six-footer hanging
from them in loops and wisps, two vast nudities rose
into the air and disappeared over the roofs. But they
made their exit buttocks uppermost.... Hell's mes-
senger protruded against the azure sky an anchovy-
coloured balloon. But this was immediately succeeded
by an upsurge of pink limbs, of enormous size, climb-
ing up on top of the darker element; and that is how
they actually vanished behind the roofs, a picture in
pink, wine-brown and azure, the last things seen being
three or four violently agitated feet, pink feet and
brown feet, the still tumbling spikes of twenty toes
signalling the agitation beneath. [110]
What Lewis has succeeded in doing is to engulf the
reader, for the first time, with the clinical aloofness
from which his books have always been written, so
that one is no longer aware of the showman's per-
sonality. The absurdity seems not a way of seeing
the material but intrinsic with the material. This
inane city, one reflects, is one Wyndham Lewis has
long inhabited. It is Tarr's Paris, or Victor Stamp's
London, with the whimsical sensations of the old
Lewis style withdrawn.
Not that James Pullman, the protagonist and ob-
server, is Wyndham Lewis; though he was in life
the greatest writer of his time (the encomium comes
from the Bailiff) he shares with Lewis only the fa-
miliar penchant for eloquent analysis, and the indif-
ference to sensual blandishments. Like Rene Har-
ding in Self Condemned-whose fate, an imprisoned
spectator in Hell, with no Dante's return ticket, is
oddly parallel-Pullman repudiates improprieties
not to his taste with a vehemence that affords a clue
to the corruption beneath his detachment. His plight
images that of the intelligent man in a world which
seems to offer him nothing but a variety of ways of
selling himself. In one of the most hair-raising scenes
in the book he dismisses a valet who attempts to
augment the luxuries of the womanless City by
pathic seduction:
Pullman glared drearily at Sentoryen. "My imagina-
tion is defective," he replied. "It would be no use try-
ing to believe that you were a glamorous screen star.
Apart from the question of certain outstanding ana-
tomical details, you have not the necessary lovely
husky voice."
The young man sprang up and began pacing up and
down.
"Very well, very well. You will go to seed sexually!
Just because I have not got ... oh fou-eel ... a
great apparatus teeming with germs, chock full of dan-
gers . . . of which a somewhat milder form of leprosy
is not the worst-just because I have not got the fa-
mous female stink you scorn my proposal!" He flung
himself into a bandy-legged attitude, with a transfor-
mation of his face into the mask of a repulsive zany,
by developing a sparkling squint and pouting his lips
out in an obscene smile-snatching a cyclamen from a
vase within easy reach, and sticking it in his thick
228 GNOMON
hair, the stalk finding a foothold behind his ear, ac-
quired the Howery symbol of the female.
"Like that, would you love . . . me more!" he cried.
Pullman continued to stare at this performance--
hostilely however.
"Can you find nothing disgusting to do," he jeered,
"to provide yourself with the authentic female whiff?"
[187]
Yet when the Bailiff attempts to recruit him as an
ally in the power struggle that ferments behind the
fa<;ade of the City, Pullman's "impassible calm ...
which hid an implacable refusal to be deceived"
( 177) is undermined by the Bailiff's elementary
flattery of literary vanity. Offered life in the com-
fort to which he has always believed himself en-
titled, in an apartment whose living room or sitting
room, in addition to "everything a human being can
want, either for sitting or living," contains brand
new copies of two of his own best books, Pullman
sinks into "the silken billows of a sumptuous settee,"
exclaiming, "This is authentic! This, beyond the
shadow of a peradventure, is Heaven."
What unites Pullman to the Bailiff, Pullman tells
himself, is simply the Bailiff's willingness to support
"the literary god, James Pullman by name." He re-
assures himself that he has made no compromise.
"Pullman claimed full independence; would be quite
capable of criticizing this all-powerful magistrate,
and would take sides with him under no circum-
stances. His tenancy of 400 would in no way change
that." Thus Pullman rationaliZing; but what really
unites them is their shared distaste for the human
I'
aggregate. Pullman feels set above it as a man of
intelligence, the Bailiff as a man of power, a super-
natural transposition, Pullman comes to realize, of
"gangster-wealth at its most irresponsible:' Later he
has a bad half-hour reflecting that he is repeating
the pattern of his life on earth:
It was made clear to you that the role which had been
yours on earth was essentially diabolic. To your con-
fusion, your faithfulness to your earthly part in this
play led you into the strangest supernatural company.
. . . as in my. own case, you would find yourself in-
volved with a powerful demon, whereas on Earth he
would merely be dear old so-and-so, a rich patron of
the arts, or a go-ahead publisher. [263, 265]
Truncating these morose reflections, however, he
elects anew for the Bailiff, as "the supernatural
agent, paradoxical as that might seem, most favour-
able to man" (267). So when the Bailiffs Palace is
destroyed by supernatural invaders, who come pro-
voked by this plausible rogue's villainies and pecu-
lations, Pullman and his side-kick Satters accompany
the gay monster on a flight through space to his city
of origin, which men know as Hell.
Hell, the Bailiff has been explaining, is much ma-
ligned by childish tales. By comparison with Third
City, it is an intellectual center. His own father, the
Bailiff recalls, having been sent there through a mis-
understanding, married and "followed the calling of
most of its inhabitants . . ."
"Which is what?" Pullman interrupted.
"Oh, nothing much, psychology mostly. "
230 GNOMON
"A citygivenuptopsychology?Thatis exceptionally
unusual, is it not?"
"I have always rather felt that myself, Pull-
man...."
Notlongafterhis arrivalas a touristtrappedinHell,
Pullman learns more about this "psychology" from
the Bailiff's elderly mother, a sepulchral crone who
partakes withher guest in one of the most electrify-
ing luncheon dialogues in English fiction. Her late
husband, itseems, was supervisor of Dis.
'What, Madam, is Dis?" Pullman inquired.
"Oh yes, it is where people are punished for their
sins. . . . There are no people in this city other than
those doing Dis work. There are only Us and the Sin-
ners-and you are not Us. See? ..."
"Ahl" declared Pullman. "Ah!"
"What do you mean, Ah?" the old lady demanded.
"Oh, I meant Hum."
The old lady burst into shrieks of antinomic merri-
ment. "Oh you!" she howled. "If you were a Sinner,
and I were your guardian, I would tickle your pretty
feet, and draw out your banter." . . . [324]
When Pullman remonstrates with the Bailiff-
"It is hardlythecharminglittleburgyoudescribed,"
the Bailiff's rejoinder is final:
"Haveyou seen thefires of Hell so far? Is this street
not a normal streetin a modern city?"
Pullman was silent. [323]
The astonishing achievement of Malign Fiesta-
surely Lewis' most continuously powerful piece of
writing, not excepting the second half of Self Con-
demned-is this representation of a Hell deprived
of romance, continuous with civic normality and
quiet. In one respect he surpasses Milton and even
Dante: he contrives an Inferno of overwhelming
power while making no attempt to be picturesque,
or evocative, or to intimidate. He is not interested,
like Dante, in the gradations ofsin andpunishment;
sin, in fact-this is one way ofcharacterizinghis in-
tensely tragic art-was never a subject of much
interest to Mr. Lewis. So it is on the technology of
Hell that he concentrates, and he has in this sphere
the advantage over Dante of writing in a century
that has so mechanized death and suffering that it
can organizehumanbrutalitywith managerial calm.
A burning heretic was a strident admonition to the
faithful, a set piece of fiery secular rhetoric; in Bel-
sen, from which Lewis has drawn numerous hints-
as he has also from the assembly-line methods of
hospitals and slaughterhouses-human annihilation
was organized as a problem in waste disposal, to be
carried out by Yahoos whose animal sadism entered
into the calculations of planners who did notneces-
sarily share it. All Lewis' polemic accounts of what
scientific detachment may mask come to fruition in
the account of Pullman's guided tour through the
House of Dis ("'His eyes will have been burnt out
of his head,' Hachilah said, 'and his lips must have
dropped into thefire. I believe I saw the skin drop-
ping'"). The Lord Sammael (Lewis' Satan) main-
tains specially bred beasts, part man, part goat,
whosefaces bear"agoatishgrimaceofineffableself-
232
GNOMON
satisfied lubricity," for woman Sinners to be flung to.
He describes the sounds with which they rend their
prey with a biologist's detachment "I have a record-
ing of it, a number of discs. If you like, I will let you
hear it") but actually to deliver a victim to their
mercies he regards as an ordeal.
"You must regard me as an out-and-out brute," and
the lord of Hell made a self-amused grimace. "I really
am much less of a brute than 1 appear. Those animals
fill me with horror, they cause me such inexpressible
disgust that it is as much as 1 can do to go near them.
But that is physical and visible, nasal and visual; and
the Women-Sinners disgust me even more. 1 realize
that that is a little obsession. But what can you expect
of an angel!" . . . [377]
Sammael's hatred of man is nearly metaphysical
("that small scale, short lived imitation, Man, was
nothing short of a scandal"); so, oddly enough, is
his more melodramatic attitude to woman, by whom
he is affected "as some people are affected by cats."
When he calls her "that nastiest innovation of my
colleague 'God the Father'-the nursery, the pro-
creative side of Man," he voices not a deflected sex-
ual development but an Angel's aesthetic distaste for
the messiness of procreation. "What he most looked
like was an American of high managerial class, In-
dian blood, perhaps, accounting for an invincible
severity." He is a tireless moralist, but he barely dis-
tinguishes the Sins. Though sexual activity disgusts
him more than anything, and though some of God's
code of sin he considers fatuous, he is willing to take
any misbehavior as confirming his estimate of the
"nasty little animals" sent him for punishment. "On
principle, I approve of punishing Man just for being
Man: but I do not enjoy playing the bourreau." He
is an intelligent being and a fascinating Puritan; a
1\
considerable artistic improvement on Milton's curled
Antony and a good deal less susceptible of Byronic
vulgarization.
In part, of course, he is the satiric impulse car-
ried to an insane extreme; did not Lewis argue, in
Men Without Art (1934), that satire is a metaphysi-
cal, not a moral, criticism of Man? "An animal in
every respect upon the same footing as a rat or an
elephant, I imagine you would agree-man, except
for what the behaviourist terms his word-habit, is
that and no more, except for his paradoxical 'rea-
son'." Aware of this paradox, the reason itself-so
ran Lewis' argument-"the god in us," explodes
with laughter. The satirist, however, confronted by
Man, does something. And so does the Lord Sam-
mael. Sammael stands aloof from human affairs,
from beer and skittles and fornication. He is not the
Devil of romance, who occupies himself endlessly
with entangling man in wily snares. He is a punisher
merely; one cannot imagine him inducing Eve to
take an apple. That would have been the work of the
Bailiff, a vulgar devil, who is also The Diabolical
Principle of Lewis' 1931 polemic against the mon-
grelization of European art, and The Demon of
Progress in the Arts excoriated in his 1954 assault
on "the dead hand of the new" and its" 'daring' ex-
tremes which end in an insane zero." In both these
polemic books Lewis is attacking activities with
234 GNOMON
which his own are often confused; on the first page
of The Demon of Progress in the Arts he points out
that he was England's first abstract painter. So folk-
lore-this is Sammael's account-confuses the inter-
fering Bailiff with the Lord Sammael, who stands
apart from men's actions and annihilates whatever
men are delivered into his demesne. Malign Fiesta
is Lewis' explicit separation between Wyndham
Lewis the artist and such a figure. Lewis has habit-
ually, as a satirist's strategy, dramatized the assump-
tion that only one's self is real, and he has been able
to make that seem a necessary assumption for con-
ducting an equilibrized life. Toward the close of
Malign Fiesta, however, Pullman is shocked into
reflection:
God values man: that is the important thing to remem-
ber. It is this valuing that is so extraordinary ... The
only value for Sammael is solipsistic. I, Pullman, am
acting in a valueless vacuum called Sammael. [528]
This is one of the bridges into The Trial of Man; we
should have expected to read more about the grounds
of this valuing.
Lewis' extraordinary success in rendering con-
vincingly the angelic mentality should be attributed
to the fact that in forty years' practice he never
sought to master the conventional novelist's way of
rendering human beings. His unintelligent charac-
ters, the Kreislers and Dan Boleyns, he always pre-
sented externally and comically, as though making a
virtue of a certain bafHement at how intelligent fic-
tion can manage with people who incarnate them-
selves in trivialities. The comical schoolboy Satters
is dragged through The Human Age at Pullman's
heels in token acknowledgment of such a dimension
of existence. His intelligent characters aren't ordinary
men who in addition make bright conversation, like
Aldous Huxley figures; they operate out of their
analytic intelligence, with a disconcerting directness
to which new readers commonly have great difficulty
refocusing the expectations they bring to a book
labeled "fiction." These men, whether half-mad like
Rene Harding, or detached like Tarr, or untalented
but tenacious like Victor Stamp, all belong to the
camp of genius, a human type in which Lewis is
fiction's only specialist. The Lord Sammael belongs
to this class of figures, and is presented by similar
techniques; his actions and his superbly functional
eloquence, not his mannerisms, occupy the writer's
attention. James Pullman is such another; and he
and Sammael come to a fatally intimate understand-
ing. Before Malign Fiesta is over, Sammael is em-
ploying Pullman as his Machiavellian adviser (the
angelic intelligence isn't tortuous, and needs to con-
sult an expert in that human specialty) in a scheme
to diversify the angelic perfection with a human
admixture, by wedding the dark angels to female
sinners. The Angels have been living a Hollywood
existence in Frank Lloyd Wright houses, undeviat-
ingly perfect but for the most part stupid. Perfection,
it seems, implies an exclusivity of function which
leaves no room for the self-knowledge which in
Lewisian terms is the ground of intelligence, and so
intelligence is as rare among angels as among men.
236 GNOMON
The Cowboy, the Aristocrat, the great Athlete, the
Ace airman; each in his way is a perfect being, but
completely stupid.... Now to be a real angel, and.
just on the same principle, to be God, you must be en-
tirely stupid. Weare compelled deeply to admire such
perfections. And it is in no way to take away from the
splendid pre-eminence of God-in no way to diminish
one's awe of His might-if one said one did not desire
to be God, or to be an angel. . . . Only what is in-
telligent really interests me. Perfection repels me: it is
(it must be) so colossally stupid. Here-in Third City
-we are frail, puny, short-lived, ridiculous, but we
are superior, preferable to the Immortals with which
we come in contact. [165]
Thus Pullman theorizing in the comparative aloof-
ness of the Magnetic City. Perfection also bores
Sammael, so Pullman finds himself, like a number of
previous manifestations of Wyndham Lewis, "brood-
ing up another world," fertile in shoddy expedients
for consolidating a Human Age in Hell's Angeltown,
complete with girls, false noses, squirting flowers,
water polo, the gimcrack machinery of an infernal
Festival of Britain sufficient (but for the stupidity of
the angels, and the absorption of Pullman in techni-
calities) to bring all things human into eternal dis-
repute. The Malign Fiesta is a perfect orgy of human
silliness. Pullman, more Bailiff-like than ever, is once
more repeating the pattern of his life on earth, once
more placing his intelligence at the disposal of the
regnant focus of power; and there is nothing more
II[i
terrifying in the book than the sudden intimation,
II arriving from Heaven that he has sold his soul to
III
'\
I
the veritable Devil and is being narrowly watched.
Malign Fiesta ends, as did Monstre Gai, with the
destruction of his current patron's palace; Heaven,
enraged at this corruption of the Divine, moves in,
and at the climax of the effortless bombardment an
ocean of light seemed to have settled down around
the lair of the Lord Sammael-who, Pullman
thought, would use that telephone no more" (566).
In the last sentences Pullman is being carried off
by two of God's angels, to assist at the Trial where
human triviality and human value were to be brought
into confrontation in a heavenly forum stage-man-
aged by the man who, more than any other novelist
of the twentieth century, devoted his incomparably
lively intelligence to these uncompromisingly funda-
mental themes.
Addendum-The Trial of Man
Since the last book of the tetralogy remained un-
written when Wyndham Lewis died in March 1957,
the available clues to his intention seem worth put-
ting on record. The original plan extended to three
books only, and the first version of Malign Fiesta. a
radio script commissioned by the BBC, closes with
the annihilation of Pullman by an enormous foot.
Accidentally stepped on by an angel, one of the Lord
SammaeI's mustering host, he underwent the gratui-
tous violent death which terminates all other Wynd-
ham Lewis novels.
Subsequently Lewis began to envisage a fourth
phase for Pullman's extra-terrestial career. In the
r
238 GNOMON
published text of Malign Fiesta the "enonnous san-
dalled foot, the size of a German fann-cart," crashes
down instead on Satters' cherished peony, a miracu-
lously beautiful plant "from the Far-East of the Earth.
There physical beauty was understood. The Euro-
pean believed he had evolved spiritual beauty of a
high order-but did the spiritual product ever come
up to this physical perfection?" Though the spiritual
is corruptible, as Pullman and the dark angels have
demonstrated, the physical (the province of the
artist who was for fifty years belligerently concerned
with the outside of things) is capable of unam-
biguous perfection. Itis this that the dark angel mon-
strously destroys: "The glass case and the peony
vanished beneath this awful tread, and when the
angers foot rose and swept onward there was noth-
ing left but a crushed handful of glass and a mean-
ingless mash of vegetation."
Pullman, on the other hand, the corrupted spirit, is
carried off forcibly to Heaven: knowing "that he
~ i
should never have assisted at the humanization of
Ii
the Divine-because he was now in the divine ele-
ment."
II
In a letter of August 29, 1955, Lewis amplifies this
Ii
theme:
,I
I'
II The Human Age is the title at present of what I
I
have done, but I am proposing to write a further book
which will necessitate an alteration of the overall title.
II You will notice that Malign Fiesta significantly ends
" 'I
with two White Angels carrying off Pullman. He finds
:'1
himself, in the final book, in the Celestial Camp. This
II is very much to his satisfaction.
I
I
Monstre Gai shows him entrapped by the Bailiff, in
whose power he reluctantly remains. There is a passage
in that book in which he analyses his dilemma (it oc-
curs in the covered walk along the side of Tenth
Piazza). The Bailiff is, of course, not Divine. Then
the same situation is repeated in Malign Fiesta, only
even more tragically, and the figure in that case is
Divine, though Diabolic.
In the last book of all the hero, Pullman, is at last
in Divine Society. He favours the Divine. I favour the
Divine. There is a gigantic debate, in which Sam-
mael's purpose to combine the Human and the Angelic
is discussed, the Celestial spokesman naturally attack-
ing Sammael's big idea.
He repeated that Pullman was a most unwilling
adjutant of the Lord Sammael in his denaturing of
the Angelic. "In order to save his life Pullman gives
it his support. But Pullman is, of course, an adherent
of the Divine, not of the Diabolic."
Two months later Lewis had finished the manu-
script of The Red Priest, a novel about a more-than-
life-size tortured servant of the Divine whose rela-
tions with Russia are less reluctant than those of
Pullman with Sammael. Father Augustine Card sees
England in the 1950s metamorphosing into some-
thing like. Sammael's severe domain. "England is not
on the way to being a second Sweden, with the
beautiful houses of working men, whose rooms glow
with the inside of forest trees-not that, but a sort
of Methodist's model of Russia." That being the
case, the Red Priest defines his alliance with the dia-
bolic. "I know where power is, and power is where
240 GNOMON
I must be. It is no longer a matter of waving a red
Hag with a schoolboy fierceness, but the necessity of
getting as near as possible to a vodka-tippling diplo-
mat-near enough to the Black Throne to get a little
straight news from the other side of Nowhere."
Lewis was winding up his intellectual affairs; though
the execution falters badly, the intention of this
Hawed and hasty book was to ally the themes of his
political works with the uncompromising eschatology
of The Human Age. Father Card's communism has
no comic dimension; it has nothing in common with
the sententious machine-tending of Percy Hard-
caster in The Revenge for Love. His own aberrations,
consonant with the dilemma of Cartesian Man, doom
him to 'blast his way across space and time"; he
commits two murders, one unintentional, and dies,
amid newspaper sensationalism, on the Polar ice-cap,
amid "the absolute loneliness he desired," at the
hands of a maddened Eskimo.
A year later Lewis was completing a second in-
terim novel, Twentieth Century Palette, the chronicle
of an artist, the metaphysical man-out-of-his-element,
doubly displaced in modem England. His thoughts
were now wholly taken up with the still unwritten
Trial of Man. Its theme, he said during a conversa-
tion in November 1956, was to be Pullman's gradual
acclimatization to the Celestial environment; that
was where he was to be at last at home, the first
Wyndham Lewis character to achieve a meaningful
destiny. The great Trial was to be an episode merely;
the focus was to be on Pullman. Whether God would
make a personal appearance he had not decided; he
rather thought not, being disinclined to repeat Mil-
ton's mistake. The tragedy of Europe, he asserted,
was its loss of a common religion; he spoke of his
mother, a Catholic who had ceased to practice her
religion, and of his own growing interest in the
Catholic faith. His interest in his earlier books had
much faded. It was for the Human Age tetralogy
that he expected to be remembered. Two more weeks
would see Twentieth Century Palette finished; he
then proposed to take up the theme of James Pull-
man and God.
But he had already entered his final illness; so
The Red Priest remains his last word on the subject
of presumptuous man. Father Card's hubris on the
ice-cap-"As to the ultimate Eskimo he would whis-
per in the ear of this diminutive savage that he was
terribly wrong-that there was no God but God.
And this enormous man would return to civilized life
with the dark soul of this little savage in his pocket"
-Father Card's hubris had its fated resolution; he
strangled the ultimate Eskimo instead, for trying
to steal his wallet, and was butchered by his victim's
companions. He was for Lewis the ultimate case of
human intoxication with absolutes from which man
was meant to be shielded. It was such a dilemma as
his that was to be resolved by the Trial of Man, and
by Pullman's assimilation into the Divine. "He is for
the Divine. I am for the Divine."
243
16. Inside the Featherbed
1
ESPITE HIS HABITUAL DOODLING WITH OTHER MEN'S
D
idioms ("The menace and caress of wave that
breaks on water; for does not a menace caress? does
not a caress menace?"-p. 204) in the hope that
something critically significant will occur, Mr. Black-
mur has achieved institutional status among the
company, not inconsiderable in numbers, for whom
"words alone are certain good." He can pursue and
isolate any subtlety provided it is sufficiently en-
cased in language. His virtues are clearest in the very
early essay on Cummings, where Cummings' way of
turning terms into flat absolutes-"flower" isn't a
flower but a cant term for anything the poet happens
to hold in esteem-is subtly anatomized into twenty-
III!
four pages of scrupulous sentences in which we
never lose confidence. And he is excellent-disre-
garding the pinnulate writing-on Emily Dickinson
and Wallace Stevens, and pretty good on Hart Crane
1.1
1
and Marianne Moore, all of them poets whose effects
depend chiefly on closed systems of words interact-
II
ing. On such subjects he is even unexpectedly epi-
. 11
grammatic: Marianne Moore's exiguous rhyme
schemes are "part of the poem's weather"; one of
11
III
Cummings' phrases has "a great suggestion of preci-
I1II
sion about it-like men going off to war." Mr. Black-
I
III
mur achieves divinations of this kind by inspecting
the entrails of his own formulations: the least irritat-
IIIII
ing case of his habitual procedure, which is to find
I11I 1 R. P. Blackmur, LanglUlge M Gesture.

242
III:
I
III
II
Inside the Featherbed
out what he means by exploring the words in which
he is trying to say it.
Coleridge defined meter as the motion of meaning,
and accepting that we must also for our present pur-
pose turn it around and say that motion is the meter
of meaning. That is, ifmeter as motion brings mean-
ing to gesture, then motion as meter moors gesture
to meaning.... [20]
The impulse behind these alliterative jingles betrays
him into compulsive repetition of quotations that
catch his fancy. The phrase "In the gloom the gold
gathers the light against it" occurs five times in a
seven-page note on Pound. Two lines of Eliot irrupt
three times, one line of Yeats five times, and the title
phrase six times, each time portentously, in the in-
tolerably kittenish Lord Tennyson's Scissors. Whole
paragraphs elsewhere are collages of half-relevant
quotations. It also causes him frequently to break
loose from the subject altogether to jingle phrases:
Again, in an older phrase, it is in the context of habit-
ual analogy that we tate upon us the mystery of
things and become God's spies. Lear himself is a
multiple analogy-both in pattern and in image---of
the boredom, the horror, and the glory; and the ripe-
ness (which is all) is the ripeness of each phase as it
drifts; or crosses the gap, into the other place. [208]
This isn't pseudo-reasoning but pseudo-wisdom; toy-
ing so idly with three quotations, it makes large ges-
tures of being utterly free in the possession of their
contents. Mr. Blackmur isn't really claiming all that,
245
,f "

II
III
Iii
244 GNOMON
Ii
buthis wordsclaimit, havingescaped from his con-
trol. It is as a sort of thwarted poetry, in fact, that
J.
II
much of his prose claims attention.
1
Forbetterorworse,theWordis all."Whenaword
!ll
is used in a poem," Mr. Blackmur thinks, "it should
II
be the sum of all its appropriate history made con-
crete and particular in the individual context; and
in poetry all words act as if they were so used, be-
causethe only kind of meaning poetry can have [my
italics] requires that all its words resume their full
life: the full life being modified and made unique
by the qualifications the words perform upon one
anotherinthepoem" (323).Thisisanexcellentstate-
ment of one of Mr. Blackmur's two guiding prin-
ciples-the other being that all the visible parts of
a poem are conventional forms, which serve to lib-
I
erate and make public what would otherwise be
merely personal intentions. He harvests his insight
inshowingushowStevens' wordsremainwords and
so viable, Cummings' become ideas and so opaque,
while Emily Dickinson's oscillate between meaning
andindicativenotation. But"theonly kind ofmean-
ingpoetrycanhave...." Itis thekind of meaning
Wallace Stevens has: "His great labour has been to
allow the reality of what he felt personally to pass
into the superior impersonal reality of words." Itis,
one may grant, the kind of meaning Yeats has too,
buttheformula is treacherous: it doesn't discourage
the critic from coming at Yeats' meaning the wrong
way. Seekingto justifyhis 1935 designationofYeats
as "our one indubitable major poet," Mr. Blackmur
has been driven to positing inspired "ad-libbing," a
sortofmagnificentbluff,betweenthetermsthatbear
weight. Several applauding reviewers have been
grateful for this reduction-anything you don't un-
derstand can be written off as ad-libbing-but the
Yeatsian Hydrawon'tbeheadthateasily. Inthepas-
sage from "Under Ben Bulben" which contains the
lines,
Michael Angelo left a proof
On the Sistine Chapelroof,
Where but half-awakened Adam
Can disturb globe-trotting Madam
Till herbowels are in heat,
Proof that there's a purpose set
Before the secret working mind:
Profane pedection of mankind,
Mr. Blackmur settles like a wasp on the concluding
line, puzzles for half a page with the dictionary
meanings of "profane" (abig dictionary-hecalls it
"that place of saltatory heuristics"-is one of his
fetishes), wonders whether it may "alternately
bothverbandadjective,"fools for a paragraphmore
with the combination "profane perfection," halluci-
nates himselfinto decidingthat"the relatedness be-
tween profane and perfection becomes almost a
matter of sensation," and finally asks the reader to
believe that "all except the lines quoted separately"
-thelastthree-"couldhave as well beendifferent,
most of all could have been their own opposites
without injury to the meaning which is under the
lines." Yeats, however, demands that we think of
what the words are talking about. Itnever strikes
Mr. Blackmur that themeaning of "profane"is con-
247
246
GNOMON
trolled, viaits etymology, bythecited depictionofa
kinesthetically sexual male figure on a Chapel roof.
Michelangelo's "secret working mind" pursued a
",
purpose atvariancewith the Pope's.
Thereis worsethanthis.OfthelineofGreekinthe
first poem of Hugh Selwyn Mauberley we are told,
The line aboutthe gods is in Greek script becausethe
lil!1111
syntax of the poem demands it; the substance, per-
i haps, is in the fact that it is in Greek. In English the
I lovely rhyme of TpoL'll and leeway would have been
III impossible; but that is not the only loss that would
III,
have been incurred. In English, "Be the gods known
1'11 1
to thee which are lawful in Troy," could never have
II
been "caught in the unstopped ear" (thenext line) at
I I
least not without considerable circumlocution....
II I
[128]
i
'.1 The line, iap 'tOt 7tavfj' 0<;; evt is in Greek
I
script because it is quoted from the Odyssey (XII:
189), and is in fact the gist of the song the Sirens
sang. And it means "Forweknowallthe things that
in Troy...." Where the "gods" of Mr. Blackmur's
glosscamefromonecannotguess,unless"toi panth' "
reminded his language-ridden eye of "pantheon."
One expects a critic to be handier with a crib than
II:
that. Mr. Stanley Hyman in his critical peep-show
'I The Armed Vision credited Mr. Blackmur with
IIi
"among other things translating a Capaneus line
Pound quoted in the Greek"; he was praising the
I
II
thoroughness with which Blackmur did his home-
work. One can't hold Mr. Blackmur responsible for
:11: his admirer's precipitance-including, unless we are
II in tummisreading Mr. Hyman, the delicious inven-
II
III
I, I
II
II II
"
tion ofa Greek poet named Capaneus-butthecon-
fusion does illustrate how difficult it is for a glib
reader, and often for a cautious one, to be sure just
what Mr. Blackmur is saying. No one's attention,
for that matter, seems to have been caught by the
original gaffe in the twenty years since it was first
published.
There are critics whose exegesis is sounder. Mr.
Blackmurwas most nearly illuminatingwhen, inthe
earlythirties,hewasstilltryingtodefinethemodeof
operationofvariouspoetswhodidn'trequireexegesis
so much as delicate commentary on their verbal
procedures. Even then the appearance of a whole
ramifying poetic was appearance merely; attentive
rereading discloses not branches interpenetrating a
space previously empty, but prose with a sort of
close springy life, like moss. And now in the forties
and fifties, now that he has begunto feel he knows
where he is, his linguistic playfulness has run wild.
Now, withoutdiscomfort,hecandealinloosetrump-
ery counterfeits of the profundities of the- poets
themselves:
The painter puts into his portraits the crossed gesture
of knowledge and mystery, of the intolerably familiar
and theimpossibly alien, which we seein thelooking-
glass. That is why in great portraits we see ourselves.
[8]
Now more than ever his hair-trigger pen, tickled by
some homonymorcadence, is free to twitchoutdoz-
ens of words at a spurt: the page-long fiddle with
"respond" and "sponsor" (415); or "he [Stevens]
l
Ili
I,
248
GNOMON
,1
I
I
darlings the syllables of his ideas: it is the stroke of
1
Platonism on prosody that produces Euphues, wit
I
II
with a secret, ornament on beauty" (436); or the
II record incantation on a line of The Dry Salvages:
Here is the salt of death and of truth and of savor, the
:1
salt in our souls of that which is not ours, moving
there. The salt is on the wild and thorny rose grap-
pling in the granite at the sea's edge, grappling and
in bloom, almost ever-blooming; and it is the rose
which was before, and may yet be after, the rose of
the Court of Love, or the rose of the Virgin. It is the
rose out of the garden which includes the rose in the
garden. There is in Eliot's line (alien but known to our
line that we read) also all the roses that have been in
his life, as in the next line is all the fog. . . .
Mr. Blackmur's admirers refer guardedly to his "dif-
ficulty." It would be pleasant to discern a trace of
irony in Mr. John Crowe Ransom's description of the
book as "the official classic, in exegesis of the poetry
of an age," or in Mr. Blackmur's own quotation from
T. E. Lawrence, that the effort of writing is "like
trying to fight a featherbed."
I
1
17. Alice in Empsonland
\;\
1930 WILLIAM EMPSON PUBLISHED A BOOK OF CRIT-
I
N
icism which had the unique distinction of reducing
the passivity before poetry of hundreds of readers
without imposing-or proposing-a single critical
judgment of any salience. Seven Types of Ambiguity
neither altered the genealogy of sensibility, like
Eliot's advocacy of the Metaphysicals, nor renovated
the criteria of technique, like Pound's studies of Ren-
aissance translators, nor suspended familiar works
from new terminological pegs, like Eliot's "serious
farce" (Marlowe), "objective correlative" (Hamlet),
or "intellect at the tips of the senses" (Marvell).
About the only section one is likely to be able to
paraphrase some weeks after reading is a digression
on Shakespeare commentators; the rest of the book
hangs in the mind like the ghost of a brilliant eve-
ning's talk, inspiriting because what was discussed is
supposed to be undiscussable.
The author was twenty-four. At twenty-nine he
published a collection of striking poems, and another
book cantering the circuit of five whole works rang-
ing from a Shakespeare sonnet (discussion inconclu-
sive) to Alice in Wonderland (analysis excellent).
That was in 1935. The subsequent sixteen years were
spent in gestating, amid less showy activities, The
Structure of Complex Words, in intention a syste-
matic treatise, a work meant to issue in a theory of
language abstractly defensible, a landmark of spec-
ulative linguistics, applicable in numerous critical
and pedagogical situations beyond those tackled in
249
251 250 GNOMON
exemplification by the ingenious author. Parts of it
are of interest to many sorts of specialists. Critics
may pick up one or two terms, lexicographers some
III
excellent stimulus, annotators various insights, se-
manticists some controversial bones to gnaw. It is
;ri
l
]
difficult to say who wants the whole of it. The book
is disappointing, and its disappointingness illumi-
nates, as could no third success, the principles behind
Mr. Empson's influential career. The lamp by which
he hunted for a generalized theory of ambiguity
illuminated everything to which he held it; the
theory, now found, proves to be rather phosphores-
cent than enlightening.
Despite the symbolic notation or the tone of the
opening pages, the organization of Complex Words
isn't particularly rigorous. The uniform and consci-
entiously arid terminology merely gives the appear-
ance of holding together what are in effect disjunct
critical essays written over fifteen years (two of
them, "Timon's Dog" and "Honest in Othello," ap-
peared in a pamphlet published that long before,
and we discover on the very last page that "some
way of separating out the emotions, implications,
personal suggestions and suchlike in our complex
words, seeing how they are related, how a learner
might pick them up more easily" was engaging the
author's attention in 1935). On the other hand the
essays, unlike those in Some Versions of Pastoral,
aren't particularly engaging apart from the theory
whose usefulness they are meant to illustrate. It is
not that they are spoiled by the theory; the theory
II:
Alice in Empsonland
remains the most interesting part of the book. There
is no sign that the chapters in question-on the Es-
say on Criticism, The Prelude, Paradise Lost, and
four Shakespeare plays-might have been interest-
ing if they had been written differently. What has
happened is that Mr. Empson's old exploratory zest
in the face of poems and plays has evaporated be-
cause he has discovered a short cut to the answers
he sought. He no longer, necktie flying, paces off
triangles; he has worked out a table of sines.
What he has actually done is tidy up the concept
of Ambiguity, the very vagueness of which lent pic-
aresque zest to the early book. It is characteristic
of a new evasiveness about the scope he claims that
only in a footnote on p. 103 do we learn that he
knows it is old ground that is being ordered, ~ t h r
than new ground that is being broken. The old
ground was canvassed early in the first chapter of
Ambiguity:
Thus a word may have several distinct meanings; sev-
eral meanings connected with one another; several
meanings which need one another to complete their
meaning; or several meanings which unite together so
that the word means one relation or one process.
A poeIl). calls these components of its complex words
into explicit play; what Mr. Empson was doing in
Ambiguity and Pastoral was tracing out the lines of
interaction in a passage one at a time:
. . . the words of the poet will, as a rule, be more
justly words, what they represent will be more eHec-
252
253
GNOMON
tively a unit in the mind, than the more numerous
words with which I shall imitate their meaning so as
to show how it is conveyed.
For old-style paraphrase, that bete noir, the "prose
sense," which assumes that words are atoms, he sub-
stituted multiple paraphrase, a sort of hedonistic
calculus, the assumption behind which is that the
word-atom can be split into smaller particles, or
that the effect of a piece of verse is like the synthetic
colors in a magazine reproduction, resolvable into
dots of varying sizes but standard hues. The analyst
takes the "effect" for granted; he is interested in
showing us how it arises. The technique is not one
for arriving at evaluations, nor for enforcing evalua-
tions once arrived at. It simply locks poet, poem,
language, and reader inside a "communicative situa-
tion" and explores the intricacies of that. Sugges-
tively, Mr. Empson's analogy for the fact that the
good reader can get the effect without doing the
analysis is "the way some people can do anagrams at
a shot, and feel sure the letters all fit."
In Complex Words, therefore, we get an atomic
theory of language, with symbols for the components
of the atom. Words carry Emotions, and Doctrines.
Emotions in words are on the whole perfectly ana-
lyzable, whether or not they are in life; the opponent
in the preliminary pages is the man who cries, "This
is inexplicable because it is Pure Emotion," just as in
the first book it was the man who attributed the
effect of poetry to prose sense plus "Pure Sound."
Taking A for the Sense under discussion, the emotive
components are: All, its main "implication" or "asso-
Alice in Empsonland
ciation" or "connotation"; (A), a sense held at the
back of the mind, so that A (B) means the sense A
secretly bolstered by the sense B; -A, a sense delib-
erately excluded in a given usage; A+, the sense
made "warmer and fuller"; A-, the sense made more
astringent; AI, the first Mood of sense A (a mood
conveys the speaker's relation to an audience or con-
text); 'A,' the mood conveyed by quotes: either
"What I call A but they don't," or "What they call A
but I don't"; A?, the sense used of oneself under
cover of using it of someone else, more commonly
-A?: "I am not like that"; and finally All, the pri-
mary Emotion associated with sense A when all the
above have been eliminated: thus the first emotion
for sense I of honest ("not lying") is Ill, approval.
Doctrines are conveyed in words mainly by what
Mr. Empson calls Equations; an Equation ties two
senses together and implies that they have an in-
trinsic connection (A = B). The equations go into
four classes: I: Context-meaning implies dictionary-
meaning; II: Major sense implies connotation (A =
AII); III: Head-meaning implies context meaning;
IV: Neither meaning can be regarded as dominant.
The meaning that does the implying in the first three
classes tends to be (I) more obvious; (2) less emo-
tive; (3) narrower in range, than the one that gets
implied.
These are Mr. Empson's "little bits of machinery";
I list them for the convenience of students, since it
is laborious to dig them out of the chat in the first
eighty pages. The first thing one notes about them,
when illustrations of their use begin to occur, is that
254 255 GNOMON
witty paraphrase, of the sort in which Ambiguity
abounded, does their job much better. Referring to
the brief table of meanings and implications for
Pope's wit" on p. 86, one can work out that one
use of the word, 3b+ = Ia - .1 1, assembles the
following parts: Poet or artist (3), acting as judge
(b ), and on that account admired (+), implies (=)
a bright social talker (1) mocking (a) and so giving
rise to satirical amusement (-) but still to be valued
as one values such talkers (1 1). The Empsonian
paraphrase elucidates this use of the word wit" like
a shot: "Even in authoritative writers one must ex-
pect a certain puppyishness." It is hard to see what
is gained by the symbolic terminology here, except a
rhetorical assurance that the components of this com-
plex usage of the word are few and enumerable.
The second thing one notes is that in the chapters
on specific works of art all that the machinery can
do is done on the first few pages. The spectrum of a
key word-honest" in Othello, "fool" in Lear, dog"
in Timon, sense" in The Prelude-is displayed, in
part by logical analysis, in part by combing the
N.E.D. (which receives repeated sententious homage
as "the great work"), in part by etymology, and the
results are put into symbolic notation. This lexi-
cographic feat once performed-and no one is going
to underrate its impressiveness, in a case like hon-
est" or sense"-the various uses of the word are
extracted from the text in hand and each is shown
to correspond to something in the schema. This will
seem like a parody to anyone who has worked
through one of these chapters, but it is what the
Alice in Empsonland
chapters amount to, with the parenthetic insights
trimmed off. Mr. Empson tells us all he can in his
first deployment of the word; the rest reads like a
laborious attempt to convince himself-and us-
that the machinery of notation is indeed adequate.
If the chapters are dull, it is because the method is
wrong for discussing poetry. Long poems deploy a
far more complex weight than Mr. Empson appears
to suppose. They can't really be reduced to the in-
tricacies of their key words-it is a little like discuss-
ing an automobile solely in terms of the weight borne
by its ball-bearings. As a way of showing off the
analytic machinery, however, the method succeeds
quite well; the machinery is usually adequate, for
the words he picks. These are rather blank words,
frequently, like Pope's wit," great puzzles, which
derive most of their body from context and tone.
Mr. Empson's symbols depend on his supposition
that a complex meaning can be resolved into linked
senses plus a blend of attitudes and intentions. A/I,
(A), and -A are senses advanced, reserved, and sup-
pressed. A+ and A-are Ricardian feelings (speak-
er's attitude to topic). AI, <A,' A?, and All are
Ricardian tones (speaker's attitude to audience).
These latter are ingeniously sorted out; but the sense
of sense" goes virtually uninvestigated. Mr. Emp-
son conceives sense" mathematically. A sense is like
a number, atomic and drastically invariable. A word
doesn't pull an image into the matrix of discourse. It
posits a sense, to be lit obliquely by attitudes. Nat-
urally, the poetic image gives him trouble, as it al-
ways has; but he is cannier than he was in Am-
256
257
GNOMON
biguity, and plays down the trouble by careful
choice of cases. Of all the words Mr. Empson dis-
cusses, the only ones which carry an image are "fool"
in Lear, which was troublesome enough to yield a
rather flat chapter, and "dog" in Timon, where the
perspective is forced by a preliminary chapter trans-
forming "dog" from an animal into an epithet packed
with complex and shifting attitudes. When Timon
says to Alcibiades, "I do wish thou wert a dog,"
Mr. Empson doesn't talk about dogs but about the
"logical puzzle" of railing against mankind. He can
live with an image if it is really a gesture. If it is not
that, it must be a Ricardian "vehicle" for saying
something else, and is so discussed under "Meta-
phor" (Ch. 18).
To the extent to which poetry concerns itself with
the concrete fact, then, Mr. Empson's machinery ap-
pears to lose hold of it. He provides notation by
which one could discuss a good deal of Pound's
Propertius and Mauberley, for instance, where there
is endless play with speech-contexts ("logopoeia");
but one suspects that the word "dead" in The Waste
Land would give trouble, the word "city" a great
deal more, and the "broken Coriolanus" near the end
of the poem would wreck the machinery entirely.
The feelings in "dead" and "city" are carefully
neutralized by Eliot's usage, and the senses are too
profound for atomization; only a real city or actual
death can contain them.
It is perhaps not an accident, then, that Mr. Emp-
son's most enlightening performance is with Pope's
"wit"; in the eighteenth century (the century of ra-
Alice in Empsonland
tional lexicography, which kept prose sense under
control) a social matrix-what the speaker was doing
with a word against a background of social usages
and implications-was predominant enough to give
such analysis a main handle. Similarly, when he is
surveying the history of a word like "honest" or
"dog" or "sense," it is around the eighteenth century
that the grip of his machinery on buried implications
is most impressive. One of the finest insights in the
book concerns the anthropocentric structure such
words assumed with the Restoration. A dog becomes
a fellow creature, not a lower animal; the word car-
ries Johnson's attitude to Savage, not Antonio's to
Shylock.
Behind this suppressed assumption that words are
more the property of speakers than of things, one
hears the voice of Humpty Dumpty saying, "When
I use a word it means what I want it t(}-neither
more nor less:' Mr. Empson's charm has always de-
pended on a sort of Alice-persona: the cool-headed
quizzer of semantic monsters, seeking to adequate
his understanding to the verdicts of his taste. He
comes to poetry with an air of being surrounded by
plangent irrationalities which can be shown to be
quite orderly at bottom; a characteristic key word
in his. earlier books was "absurd." In fact, as he ex-
plains in the present book, "What Humpty Dumpty
gives is not the 'connotations' but the 'central mean-
ing' and then the reason for the 'connotation'; 'That'll
do very well,' says Alice, who had the feeling al-
ready, as a person of taste, and only wanted the plain
sense to fit in." They have to fit in, they have to be
258
259
GNOMON
shown to be orderly, because the inexplicable has
terrors. The motive behind such criticism as is con-
tained in Seven Types of Ambiguity is not the en-
lightenment of the reader but the satisfaction of the
author: "The object of life, after all," he tells us late
in Ambiguity, "is not to understand things, but to
maintain one's defences and equilibrium and live as
well as one can; it is not only maiden aunts who are
placed like this." Hence his usefulness to the sort
of academic who does not want poetry to disturb
him or change him. Hence the absence of intellec-
tual gymnastics in his second volume of poetry
( 1940). An equilibrium has been discovered; it con-
sists in contemplating the way your peripheral emo-
tions get entangled with the absurd.
Hence, too, his very curious tastes, and tone, and
blindnesses. His real focus of interest has always been
Alice's nineteenth century. It is surely no accident
that his finest piece of sustained writing is his ex-
egesis of Alice. Like Lewis Carroll, he maintains a
mathematical self (he started in mathematics at
Cambridge) which is always trying to tidy up the
decayed fish carried into the kitchen by the "sensi-
tive" self. The analytic machinery is a Carrollean in-
vention, too complex for the uses to which it is
suited, like the "Nyctograph" Carroll invented for
taking notes in the dark, and tried, na'ively, to put
on sale. We are told in the preface to the revised
Ambiguity that one of the motives of composition
was a desire to get Swinburnean plangencies into
stereoscopic focus with rediscovered Wit. Nothing,
for Mr. Empson, has happened in poetry since the
Alice in Empsonland
nineteenth century, except rounder and defter exam-
ples of the same thing. Eliot is the only contemporary
poet he has tackled, and then only Eliot reverberat-
ing amid Victorian submarine darkness: the dressing-
table scene in The Waste Land, the leaning creatures
in "Whispers of Immortality." He finds Finnegans
Wake "a gigantic corpse," essentially because you
can't tell, in a Joycean compound, which of the
meanings is primary: this is the howl of the machine
striking granite. He is unexpectedly old-fashioned,
again, in finding "very little for anybody to add to
A. C. Bradley's magnificent analysis" of Othello,
except a few alterations of proportion, and he spends
pages rationalizing the character of Iago. We must
pretend that these are real people; we cannot afford
to be cut loose in a universe of poetry, lo spettatore
nel centro del quadro. We are aware, however, that
it is a pretense; the play is "really" a group of effects
hinging on how people at a given point in history
would take the meaning of a tricky word like "hon-
est": "The character is only made plausible by puns
on one word . . . all the elements of the character
are represented in the range of meanings of 'honest:
and (what is more important) the confusion of moral
theory in the audience. . . was symbolised or
echoed in a high degree by the confusion of the
word."
That he pushes discussion of a complex poetic work
back into a discussion of writer-audience relations is,
though it has a specious validity for drama, funda-
mentally indicative of Mr. Empson's attitude to
poetry in general. His own early poems are full of
260 261 GNOMON
images derived from exploration of interstellar space,
"That network without fish, that mere / Extended
idleness, those pointless places." Language is a kind
of heliographic signaling, a faint and desperate at-
tempt to stretch filaments from monad to monad.
Style is narcissistic, like Alice's poise; a kind of
pathetic elegance in manipulating the inconsequen-
tial; it is as if a cockroach should wave his feelers
with an air.
His gleaming bubble between void and void,
Tribe-membrane, that by mutual tension stands,
Earth's surface film, is at a breath destroyed.
Hence "All styles can come down to noise," and lan-
guage is a collection of devices whereby we are
perpetually well deceived.
All these huge dreams by which men long live well
Are magic-Ianterned on the smoke of hell;
This then is real, I have implied,
A painted, small, transparent slide.
Literary criticism switches its attention to and fro
between slide and projected image. The slide is a lie
and the image an illusion; but critic and reader can
conspire with the brave writer to "Feign then what's
by a decent tact believed":
Imagine, then, by miracle, with me,
(Ambiguous gifts, as what gods give must be)
What could not possibly be there,
And learn a style from a despair.
So it is with words like "quite" and "honest" that
Mr. Empson succeeds most impressively; the special
Alice in Empsonland
Havors of these words ("Quite a nice time"; "Really,
that is scarcely honest") are part of the machinery
by which maiden aunts bear up; they are flourishes
with the sword of the human creature, his back to
the wall, antagonized by a shadow. The colloquial
examples he coins always have a Victorian govern-
essy flavor; innocent bits of language, in that circum-
locutory period, got loaded with unexpected amounts
of nervous force. When you are making up your
world as you go along there is no safeguard against
ingenious exegesis of the null (such as a whole page
on a bad distich from a 1913 Cambridge anthology),
or against subtleties about pronunciation (God "be-
gins at the back of your throat, a profound sound,
with which you are intimately connected-'ich'-,
and then stretches right across to a point above the
teeth, from back to front, from low to high, with a
maximum of extension and exaltation"). And the
Ricardian tenor-vehicle treatment of metaphor comes
in patly because words are a way of saying something
else, not of placing an intelligible structure of analo-
gies on the page; at bottom nothing is really intel-
ligible anyway, although almost anything turns out
to be explicable.
It is no dispraise to Mr. Empson's ingenuity, en-
ergy, and industry to find something in their quality
consonant with the poems and passages on which he
employs them best; low-pressure entertainments like
The Beggar's Opera, whose strength consists in a
jaunty flexibility of tone; or flyweight acrobats of
pathos like Hood; or the more colloquial parts of
Pope and Chaucer, continuous with the spectrum of
262 GNOMON
urbane chat; or (in works less conducive to com-
posure) the moments when a character is senten-
tiously weighing his wit against the will of a mistress
or his littleness against a universe of murk or tragic
machinery or fate; and the point of the analysis is to
show how the tumult of language reflects the way
the speaker is placed.
The infectious zest of Ambiguity was like that of
a boy taking watches apart, but it was at least re-
lated to a sense of the wonders of watches. Mr.
Empson has always taken poetry seriously, though
like Alice confronted by vanishing cats he has always
maintained in its presence a disconcerting compo-
sure; since poetry like everything else was to his
supple Carrollean intelligence a trick we conspire to
believe in. It is melancholy that in a book from
which much of the enthusiasm has retired he is Alice
no longer; he has accommodated himself at length
to his own image of the Victorian scientist, who was
"believed to have discovered a new kind of Roman
virtue," and whom the public could always surprise,
as Alice did the White Knight, obliviously head
down in his suit of armor, hung with bellows and
beehives, "patiently labouring at his absurd but
fruitful conceptions."
18. Ezra Pound and the Light
of France
I
OUND'S CONVICTION THAT FROM 1830 TO ABOUT 1910
Pvirtually all technical growth in the art of writing
took place in France, and his consequent forcing of
Stendhal, Flaubert, Laforgue, Rimbaud, and Cor-
biere on the attention of people who imagined that
writing had reached an apex in Keats, has obscured
the nature-not the fact-of his debt to the French
tradition. It is natural to look for the antecedents of
a modem among the near-moderns, natural to forget
that the poet can stand to the past in a relation other
than that of twig to trunk, that one of his most sig-
nificant creative acts may be his choice of material to
learn from.
One becomes obsessed by chronology in scholarly
absorption with minor works; the second-rate is
precisely that which demands for its elucidation a
knowledge of the style of the period. All literatures
pass their time developing what was done yester-
day, modifying one "period" style into another. Once
in a while this process, the concern of the literary his-
torian, gets interrupted when someone rediscovers a
classic as contemporary matter. Pound's whole criti-
cal sense is built on his perception that there are
works that break free from "period," and qualities of
mind that endure and can recur. Homer is a contem-
porary; he can be picked up and read as such. Much
of Conrad is already old-fashioned.
263
264
GNOMON
Villon has been so rediscovered a number of times.
The fact that Swinburne put him into Swinburnics
shows that Swinburne was able to feel at home with
him, just as Pope's Homer shows that Pope was
capable of reading Homer not as a Greek but as an
Augustan. Pope learned a great deal from Homer.
His "original" work improves as he works at the
translation. The Dunciad would have been impos-
sible without it.
Pound too has learned from such masterworks, but
his work also exhibits learning of a less often recog-
nized kind: learning from the whole quality of mind
displayed by a nation or an age, a quality not always
located in single works. His problem, in 1910 or
shortly thereafter, was to break free from Rossetti,
"the nineties," and the opalescent word. His realiza-
tion that the France of the Enlightenment afforded
the condition for such a break was a creative discov-
ery. It has, in retrospect, the air of inevitability, as
creative acts always have. If Pound's Enlightenment,
with its stress on Bayle, Voltaire, a few historians,
and the antecedents of Revolutionary America, is
not precisely that of the eighteenth-century spe-
cialist, that is because of the sharp selection and re-
emphasis incident to solving a poetic problem located
I'
I two centuries later.
Iii
II
II
I
:1
One doesn't "learn" by acquiring other people's tricks
II
with language. Pound made the distinction in a
1913 letter to Harriet Monroe:
III:
1
1 '1
' I
II
I'
i
Ezra Pound and the Light of France 265
. . . there are few enough people who know anything
beyond Verlaine and Baudelaire-neither of whom is
the least use-pedagogically, I mean. They beget imi-
tation and one can learn nothing from them. Whereas
Gautier and de Gourmont carry forward the art itself,
and the only way one can imitate them is by making
more profound your knowledge of the very marrow
of art.
This juxtaposition of two poets with detachable
mannerisms and two poets who "carry forward the
art itself" defines the criterion by which Pound has
always picked masters. It should be considered along
with another formulation: "I revere good sense much
more than originality."
The carrying forward of the art itself can be per-
formed only in a climate of "good sense." An artist's
mannerisms are excrescences of his personality or his
period; the Verlaine or Baudelaire whose very center
is a mannerism of the sensibility is, however genuine,
the most dangerous of models. You can learn nothing
from Verlaine except how to be Verlaine. James Joyce
learned from him, because he wanted to become,
partly, a Verlaine; it was the best way of installing
himself in the central sensibility of a Dublin not un-
like Verlaine's Paris. Joyce was to devote a patient
lifetime to illuminating his subject from within. That
wasn't the way Pound wanted to work. The nine-
teenth century into which he was born was merely
his countersubject; his subject-the subject of the
Cantos-is the light of the intelligence itself: il ben
delr intelletto. It was the "good sense" of the eight-
eenth century that drew him.
266 GNOMON
That is why he concluded a hugely admiring 1918
essay on Henry James by juxtaposing Remy de
Courmont. "On no occasion would any man of my
generation have broached an intimate idea to H.J.,
or to Thomas Hardy, a.M., or, years since, to Swin-
burne, or even to Mr. Yeats with any feeling that the
said idea was likely to be received, grasped, com-
prehended. . . . You could, on the other hand, have
said to Courmont anything that came into your head;
you could have sent him anything you had written
with a reasonable assurance that he would have
known what you were driving at." James' interests
stopped with the world in which he was placed:
He has left his scene and his characters, unalterable
as the little paper flowers permanently visible inside
the lumpy glass paperweights. He was a great man of
letters, a great artist in portrayal; he was concerned
with mental temperaments, circumvolvulous social
1', pressures, the clash of contending conventions, as Ho-
II
I'
garth with the cut of contemporary coats.
" Il
De Courmont, on the other hand, "an artist of the
II
I
nude," "differentiates his characters by the modus
III of their sensibility, not by sub-degrees of their state
'I:
of civilization."
Iii
1,1
He was intensely aware of the differences of emo-
III
tional timbre; and as a man's message is precisely his
III
'" fa90n de voir, his modality of apperception, this par-
'I
ticular awareness was his "message."... Emotions, to
1
II
Ii
,1
Henry James, were more or less things that other
I
1
Iii people had and that one didn't go into; at any rate
not in drawing-rooms.
,il:
1I
1
i
I"
l I
,I1
I
The appeal of de Counnont to Pound's imagina-
tion is a critical fact, independent of what the mid-
twentieth-century reader may or may not find in de
Gourmont. In Pound's mind de Counnont confronted
Henry James, Henry James gravely recording with
infinite tact and subtlety the externals of a civiliza-
tion that had become obsessed with externals, Henry
James carrying on in his own way the work of Flau-
bert. Henry James and Flaubert immersed them-
selves in the externals of nineteenth-century civiliza-
tion and underwent its limitations in order to do
what could be done toward rendering it intelligible.
The nineteenth century was a perfect case of a time
in which "period" followed "period," and very little
work broke loose into self-sufficiency:
... a limitless darkness: there was the counter-refor-
mation, still extant in the English printer; there was
the restoration of the Inquisition by the Catholic Ro-
man Church, holy and apostolic, in the year of grace
1824; there was the Mephistopheles period, morals
of the opera left over from the Spanish seventeenth
century plays of capa y espada; Don Juan for subject-
matter, etc.; there was the period of English Christian
bigotry, Sam Smiles, exhibition of 1851 ("Centennial
of 1876"), machine-made building "ornament"; there
was the Emerson-Tennysonian plus optimism period;
there was the "aesthetic" era during which people
"wrought" as the impeccable Beerbohm has noted;
there was the period of funny symboliste trappings,
"sin," satanism, rosy cross, heavy lilies, Jersey Lilies,
etc.,
"Ch' hanno perduto il ben dell' intelletto";
268 GNOMON
all these periods had mislaid the light of the eight-
eenth century....
III
"The light of the eighteenth century" wasn't that
ofDante,"theradiantworldwhereonethoughtcuts
through another with a clean edge, a world ofmov-
ing energies . . . the glass under water, the form
that seems a form seen in a mirror." It was a light
of the less passionate intelligence, characterized by
prose that stuck close to meaning. The Enlighten-
ment was capable of discovering Confucius and not
considering him quaint, as Butcher and Lang were
to consider Homer Biblical. It valued the mind, was
sufficiently skeptical of the passions to undercut
adolescentexcess, andhad an appetite for facts.
European litterati
I' II!
havingheard thatthe Chineserites honour Kung-fu-tseu I
1
1,1 and offer sacrifice to the Heaven etc/
and thattheir ceremonies are groundedin reason
I
1
now beg to know their true meaning and in particular
II
the meaning of terms for example Material
II
Heaven and Changti meaning? its ruler?
i'
Does the manes of Confucius
accept the grain, fruit, silk, incense offered
Ii
and does heenterhis cartouche?
Iii
! The European church wallahs wonder if this can be
reconciled. [Canto LX]
There is irony in Pound's use ofthis document, but
its author (A.D. 1699) hadn'ta tourist's concernwith
the externals of Chinese ritual to the exclusion of
respectful curiosity about its rationale. Nor were
the writers of that era occupied with the words on
the page to the exclusion of the light held in the
mind.
England had no Enlightenment; it had the Royal
Society and an Augustan Age. It underwent Queen
Anne and the Georges while France was preparing
the civic ideas that informed Jefferson's mind. To
Pound, Milton seemed in the realm of language a
cause of this duncery, in other realms a symptom.
The mind wasn't functioning when Milton wrote
. . . the setting sun
Descended . . . (I)
and his language is entoiled in sonorities, opacities,
inversions, allusions, merely linguistic accidentals
not controlled bythe thing seen in themind:
Sportingthe Lion rampd, and in his paw
Dandl'd the Kid; . . . th' unwieldy Elephant
To make them mirth us'd all his might, & wreathd
His Lithe Proboscis. . . .
Nineteenth-century poetry had the ill-fortune to
branch forth just at this point of decay. To bypass
this withering branch altogether and build a new
English speech as though in an eighteenth century
without Milton behind it was Pound's crucial enter-
prise. Thatwaswhatheundertookin his Lustra vol-
ume (1915). Lustra's roots are in Martial's Rome,
via France.It abounds in classicalthemes andanalo-
gies, but its classicizing is purged of Renaissance
magniloquence and Miltonic-Victorian sonority. The
characteristic Lustra poems would translate readily
270
1
GNOMON
into French, and have the air of having been trans-
lated out of it. The French eighteenth century is
behindthisscrapfrom the GreekAnthology:
Woman? Oh, woman is a consummate rage,
but dead, or asleep, she pleases.
Take her. She has two excellent seasons.
Thisexpandedepigram,"PhyllidulaandtheSpoilsof
Gouvernet,"appearsina briefsequenceheaded"Im-
pressions of Arouet (de Voltaire)":
Where, Lady, arethe days
When you could go out in a hired hansom
Without footmen and equipments?
And dine in a soggy, cheap restaurant?
Phyllidula now, with your powdered Swiss footman
Clanking the door shut,
and lying;
And carpets from Savonnier, and from Persia,
And your new service at dinner,
And plates from Germain,
And cabinets and chests from Martin (almost lacquer),
And your white vases from Japan,
And the lustre of diamonds,
Etcetera, etcetera, and etcetera?
Phyllidula is getting overwhelmed by opaque
things; theEnlightenmentcouldoftenacceptexpen-
sive elegance in a playful spirit, and it sustainedin-
tellects which could perfonn an ironic dissociation
between James's civilization and de Gounnonfs.
Furthermore, Voltaire's name may remind us, the
Enlightenment connotes a strong civic sense; the
man of letters had a conception of his own public
utility which bourgeois England never encouraged
and the nineteenth centuryutterlylost. Popehadit;
he got it from France. Voltaire "at WORK, shovel-
ling out the garbage, the Bourbons, the really filthy
decayed state ofFrenchsocial thought" is emulated
in the epigraph to Lustra:
DEFINITION: LUSTRUM: an offering for the sins
ofthewholepeople,madebythecensorsattheexpira-
tion of their five years of office.
In Canto XIII,
Kung raised his cane against Yuan Jang,
Yuan Jang being his elder,
For Yuan Jang sat by the roadside pretending to
be receiving wisdom.
And Kung said
"You old fool, come out of it,
Get up and do something useful."
The next words-
And Kung said,
"Respect a child's faculties
"From the moment it inhales the clear air,
"But a man of fifty who knows nothing
Is worthy of no respect"
-chimewiththeEncyclopaediaandwithRousseau.
Indeed, the Kungof Canto XIII is comingto us via
theFrenchtradition, as hecamefirst toEurope.The
Cantois aneighteenth-centuryratherthana Chinese
pastiche; the diction is elegant, supple, ironic-
And even I can remember
Adaywhen thehistorians leftblanks intheirwritings,
272 GNOMON
I meanfor things theydidn'tknow,
But that timeseems to bepassing. .
The words and tone of this Canto lean heavily on
Pauthier's, whosevision ofConfucius as a great gen-
tleman can be glimpsed from a charming phrase
marginally conserved by Pound in his 1950 version
ofthe Analects: "ses maniCres etaient douces et per-
suasives! Que son air etait affable et prevenantf"
Not only Confucius but the whole civilization of
China, the China from which Pound derives his
ethical positives, came to the West via France. The
Enlightenment was able to transmit this knowledge
because it was in sympathywith it. ("The onlyreli-
gious teacher who didn't claim to be divinely in-
spired," said Voltaire of Kung.) The missionaries of
the early 1700s found anemperorto their taste:
I
Set up board oftranslators
Verbiest, mathematics
Pereira professor of music, a treatise in chinese and 1
"11 '
manchu
III
. . . revised by the emperor as to questions of style
A digest of philosophy (manchu) and current
I Reports on the memoires des academies
des sciences de Paris.
Ii
Quinine, a laboratory set up in the palace.
1
He ordered 'em to prepare a total anatomy, et
Ii
qu'ils veillerent ala purete du langage
!I
etqu'on n'employat que des tennes propres
(Namely CH'ing Ming) [Canto LX]
11.1
In fact the Histoire Generale de la Chine
1
from
I
II
1 Histoire Generale de la Chine, ou Annales de cet Empire,
traduites du Tong-Kien-Kang-Mou, par Ie feu pere Joseph Anne-
Marie de Moyriac de Mailla, Paris, 1777-83, 12 vols.
1IIII
I!
I;II!
I
I
1,1 I I
Ii
,"
whichCantosLII-LXIaredrawnis sofarfrommere
antiquarianism, its author is so absorbed in the
cogency ofwhat he is settingdown, thatPoundcan
blend bits of the French into his English text with-
out a jar. One can imagine the eighteenth-century
reality on which pere Moyriac had his eye as he set
down thewords Pound renders in Canto LIV:
and the country was run byYang Siun
while the emperor amused himself in his park
had a light car made, harnessed to sheep
The sheep chose which picnic he went to,
ended his days as a gourmet. Said Tching, tartar:
Are not all of his proteges flatterers?
Howcanhis countrykeep peace?
And the prince Imperial went into the cabaret business
and read Lao Tse.
It is the laconic common sense of the great Em-
perorsthatemergesmostmemorablyfrom thechron-
icle; one can see why the Enlightenment displayed
a connoisseurshipoftheirsayings, andwhythepub-
lication by subscription ofthe Histoire was a public
event.
Ifthe Chinese material of The Pisan Cantos dis-
plays less urbanity of surface, and a sense of 17UJS-
terium the Enlightenment was incapable of trans-
mitting....,.....
in the light of light is the virtu
"sunt lumina" said Erigena Scotus
as of Shun on Mt Taishan
-stillthis new vision, attained by contact withthe
Chinese text without Frenchmediation, neverslides
274 GNOMON
into the mere rapturously poetic; the solid eight-
eenth-century criterion of social relevance remains:
and in the hall of the forebears
as from the beginning of wonders
the paraclete that was present in Yao, the precision
in Shun the compassionate
in Yu the guider of waters.
IV
A paradigm of the ability to savor wisdom in par-
ticular sayings and actions, to conduct a life of the
mind that could work through circumstance without
entanglement therein, was what Pound found in the
France of the eighteenth century. He didn't, need-
less to say, find there an ideal civilization; but he
found a standpoint in sympathy with the modern
world, yet outside the nineteenth century, and a
prose language unclotted with merely decorative
rhetoric. On this language he was able to base a
verse without Milton and a prose without Pater. It
was about 1915, the year of the Lustra volume, when
he had discovered the eighteenth century, that he
was able to begin meditating the Cantos. The first
thirty Cantos build toward the America that was
rooted in Leopoldine Tuscany and Enlightened
France; one of the most dramatic structural breaks
in the poem is the irruption, with Canto XXXI, of
Jeffersonian prose into Renaissance rhetoric.
I "The light of the eighteenth century," however,
i :1
gave him something more than a language of elegant
Ii,
urbanity. It revealed to him the clue to history that
organizes the Cantos, the principle toward which he
had been reaching when he first noted the nature
of the contrast between James and de Gourmont,
"the little paper flowers permanently visible inside
the lumpy glass paperweights" and "characters dif-
ferentiated by their modus of sensibility." A pseudo-
civilization, as Voltaire saw, supervenes when a
Phyllidula surrounds herself with
cabinets and chests from Martin (almost lacquer)
And your white vases from Japan,
And the lustre of diamonds,
Etcetera, etcetera, and etcetera..
It was such a "civilization" that Henry James took
for granted. Its tokens are things, "clutter, the bane
of men moving"; its touchstone is the multiplication
of things.
With our eyes on the new gothic residence, with our
eyes on Palladio, with a desire for seignieurial
splendours
(AGALMA, haberdashery, clocks, ormoulu, brocatelli,
tapestries, unreadable volumes bound in tree-calf,
half-morocco, morocco, tooled edges, green ribbons,
Haps, farthingales, fichus, cuties, shorties, pinkies
et cetera
Out of which things seeking an exit
[Canto XL]
The exit is into a Carthaginian voyage, a duplicate
of Odysseus' expiation of the sack of Troy.
The nineteenth century with its multiplied bric-a-
brac Pound came to regard as something more than
a tract of time uncongenial to his temperament. It
acquired a rationale; it was "the age of usury" par
276 GNOMON
excellence. Usury in Pound's poetry means the as-
sumption that money is wealth, that the coin in the
hand (or, in letters, the word on the page) is the
supreme reality, that gold breeds; that crops and
herds are mere economic abstractions, that human
beings are "labour,"that naturalincrease, thebreed-
ingofsheep,thefruition ofgrain, arethesecondary,
not the primary, manifestations of economic power.
It means inability to see through the symbol to the
reality, to see through the tool to its use, to see
through conveniences and elegance to civilized liv-
ing,il ben deli intelletto.
Itwas by way of the Enlightenment's respect for
common-sense facts that Pound arrived at his diag-
nosis of history. The familiar Enlightenment epi-
grams, like"En pareil cas, il n'y a que le premier pas
qui coute," exemplify something more than "wit":
theirprinciple is the abilityofreason tosee through
facts to their essential dynamics. The effect is witty
because this penetration is unexpectedly juxtaposed
with the donnees; it is shocking or blasphemous
only per accidens. Canto LIVcontains the anecdote
of the minister Lou-kia and the know-nothing Em-
peror. The minister (B.C. 202) wanted the seminal
books restored;
to whom KAO: I conquered the empire on horseback.
to whom Lou: Can you govern it in that manner?
Thisisn'ta wisecrackbutamindunimpededbymili-
tary swagger perceiving the nature of government.
It isn't snobbish; it doesn't imply that the empire
could have beenconqueredfrom a library.
Pound's analogous act of penetration was his
choice of gold as a controlling symbol. The nine-
teenth century chose the machine. Incapable of
seeingthattheobjectofworkis productionof"goods
that are needed and wanted," its poets and rhetori-
cians characteristically saw the machine only as a
monster that put people out of work. The counter-
symbol to the machine was Wordsworthian"nature"
and Ruskin's handicrafteconomy. By 1910thetradi-
tion of decorous English verse had undergone forty
mutations of landscape-painting and was virtually
bankrupt.This,itseemedtoPoundfromhisvantage-
point outside the nineteenth century, was because
the perception underlying the original choice of
symbols, machine vs. nature, was sentimental. It
wasn'ta perceptionofwhatmachinesarefor orwhat
labour is for. Poetry depends on the mind, though
it isn't written by calculation. Even derivative po-
etry stands when it derives from someone's use of
the mind. The eighteenth-century minds that dis-
sociated elegantsurroundingsfrom civilizationaided
Pound in his dissociation between gold as a metal
with certain uses,
(None learneth to weave gold in herpattern)
[Canto XLV]
gold as ornament implying Rembrandtian darkness
circumvolvent
(In the gloom the gold
Gathers the light aboutit) [Canto XVII]
gold as a mere token of opulence
278 GNOMON
(And his wife thatwould touchfood butwithforks
Sed aureis forculis, that is
with small golden prongs
Bringingin, thus, the vice of luxuria) [Canto XXVI]
gold as a rhetorical epithet
(The whole fortune of
MacNarpen and Company is founded
Upon Palgrave's Golden Treasury) [Canto XXII]
and hence gold as the nonn ofwealth, used against
reason tobackcreditthetruebasis of whichis
theabundance of nature
with the whole folk behind it. [Canto LII]
Thenineteenthcenturycouldnotseebeyondgold;
could notcarry its senseoflanguagebeyondTenny-
son's aureate word, its economic thought beyond
wages and the gold standard, its architectural sense
beyond ornamentation, or its sense of civilization
beyondelegantmannersamidparlorbric-a-brac: the
paperflowers in the glass paperweights of the scru-
pulously observantHenryJames.
Thatis themeaningofPound'susury-axis; hecon-
tinues to insist that literal usury coexists with this
i
state of mind, but it is on the mind, not the mere 'j II
economic arrangements, that his poetic focus rests.
I.,
Thementalclimate inwhich he was able to achieve
I thisfocus andsobringhisworkoutofcultureddilet-
tantism is the greatest of his debts to France. It is
r: royally paid in the gold of the eighty-first Canto, a
gold of the mind, refined by mental passion ("the
rest is dross"), unstealable, beyond counterfeit, a
heritage which no government can confiscate, no
boobyreceive, and no heirsquander:
What thou lovest well remains,
the restis dross
What thou lov'st well shall not bereft from thee
What thou lov'st well is thy true heritage
Whose world, or mine or theirs
oris itofnone?
First came theseen, then thus the palpable
Elysium, though it were in the halls of hell,
What thou lovest well is thy true heritage. .
Thisfinal poetryis nolongerclose toFrench.It is
rootedinEnglishidiom; itwould, oneimagines,defy
a translator. BetweentheRenaissance andthetwen-
tieth century it was France that kept in being the
mental world in which such work could be con-
ceived. Via Lustra and much later work prolonging
the tone of Lustra, Pound so formed his mind as to
be able triumphantlyto conceive it.
281
19. Under the larches of
Paradise
ock-drill, POUND'S FIRST POST-PISAN SEQUENCE,
Ropens with a Canto that defies the elocutionist;
itis writtenfor theprintedpage, as itwereforstone
tablets. The hundred or so ideograms sound more
richly to the eye than to the ear (even when their
pronunciation is indicated), and evidently concen-
trate the meaning rather than decorate it. The met-
ric, furthermore, has acquired some wholly new
component, possibly from the Chinese Odes with
which the authorhas beenmuch occupied inrecent
years:
YYin sent the young king into seclusion
by TangTomb to think things over....
-thisisn't one of the Greek meters salted with an
abnormal proportion of long syllables; its nature
ratheris toisolate each ofthewordsso thatwehave
not primarily "lines" diversified with a pattern of
stresses but a succession of unshakeable terms. The
Greek meters, for that matter, developed in a lan-
guage abounding in particles, modifiers, syntactic
'I
bric-a-brac: theypresumethatonlyeverythirdword
II or so is of overwhelming importance:
.1
When the HOUNDS of SPRING are
on WINTER'S TRACES
III
-five inessential (though not unnecessary) words
out of nine. How much these metrical traditions
280
Under the Larches of Paradise
have perverted the agglutinative nature of English
it is vain to inquire, though Dr. Williams has no
doubt an opinion. For one reason oranother, at any
rate, writers of English verse haven't much tried
doing without nonfunctioning syllables. For the
gnomicconventionofCanto85, however, anattempt
to make English profit by the Chinese indifference
to syntactic apparatus is highly relevant:
no mere epitome without organization
-such a line isn't prose but a metric sophisticated
on new principles, the grammar-school notion of a
"foot" abandoned, greater deliberateness before the
caesurapoisedagainst greatersuavenessafterit, and
no word present solely for grammar's sake. So with
Awareness restful & fake is fatiguing.
-whichdoes notend with three dactyls; the words
space out. It is worth exhibiting these devices in a
passage of some length:
in rites not Harne-headed.
"Up to then, I just hadn'tcaught on."
chung
wang
hsien
said KAO TSOUNG
Imperator. Sicut vinum ac mustum
brew up this directio, tcheu,
fermentum et germina,
study with the mind of a grandson
and watch the time like a hawk
ta6 tsi
283
282 GNOMON
research and Techne
observation, Techne
training, Techne
Tch'eng Tang for guide.
That one gets things done by working ("not seren-
dipity") and writes-or should-at the prompting of
something to be said ("Sagetrieb") are among the
themes of the Canto; it is his wrestling with a sub-
ject that keeps Mr. Pound athletic.
So the great work draws toward its close, with
undiminished elan:
that the body of light come forth
from the body of fire
And that your eyes come to the surface
from the deep wherein they were sunken,
Reina-for 300 years,
and now sunken
That your eyes come forth from their caves
& light then
as the holly leaf . . .
There can be no doubt that the author of Rock-Drill
is at the height of his powers; in those majestic, as-
sured rhythms inheres a new elation proper to the
region the poem has now entered. The old themes
are recapitulated with new power; the aphorisms
vibrate on the target-
Awareness restful & fake is fatiguing.
o o o
study with the mind of a grandson
and watch the time like a hawk
o o o
The pusillanimous
wanting all men cut down to worm-size.
Beginning with Canto 90, some forty pages of un-
faltering lyric brilliance initiate us into the realm of
"the values that endure like the sea," a hundred
startling motifs arrayed like fireflies around a the-
ological armature.
Their coherence is easily indicated from the pas-
sage first quoted. The reader of the Cantos has en-
countered Aphrodite's eyes many times-
Your eyen two wol sleye me sodenly
[Canto 81]
-and been told of their immersion in the accidental
postures of matter-
all that Sandra knew, and Jacopo
and that Velasquez never suspected
lost in the brown meat of Rembrandt
and the raw meat of Rubens and Jordaens
[Canto 80]
The beauty inheres in the "meat," but the meat oc-
cludes our sight:
"This alone, leather and bones between you and ':0 7t1i'',I''
When the body of light comes forth from the body
of fire, the permanent disengages itself with finality
from the casual: not, since it remains a body of
light, by some academic extraction of essences, but
by a process akin to revelation, prepared by Love.
Love, gone as lightning,
enduring 5000 years.
285 284 GNOMON
The new Cantos abound in such phrases, holding in
tension the transient and the inextinguishable, and
always having something to do with Light. That the
light-philosophers, Erigena, Avicenna, Richard St.
Victor, inhabit Pound's pantheon we have known
since the Pisan sequence; but there the ideograph
for "the sun's cord unspotted" did duty as synec-
doche for a process of irradiation now brilliantly
displayed. So we are told how
The waves rise, and the waves fall
But you are like the moon-light:
Always there!
Light endures, and the sea endures; but the visible
part of the sea is a turmoil. Elsewhere the enduring
substantial luminousness, the crystal sphere, enters
this context-
& from fire to crystal
via the body of light .
Or again,
Crystal waves weaving together toward the gtjhealing
Light compenetrans of the spirits
The Princess Ra-Set has climbed
to the great knees of stone,
She enters protection,
the great cloud is about her,
She has entered the protection of crystal
convien che si mova
la mente, amando
The crystal links itself with a recurring phrase,
The light there almost solid,
and late in the last Canto of the sequence the whole
complex is joined with a now permanent sea:
That the crystal wave mount to Hood-surge
The light there almost solid.
This is a permanence that contains and requires all
orderly movement, not an arrest nor, we are ex-
plicitly told, a stasis; and in the Poundian Paradiso
all movement is both orderly and free.
The precision of natural renewal has replaced the
cut stone of the early Cantos:
The clover enduring,
basalt crumbled with time.
"Are they the same leaves?"
that was an intelligent question.
For one of the purposes of the poem, they are the
same leaves; since the form persists, a mode of in-
telligence informing, as Agassiz would have said, the
vegetable order. The visible is a signature of the
invisible, notarized by, for instance, a seventeenth-
century Neoplatonist, "Secretary of Nature, J. Hey-
don."
"We have", said Mencius, "but phenomena."
monumenta. In nature are signatures
needing no verbal tradition,
oak leaf never plane leaf. John Heydon.
Such motifs reach far back into the Cantos, the
large-scale structure of which becomes more clear
and massive as we get more and more of it. From
the very beginning of his career, Pound's work has
been polarized by two implicit themes: the hero in
286
287 GNOMON
rebellious exile, and the emergence of order from
chaos: respectively, the story of Odysseus, and the
story of Aphrodite born from the sea. The Odysseus
figure specifies and generalizes all Pound's wander-
ing or proscribed or forgotten or embattled heroes:
the troubadours, Dante and Ovid the exiled poets,
Fenollosa and Dolmetsch ignored by specialists,
Frobenius with limitless curiosity traveling through
Africa, Agassiz dumped by the evolutionists, Douglas
and Gesell, Sigismundo, Mussolini: everyone the
object at some time of a campaign of vilification, or
a conspiracy of silence. Aphrodite we glimpse when-
ever the work breaks through into lyric, or forms
half-congeal in the waves, or eyes pierce the mist,
or some flux of events locks into an intelligible pat-
tern. Because she comes from the sea, Pound wel-
comes into his epic the look of chaos, for the sake
of its potentialities of order; "points define a periph-
ery"; the entire work is a seeming flux amid which
Odysseus voyages and out of which, at the very
least, a tone, a shape, a personality emerges. Out of
the endless interaction of these two myths comes the
scenario of the Cantos. Canto 1 gives us Odysseus
visiting the dead; Canto 2, Aphrodite's sea, with
forms in it, and a metamorphosis that uses the mu-
tability of matter to suggest the permanence of the
intelligible species. The Pisan Cantos commence
with a formal reprise: paralleling Canto 1, Canto 74
abounds in references to a beached Odysseus, while
paralleling Canto 2, Canto 75 presents via Janne-
quin's bird-music a sequence of metamorphoses in
which the form of a natural beauty-like the signa-
ture of the oak leaves-persists indestructible.
The Rock-Drill sequence in turn opens with a
reprise of the structure of the China-Adams se-
quence, Cantos 52-71. In the first Rock-Drill Canto,
85, we are given the parallel with 52-61, the moral
essentials of Chinese history, blended, through
Cantos 86 and 87, into contemporary analogies and
contrasts. In the second Rock-Drill section, Cantos
88 and 89, we have the American application, the
struggle of Jackson and Senator Benton against the
usurious Bank of the United States: a structural
parallel with 62-71 (Adams as Chinese Emperor),
and a thematic explication of 37 (the Bank War).
Near the end of Rock-Drill, Odysseus and the girl
from the waves reappear, transfigured. Odysseus,
transposed to a plane of sensibility where cunning
and heroics are irrelevant, moves through the latter
part of Canto 94 as Apollonius of Tyana, who
slaughtered no beast, wandered through India,
Egypt, and Asia Minor teaching and learning, held
parley with the shade of Achilles without having to
visit Hades and feed it blood, and (like Pound) was
laid under indictment in the capital of the world.
As for the figure out of the flux, she is this time the
sea-nymph Leucothea, who rescued Odysseus when
his raft was overwhelmed (Odyssey V: 333) and
with her magical veil ("my bikini is worth yr/raft")
enabled him to reach Phaeacia. She has a greater
sense of utility than one can read in the eyes of
Botticelli's Aphrodite; she is also, we are reminded
288
289
GNOMON
several times, Kadmou thugater, daughter of Cad-
mus who invented the alphabet, and bears analogy
to the poetry of the Cantos, no vendable objet d'art
but a force serviceable to storm-tossed author and
reader alike.
The Cantos generally rise into independence of
their sources, but page references at three points in
Rock-DnU direct our attention explicitly to three
books laid under systematic contribution: Couvreur's
Chou King, from which the ideograms come; Ben-
ton's Thirty Years' View, for the account of Ameri-
can government; and Philostratus' Life of Apollo-
nius, the record of the least fanatical and most
percipient of sages. The first is moral, the second
historical and practical, the third spiritua1.
1
After salvaging a few introductory phrases, Pound
generally starts his systematic dealings with a source
book about a third of the way in. The references to
the Chou King or History Classic begin in the fourth
chapter of Part III with the teachings of the minister
Y Yin, and utilize all the rest of the book in order.
Pound echoes all of Couvreur's apparatus: Chinese
text, transliterations, French version, Latin version,
footnotes identifying and dating Emperors, so bor-
rowing from this plenitude of scholarly reverbera-
tion a sense of copiousness to furnish the brief space
1 The Thirty Years' View hasn't been reprinted for nearly a cen-
tury, though the Benton volume in the Square Dollar Series con-
tains much of the relevant material. The Chinese references are to
the History Classic, Chou King, edited by S. Couvreur, S.}.,
printed in China; my page references are to the 4th edition, 1934.
The Coneybeare translation of Philostratus' Life of Apollonius of
Tyana is ia the Loeb series.
allotted in the poem. "Birds and terrapin lived under
Hia," is the first item in his systematic summary:
beast and fish held their order
Neither flood nor flame falling in excess"
We are on page 114 of Couvreur; immediately a
column of Chinese sounds, "i moua pou gning," lures
us to the source book, where we find "and no one
not contented." The Bill of Rights passage refers us
to page 131 of Couvreur: "If one person lacks free-
dom to do good, the ruler will have one auxiliary the
less, and his work will be incomplete." Throughout
Canto 85 the reduplicated ideograms reiterate an
active senso morale; the handsome "ling" with which
the volume opens-
Our dynasty came in because of a great sensibility
-is defined in Mathews' dictionary (No. 4071) as
"the spirit of a being which acts upon others," with
the sub-entry "intelligent," but in Couvreur's glos-
sary as "Intelligent; bon; arne d'un defunt"; while
in the Chou King text it is repeatedly used to denote
the Emperor's "feel of the people." Pound's word,
"sensibility," gradually irradiates its context with all
these meanings.
2
The "hsien form" at the bottom of
the first page (Mathews 2671) has a heart in the
upper right corner and moving legs beneath: virtue
is active. The "luminous eye" on page 89 also has
His mode of generalizing and compressing may be gauged from
the fact that the opening line of the Canto is based on a verse which
Couvreur (p. 285) renders thus: "Les empereurs de notre maison
de Tcheou (Wenn Wang et Ou wang), a caUSe de leur grande
bonte, furent charges d'executer l'oeuvre du roi du del." "Our dy-
nasty came in because of a great sensibility."
291 290 GNOMON
legs; and the presence of legs explains why chen
(adesignationofvirtue, p. 61) is "beyondataraxia,"
the Greekwordfor freedom from passion.
Te onpages 6 and8 (Mathews6162) has thepre-
fix denoting action (man in two positions) and the
"heart" component at its base. Mathews defines it
as "practice of truth and acquisition thereof in the
heart." The chronicle of its involvement with the
themes of the Cantos is characteristic of Pound's
intentions. Onpages5--6 we read:
Perspicax qui excolit se ipsum,
Their writings wither because they have no curiosity,
This "leader", gouged pumpkin
that they hoist on a pole,
But if you will follow this process
. . here the te sign occurs, its form suggesting a
forward motion of which the pumpkin-procession is
a ghastly parody. On page 8, the ideogram recurs
in connection with the function of the genuine
leader:
Not serendipity
but to spread
te thruthepeople.
These two passages distill the context of the salient
occurrence of te in the Chou King (p. 123), where
Couvreur has, "Qui excolit se ipsum et vera virtute
concordat sum subditis, est perspicax rex," alterna-
tively, "Un prince intelligent se perfectionne lui-
meme, et pratique la virtue sincerement avec ses
sujets." ButPoundisn't quitethroughwiththeideo-
gram; muchlaterherecalls itina contextofnatural
history (p.34):
As the water-bug casts a flower on stone
nel botro
One interaction. Te interaction. A shadow?
-theinteraction between heaven, prince, and peo-
ple paralleled by that between the descent of light,
the refractive processes of dented water, and the
substantiality of the water-bug, which results in a
radiant unforeseeable entity, the spectral flower on
the stone. This metaphysical image effects a blend-
ing of the moral ambience of the te ideogram with
the motifs of the Paradiso proper in the latter half
ofthe book.
Such a process of moral circulation, starting with
the ruler's "sensibility" and effecting the dissemina-
tionof"te thruthepeople,"is oncemoretiedtightly
to the Paradiso sequence on the first page of Canto
90:
Templum aedificans, notyet marble,
"Amphion!"
And from the San Ku
to the room in Poitiers where one can stand
casting no shadow,
Thatis Sagetrieb,
thatis tradition.
Builders had kept the proportion,
did Jacques de Molay
know these proportions?
and was Erigena ours? ...
The San Ku (the ideograms mean "Three Alone")
was a councilofthree establishedbyTch'engWang
292
GNOMON
in the Tcheou dynasty, inferior but not subordinate
to the grand preceptor, grand master, and grand
guardian. (The quasi-masonic terminology suggests
one link with Jacques de Molay.) Their function
was to "etendre partout la reorme, s'appliquant
avec respect a faire briller l'action du ciel et de la
terre" (Couvreur, p. 333). "Faire briller" reaches
forward to Erigena with his "omnia quae sunt lu-
mina sunt," and out to the irradiated room in Poi-
tiers, or the temple, not marble, which Amphion is
to build with music. Nor is this a nest of bright as-
sociations, but the profile of a forward drive in time:
"Sagetrieb," etymologically word-drive, the urge to
say something, denominates a tradition backed by
energy, thrust forward and sustaining the builders
who "kept the proportion."
Benton maintained this tradition; his speeches in
the Senate, as recorded in his Thirty Years' View,
are steadily urgent and steadily enlightening, with
neither quality sacrificed to the other. His great
speech of February 1831 against the renewal of the
Bank's charter loses none of its momentum or pre-
cision in Pound's summary on pages 46-47; its or-
donnance is attested to by the fact that Pound is
mainly using the head-phrases of Benton's para-
graphs:
. Such
a bank tends to subjugate government;
It tends to collusions,
to borrow 50 and pay back one hundred,
It tends to create public DEBT.
Under the Larches of Paradise 293
1694: Loan One Million 200,000
Interest 80,000, Expenses 4.
GERM, nucleus, and is now 900 Million.
It tends to beget and prolong useless wars;
aggravate inequalities; make and break fortunes.
There was a time when the Senate could expect and
would listen to serious arguments whose eloquence
survives a century and has the utmost contemporary
relevance. Benton provides Pound with a powerful
summary of the Jackson-Van Buren Cantos, as well
as with a measuring-rod for the contemporary presi-
dent who would listen to nothing:
"Don't write me any more things to tell him
(scripsit Woodward, W. E.)
"on these occasions
HE
talks." (End quote)
This great block of material shores up the lyric
Paradiso which commences with Canto 90 and in
tum sustains the narrative of Apollonius of Tyana
(Canto 94).
The Apollonius sequence rhymes with the voyage
of Odysseus to the underworld in Canto 1 and the
Carthaginian voyage down the west coast of Africa
in Canto 40; except that, whereas Odysseus did
magical rites to compel the shades, and the Cartha-
ginians went as tourists after marvels, "seeking an
exit" from a commercial civilization from which they
didn't really dissociate themselves (their heroism
was a buccaneer's virtue, and they brought back
294
295
GNOMON
the skins of three "folk hairy and savage/whom our
Lixtae said were Gorillas"), Apollonius journeyed
into India and Egypt to parley peaceably with sages.
He taught, and was taught, "that the universe is
alive, apw't'& to"'X&t" ("possessed by a love that knits
it together"), and Pound records the Greek of his
fine leave-taking of the Indian host who conducted
him back out of the interior: "You have presented
me with the sea; farewell." On the next page comes
the explicit parallel with Canto 1, "And then went
down to the ship":
ht V(%UV
embarking at sunset
That he passed the night on the mound of Achilles
"master of tempest and :6.re"
& he set up Palamedes
3
an image that I, Philostratus, saw
and a shrine that will hold ten people drinking.
We then hear in Apollonius' own words how the
great shade appeared to him, and faded away:
"It was not by ditch-digging and sheep's-guts ...
"in Aeolis close to Methymna"
in the summer lightning, close upon cock-crow.
Whereupon, to unite this interview with his Para-
diso rather than with Odysseus' Underworld, Pound
interpolates:
So that walking here under the larches of Paradise
the stream was exceedingly clear
& almost level its margin
This memorial to a forgotten hero of the Trojan war parallels
Odysseus' stele to Elpenor, "man of no fortune and with a name
to come."
Though "Man is under Fortuna," Apollonius moves
exempt from calamity:
for the doers of holiness
(1.&V 'It&O"(%V
they may ship or swim, being secure.
He is the personification of the moral precept on the
second page of the book:
Not led of lusting, not of contriving
but is as the grass and tree
eccellenza
not led of lusting,
not of the worm, contriving
He also was interviewed by Vespasian, and spoke of
the rightness of the latter's intention to seize abso-
lute power, in the circumstances that then obtained
(this is the V: 35 which Pound notes is worth atten-
tion ); but, being no doctrinaire monarchist, indeed,
"not particular about theoretical organizations," he
later sent Vespasian a letter of rebuke when the
latter, enslaving the Hellenes, "did not show good
sense in Greece."
Like the Chou King and the Thirty Years' View,
the Philostratus Life of Apollonius is worth reading.
Long proscribed by the Christians, it is one more
of the neglected books to which the Cantos have
drawn attention. Primary sources are always the
richest. Pound has looked into the 1901 Apollonius
of Tyana of his old acquaintance G. R. S. Mead, and
used just two details, the accentuation of Tyana and
the romantic fact that the Empress Julia Damna who
''The whole earth affords secure ground."
296
GNOMON
commissioned Philostratus' work was the "daughter
of a sun priest in Babylon," but otherwise he has
stuck to Philostratus' text, mainly Books III-V, ex-
tracting nuggets like Apollonius' refutation of the
Greek maxim that "one penny begets another," or
the etymology of "Red Sea," or the tigers thatwor-
ship the sun. In Canto 91 we find one anticipa-
tory glimpse from Book VIII-3; when Apollonius
went on trial before Domitian he was told he must
enter the court with nothing on him, meaning no
books or papers; andherepliedwithwhimsicalcom-
posure, "Is this a bath-house? Or a Court House?"
Pound's reference to this incident is folded around
a line from the Odyssey (V: 332) about the winds
playingshuttlecock with the hero's raft, and accom-
panied by a reminder that the sea-nymph made
Odysseus cast off the gannents Calypso had given
him: "getrid of parapernalia."
"We think because we do not know"; all is para-
phernalia that does not at length float easily in the
mind; the mind atlengthhavingencompassed with-
out strain what is necessary may dream of coming
to "that High City."
"Ghosts dip in the crystal,
adorned"
Thatthe tone change from elegy
"Et Jehanne"
(the Lorraine girl)
A lost kind of experience?
scarcely,
o Queen Cytherea,
che '1 terzo del movete.
ABC of Reading (Pound),
139, 142
Allen, Gay Wilson, 71-72
"All Souls' Night" (Yeats),
11-12
"Among School Children"
(Yeats), 9-10, 12-13
Aphrodite, 286-288
Arnold, Matthew, 80, 82
Autobiography (Yeats), 211
Benton, Sen. Thos. Hart, 78,
287, 288, 292-293
Blackmur, R. P., 242-248
Blair, W., & Chandler, W.
K., Approaches to Poetry,
101-102
Blast, 147, 148
Bouvardand Pecuchet (Flau-
bert), 146, 148
Brancusi, Constantin, 134
Brooks, Cleanth, & Warren,
Robert Penn, Understand-
ing Poetry, 101-107
Browning, Robert, 93, 98, 99
CanterburyTales, Yeats'com-
ment on, 23
Carroll, Lewis, 258
Cathay ( Pound), 87-88
Chase, Richard, 74, 78
Childermass, The (Lewis),
216-222
Chou King (Couvreur),288-
290
Index
Clark, Leadie M., 77
Classic AnthologyDefinedby
Confucius (tr.Pound),82-
100
"Collarbone of a Hare, The"
(Yeats), 17-18
"Colonus' Praise" (Yeats), 10
Confucius (Kung), 82-84,
133, 140, 268, 271, 272
Conrad, Joseph, 155, 162-
170
Cooper, Charles W., Preface
toPoetry, 109-110
Couvreur, Father S. (Chou
King), 288-290, 292
Cowley,Malcolm, 68-70,195
Criticism, Literary, 3-5
Cummings, E. E., 242, 244
Davie, Donald, on syntax,
179-188
Demon of Progress in the
Arts (Lewis), 233-234
"Dry Salvages, The" (Eliot),
248
"Ego DominusTuus"(Yeats),
21
Eliot, T. S., 3, 47, 58, 65--66,
80, 89, 134, 147, 157-159,
171, 248, 249; on Mari-
anne Moore, 192
Ellman, Richard, 10, 205
297
298
Index
Empson, William, 249-262
Joyce, James, 51, 147, 152,
Exegesis,centralityof,3-5
159, 162, 265
Kilby, Clyde S., Poetry for
Fang, Achilles, 82-83
Study, 111-112
Fenollosa, Ernest, 138, 181-
Koch, Vivienne, 205
182,186-187
Kung-seeConfucius.
Fiedler, Leslie, 74-76
Flaubert, Gustave, 145, 163
LaFontaine,MarianneMoore
Ford, Ford Madox, Parade's
translation of, 189-197
End, 144-161; The Good
Langer, Susanne, 181
Soldier, 162, 167-170
Leavis, F. R., 13, 95-96, 166
Freud, Sigmund, 114-131
"LedaandtheSwan" (Yeats),
Frobenius, Leo, 140, 142
9, 13
Lewis, P. Wyndham, 144,
Gonne, Maude, 13
147, 159, 162, 215-241
Good Soldier, The (Ford),
Life of Apollonius of Tyana
147, 156, 162, 167-170
(Philostratus), 288, 293-
Gourmont, Remy de, 265-
296
267, 270, 275
Lustra (Pound), 269-271,
Gregory, Major Robert, 15-
279
17,20,26
Guide to Kulchur (Pound),
Malign Fiesta (Lewis), 230-
132-143
239
Mathews (Chinese Diction-
Heydon, John, 285 ary), 289-290
Housman, Ao E., 86-87 "Mauberley" (Pound),Black-
Hulme, To E., 181-186 mur on, 246
Human Age, The (Lewis), Memories and Impressions
215, 235, 240 (Ford), 156
Hyman, Stanley Edgar, 246 "Men Improve with the
Hynes, Sam, 183-184 Years" (Yeats), 15-17, 22
Men Without Art (Lewis),
James, Henry, 266-267, 270,
233
Metaphor, 38
275
Millett, Fred B., Reading
Jeffares, W. Norman, 205
Jones, Dr. Ernest, biography
Poetry, 110-111
of Freud, 114-131
Milton, John, 269
Index 299
Monroe, Harriet, 265 143; Cantos, 133-134;
Monstre Gai (Lewis), 223- Spirit of Romance, The,
230 135, 137; ABCofReading,
Montaigne, 136-137 139, 142; and French En-
Moore, Marianne, Williams lightenment, 263-279;
on, 63-65; La Fontaine RockDrill,280-296;Black-
translation, 189-197; mur on "Mauberley," 246
Blackmur on, 242
Moore, T. Sturge, 211-214 Rabelais, 136-137
Ransom, John Crowe, 248
NewCriticism, 96 RedPriest, The (Lewis),239,
Nostromo (Conrad), 165- 241
167 Richards, I. A., 103, 107
RockDrill (Pound),280-296
Ong, Rev. Walter J., 80-81 Rotting Hill (Lewis), 222
Parade's End (Ford), 144- "Sailing to Byzantium"
161, 168 (Yeats), 10-12
Paterson (Williams), 38-54 Secret Agent, The (Conrad),
Pater, Walter (Renaissance), 165
137 Self Condemned (Lewis),
"The Phases of the Moon" 227
(Yeats),27-28 Seven Types of Ambiguity
Philostratus, Flavius (Life of (Empson), 249, 251, 258,
Apollonius), 288, 293-296 262
Pisan Cantos (Pound), 2, Shakespeare, Mrs. Olivia, 199
273, 274, 276-279, 283, Shelley, P. B., 4
286 Some Do Not (Ford), 154
Pope, Alexander, 177-179, Spirit of Romance, The
181, 189, 264, 271; Dun- (Pound), 135, 137
ciad, 172-173, 175-179; Stageberg, N. Co, & Ander-
Essay on Criticism, 173- son, W. L., Poetry as Ex-
174; Nature in, 174 perience, 109-110
Pound, Ezra, 47, 51, 58, 145, Stein, Gertrude, 60-61
146, 147, 157; Williamson, Stendhal, 145
61-63; Classic Anthology, Stevens, Wallace, 244
82-100; Cathay, 87-88; Structure of Complex Wards
Guide to Kulchur, 132- (Empson),249-262
215
300 Index
Thomas, Dylan, 182
Thomas, Wright, & Brown,
S. G., Reading Poems, 107
"Tower, The" (Yeats), 10, 12,
21,25
Trial of Man, The (Lewis),
Twentieth Century Palette
(Lewis), 240, 241
Under Western Eyes (Con-
rad), 162-165
Unger, Leonard, & O'Connor,
William Van, Poems for
Study, 108-109
Usury, 134, 276
Van Doren, Mark, Introduc-
tion to Poetry, 108
Vision, A (Yeats), 13,28-29,
209, 211
Voltaire, 270--271, 272, 275
Vortex, The, 6, 147
Waste Land, The (Eliot) ,
134, 256
Whitman, Walt, 30, 42, 67-
79; Song of Myself, 68;
Malcolm Cowley on, 68-
70; Williams on, 69-70;
G. W. Allen on, 71-72;
Leslie Fiedler on, 74-76;
Richard Chase on, 74, 78
"The Wild Swans at Coole"
(Yeats), 19-23
Williams, Aubrey, 175-177
Williams, William Carlos,
188; Great American Novel,
30-37; Paterson, 38-54;
Autobiography, 44; on the
American community, 41-
44; Selected Essays, 57-
66; on Pound, 61-63; on
Stein, 60--61; on Marianne
Moore, 63-65
Wordsworth, William, 24-26;
The Prelude, 24
Yeats, W. B., 9-29; 146, 147,
188; Letters, 199-214;
Blackmur on, 244-245
About the Author
Hugh Kenner was born in Peterborough, Ontario, on
January 7, 1923, the son of a classics master turned high
school principal He was gold medalist in English at the
University of Toronto, 1945, and obtained his M.A. the
following year. After teaching two years at Assumption
College, Windsor, Ontario, he embarked on Ph.D. work
at Yale and received the degree in 1950. Since then he
has been teaching English at Santa Barbara College of
the University of California, where he is now chairman
of the department. He lives with his wife and five chil-
dren in a house overlooking the Pacific.
Gnomon is his fifth book; the others include pioneer
studies of Ezra Pound and Wyndham Lewis and a sys-
tematic exegesis of James Joyce. Books on T. S. Eliot
and William Carlos Williams and a historical survey,
The Night-World, are in progress. He is Contributing
Editor of Poetry (Chicago), and an advisory editor of
Spectrum (Santa Barbara), has published some 80 ar-
ticles and reviews in American and British magazines,
was invited to address the Royal Society of Literature
(London) in 1956, and is travelling and writing on a
Guggenheim Fellowship dUring 1957--8.

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GNOMON

ESSAYS ON CONTEMPORARY LITERATURE

ationofthe spirit's attributes. Exegesis characteristi-

This is both explicit and comprehensive; ithas the

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