Chapter VI: Part 6

"Quand on voudra définir la philosophie du XIXème siècle, on s'apercevra qu'il n'a fait que de la théologie. * * * * * * "Apprendre pour apprendre est peut-être aussi grossier que manger pour manger. * * * * * * "C'est singulier en littérature, quand la forme n'est pas nouvelle, le fond ne l'est pas non plus. * * * * * * "Le nu de l'art contemporain est un nu d'hydrothérapie. * * * * * * "L'art doit être à la mode ou créer la mode. * * * * * * "Les pacifistes, de braves gens à genoux, près d'une balance et priant le ciel qu'elle s'incline, non pas selon les lois de la pesanteur, mais selon leurs vœux. * * * * * * "La propriété est nécessaire, mais il ne l'est pas qu'elle reste toujours dans les mêmes mains. * * * * * * "Il y a une simulation de l'intelligence comme il y a une simulation de la vertu. * * * * * * "Le roman historique. Il y a aussi la peinture historique, l'architecture historique, et, à la mi-carême, le costume historique. * * * * * * "Etre impersonnel c'est être personnel selon un mode particulier: Voyez Flaubert. On dirait en jargon: l'objectif est une des formes du subjectif. * * * * * * "La maternité, c'est beau, tant qu'on n'y fait pas attention. C'est vulgaire dès qu'on admire. * * * * * * "L'excuse du christianisme, ça a été son impuissance sur la réalité. Il a corrompu l'esprit bien plus que la vie.

"Je ne garantis pas qu'aucune de ces notes ne se trouve déjà dans un de mes écrits, ou qu'elle ne figurera pas dans un écrit futur. On les retrouvera peut-être même dans des écrits qui ne seront pas les miens." _Des Pas sur le Sable._

Those interested in the subject will take "LE PROBLÈME DU STYLE" (1902) entire; the general position may perhaps be indicated very vaguely by the following quotations:

"Quant à la peur de se gâter le style, c'est bon pour un Bemho, qui use d'une langue factice. Le style peut se fatiguer comme l'homme même; il vieillira de même que l'intelligence et la sensibilité dont il est le signe; mais pas plus que l'individu, il ne changera de personnalité, à moins d'un cataclysme psychologique. Le régime alimentaire, le séjour à la campagne ou à Paris, les occupations sentimentales et leurs suites, les maladies ont bien plus d'influence sur un style vrai que les mauvaises lectures. Le style est un produit physiologique, et l'un des plus constants; quoique dans la dépendance des diverses fonctions vitales.

"Les États-Unis tomberaient en langueur, sans les voyages en Europe de leur aristocratie, sans la diversité extrême des climats, des sols et par conséquent des races en évolution dans ce vaste empire. Les échanges entre peuples sont aussi nécessaires à la révigoration de chaque peuple que le commerce social à l'exaltation de l'énergie individuelle. On n'a pas pris garde à cette nécessite quand on parle avec regret de l'influence des littératures étrangères sur notre littérature. * * * * * * "Aujourd'hui l'influence d'Euripide pourrait encore déterminer en un esprit original d'intéressantes œuvres; l'imitateur de Racine dépasserait à peine le comique involontaire. L'étude de Racine ne deviendra profitable que dans plusieurs siècles et seulement à condition que, complètement oublié, il semble entièrement nouveau, entièrement étranger, tel que le sont devenus pour le public d'aujourd'hui Adenès li Rois ou Jean de Meung. Euripide était nouveau au XVIIème siècle. Théocrite l'était alors que Chénier le transposait. 'Quand je fais des vers, insinuait Racine, je songe toujours à dire ce qui ne s'est point encore dit dans notre langue.' André Chénier a voulu exprimer celà aussi dans une phrase maladroite; et s'il ne l'a dit il l'a fait. Horace a bafoué les serviles imitateurs; il n'imitait pas les Grecs, il les étudiait. * * * * * * "'Le style est l'homme même' est un propos de naturaliste, qui sait que le chant des oiseaux est déterminé par la forme de leur bec, l'attache de leur langue, le diamètre de leur gorge, la capacité de leurs poumons. * * * * * * "Le style, c'est de sentir, de voir, de penser, et rien plus. * * * * * * "Le style est une spécialisation de la sensibilité. * * * * * * "Une idée n'est qu'une sensation défraîchie, une image effacée. * * * * * * "La vie est un dépouillement. Le but de l'activité propre d'un homme est de nettoyer sa personnalité, de la laver de toutes les souillures qu'y déposa l'éducation, de la dégager de toutes les empreintes qu'y laissèrent nos admirations adolescentes. * * * * * * "Depuis un siècle et demi, les connaissances scientifiques ont augmenté énormément; l'esprit scientifique a rétrogradé; il n'y a plus de contact immédiat entre ceux qui lisent et ceux qui créent la science, et (je cite pour la seconde fois la réflexion capitale de Buffon): 'On n'acquiert aucune connaissance transmissible qu'en voyant par soi-même': Les ouvrages de seconde main amusent l'intelligence et ne stimulent pas son activité. * * * * * * "Rien ne pousse à la concision comme l'abondance des idées." _Le Problème du Style_,1902.

Christianity lends itself to fanaticism. Barbarian ethics proceed by general taboos. The relation of two individuals in relation is so complex that no third person can pass judgment upon it. Civilization is individual. The truth is the individual. The light of the Renaissance shines in Varchi when he declines to pass judgment on Lorenzaccio.

One might make an index of, but one cannot write an essay upon, the dozen volumes of Gourmont's collected discussions. There was weariness towards the end of his life. It shows in even the leisurely charm of "Lettres à l'Amazone." There was a final flash in his drawing of M. Croquant.

The list of his chief works published by the Mercure de France, 26 Rue de Condé, Paris, is as follows:

"Sixtine."
"Le Pèlerin du Silence."
"Les Chevaux de Diomède."
"D'un Pays Lointain."
"Le Songe d'une Femme."
"Lilith, suivi de Théodat."
'Une Nuit au Luxembourg."
"Un Cœur Virginal."
"Couleurs, suivi de Choses Anciennes."
"Histoires Magiques."
"Lettres d'un Satyre."
"Le Chat de Misère.
"Simone."

CRITIQUE

"Le Latin Mystique."
"Le Livre des Masques" (Ier. et IIème.)
"La Culture des Idées."
"Le Chemin de Velours."
"Le Problème du Style."
"Physique de l'Amour."
"Epilogues."
"Esthétique de la Langue Française."
"Promenades Littéraires."
"Promenades Philosophiques."
"Dialogue des Amateurs sur les Choses du Temps."
"Nouveaux Dialogues des Amateurs sur les Choses du Temps."
"Dante, Béatrice et la Poésie Amoureuse."
"Pendant l'Orage."

De Gourmont's readiness to coöperate in my first plans for establishing some sort of periodical to maintain communications between New York, London and Paris, was graciously shown in the following (post-mark June 13, '15):

_Dimanche._

_Cher Monsieur:_

J'ai lu avec plaisir votre longue lettre, qui m'expose si
clairement la nécessité d'une revue unissant les efforts des
Américains, des Anglais, et des Français. Pour cela, je vous
servirai autant qu'il sera en mon pouvoir. Je ne crois pas
que je puisse beaucoup. J'ai une mauvaise santé et je suis
extrêmement fatigué; je ne pourrai vous donner que des
choses très courtes, des indications d'idées plutôt que des
pages accomplies, mais je ferai de mon mieux. J'espère que
vous réussirez à mettre debout cette petite affaire
littéraire et que vous trouverez parmi nous des concours
utiles. Evidemment si nous pourions amener les Américains à
mieux sentir la vraie littérature française et surtout à ne
pas la confondre avec tant d'œuvres courantes si
médiocres, cela serait un résultat très heureux. Sont-ils
capables d'assez de liberté d'esprit pour lire, sans être
choqués, mes livres par example, elle est bien douteux et il
faudrait pour cela un long travail de préparation. Mais
pourquoi ne pas l'entreprendre? En tous les pays, il y a un
noyau de bons esprits, d'esprits libres, il faut leur donner
quelque chose qui les change de la fadeur des magazines,
quelque chose qui leur donne confiance en eux-mêmes et leur
soit un point d'appui. Comme vous le dites, il faudra pour
commencer les amener à respecter l'individualisme français,
le sens de la liberté que quelques uns d'entre nous
possèdent à un si haut point. Ils comprennent cela en
théologie. Pourquoi ne le comprendraient-ils pas en art, en
poésie, en littérature, en philosophie. Il faut leur faire
voir--s'ils ne le voient pas déjà--que l'individualisme
français peut, quand il le faut, se plier aux plus dures
disciplines.

Conquérir l'Américain n'est pas sans doute votre seul but.
Le but du _Mercure_ a été de permettre à ceux qui en valent
la peine d'écrire franchement ce qu'il pense--seul plaisir
d'un écrivain. Cela doit aussi être le vôtre.

Votre bien dévoué,
_Remy de Gourmont._

"The aim of the _Mercure_ has been to permit any man, who is worth it, to write down his thought frankly--this is a writer's sole pleasure. And this aim should be yours."

"Are they capable of enough mental liberty to read my books, for example, without being horrified? I think this very doubtful, and it will need long preparation. But why not try it? There are in all countries knots of intelligent people, open-minded; one must give something to relieve them from the staleness of magazines, something which will give them confidence in themselves and serve as a rallying point. As you say, one must begin by getting them to respect French individualism; the sense of liberty which some of us have in so great degree. They understand this in theology, why should they not understand it in art, poetry, literature?"

If only my great correspondent could have seen letters I received about this time from English alleged intellectuals! The incredible stupidity, the ingrained refusal of thought!!!!! Of which more anon, if I can bring myself to it. Or let it pass? Let us say simply that De Gourmont's words form an interesting contrast with the methods employed by the British literary episcopacy to keep one from writing what one thinks, or to punish one (financially) for having done so.

Perhaps as a warning to young writers who can not afford the loss, one would be justified in printing the following:

50_a. Albermarle Street, London W._

_22 October, '14:_

Dear Mr. Pound:

Many thanks for your letter of the other day. I am afraid I
must say frankly that I do not think I can open the columns
of the _Q.R._--at any rate, at present--to any one
associated publicly with such a publication as _Blast._ It
stamps a man too disadvantageously.

Yours truly,
G.W. Prothero.

Of course, having accepted your paper on the _Noh_, I could not refrain from publishing it. But other things would be in a different category.

I need scarcely say that _The Quarterly Review_ is one of the most profitable periodicals in England, and one of one's best "connections," or sources of income. It has, of course, a tradition.

"It is not that Mr. Keats (if that be his real name, for we almost doubt that any man in his senses would put his real name to such a rhapsody)"--

write their Gifford of Keats' "Endymion." My only comment is that the _Quarterly_ has done it again. Their Mr. A. Waugh is a lineal descendant of Gifford, by way of mentality. A century has not taught them manners. In the eighteen forties they were still defending the review of Keats. And more recently Waugh has lifted up his senile slobber against Mr. Eliot. It is indeed time that the functions of both English and American literature were taken over by younger and better men.

As for their laying the birch on my pocket. I compute that my support of Lewis and Brzeska has cost me at the lowest estimate about £20 per year, from one source alone since that regrettable occurrence, since I dared to discern a great sculptor and a great painter in the midst of England's artistic desolation. ("European and Asiatic papers please copy.")

Young men, desirous of finding before all things smooth berths and elderly consolations, are cautioned to behave more circumspectly.

The generation that preceded us does not care much whether we understand French individualism, or the difference between the good and bad in French literature. Nor is it conceivable that any of them would write to a foreigner: "indications of ideas, rather than work accomplished, but I will send you my best."

De Gourmont's next communication to me was an inquiry about Gaudier-Brzeska's sculpture.

[1] "A German study," Hobson; "A German study," Tarr.

[2] Quoted in _L.R._, February, 1918.

[3] Each of the senses has its own particular eunuchs.

IV

IN THE VORTEX[1]

Eliot
Joyce
Lewis
An historical essayist
The new poetry
Breviora

T.S. ELIOT

_Il n'y a de livres que ceux où un écrivain s'est raconté
lui-même en racontant les mœurs de ses contemporains--leurs
rêves, leurs vanités, leurs amours, et leurs folies_.--
Remy de Gourmont.

De Gourmont uses this sentence in writing of the incontestable superiority of "Madame Bovary," "L'Éducation Sentimentale" and "Bouvard et Pécuchet" to "Salammbô" and "La Tentation de St. Antoine." A casual thought convinces one that it is true for all prose. Is it true also for poetry? One may give latitude to the interpretation of _rêves_; the gross public would have the poet write little else, but De Gourmont keeps a proportion. The vision should have its place in due setting if we are to believe its reality.

The few poems which Mr. Eliot has given us maintain this proportion, as they maintain other proportions of art. After much contemporary work that is merely factitious, much that is good in intention but impotently unfinished and incomplete; much whose flaws are due to sheer ignorance which a year's study or thought might have remedied, it is a comfort to come upon complete art, naïve despite its intellectual subtlety, lacking all pretense.

It is quite safe to compare Mr. Eliot's work with anything written in French, English or American since the death of Jules Laforgue. The reader will find nothing better, and he will be extremely fortunate if he finds much half as good.

The necessity, or at least the advisability of comparing English or American work with French work is not readily granted by the usual English or American writer. If you suggest it, the Englishman answers that he has not thought about it--he does not see why he should bother himself about what goes on south of the channel; the American replies by stating that you are "no longer American." This is the bitterest jibe in his vocabulary. The net result is that it is extremely difficult to read one's contemporaries. After a time one tires of "promise."

I should like the reader to note how complete is Mr. Eliot's depiction of our contemporary condition. He has not confined himself to genre nor to society portraiture. His

lonely men in shirt-sleeves leaning out of windows

are as real as his ladies who

come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

His "one night cheap hotels" are as much "there" as are his

four wax candles in the darkened room,
Four rings of light upon the ceiling overhead,
An atmosphere of Juliet's tomb.

And, above all, there is no rhetoric, although there is Elizabethan reading in the background. Were I a French critic, skilled in their elaborate art of writing books about books, I should probably go to some length discussing Mr. Eliot's two sorts of metaphor: his wholly unrealizable, always apt, half ironic suggestion, and his precise realizable picture. It would be possible to point out his method of conveying a whole situation and half a character by three words of a quoted phrase; his constant aliveness, his mingling of very subtle observation with the unexpectedness of a backhanded cliché. It is, however, extremely dangerous to point out such devices. The method is Mr. Eliot's own, but as soon as one has reduced even a fragment of it to formula, some one else, not Mr. Eliot, some one else wholly lacking in his aptitudes, will at once try to make poetry by mimicking his external procedure. And this indefinite "some one" will, needless to say, make a botch of it.

For what the statement is worth, Mr. Eliot's work interests me more than that of any other poet now writing in English.[2] The most interesting poems in Victorian English are Browning's "Men and Women," or, if that statement is too absolute, let me contend that the form of these poems is the most vital form of that period of English, arid that the poems written in that form are the least like each other in content. Antiquity gave us Ovid's "Heroides" and Theocritus' woman using magic. The form of Browning's "Men and Women" is more alive than the epistolary form of the "Heroides." Browning included a certain amount of ratiocination and of purely intellectual comment, and in just that proportion he lost intensity. Since Browning there have been very few good poems of this sort. Mr. Eliot has made two notable additions to the list. And he has placed his people in contemporary settings, which is much more difficult than to render them with mediæval romantic trappings. If it is permitted to make comparison with a different art, let me say that he has used contemporary detail very much as Velasquez used contemporary detail in "Las Meninas"; the cold gray-green tones of the Spanish painter have, it seems to me, an emotional value not unlike the emotional value of Mr. Eliot's rhythms, and of his vocabulary.

James Joyce has written the best novel of my decade, and perhaps the best criticism of it has come from a Belgian who said, "All this is as true of my country as of Ireland." Eliot has a like ubiquity of application. Art does not avoid universals, it strikes at them all the harder in that it strikes through particulars. Eliot's work rests apart from that of the many new writers who have used the present freedoms to no advantage, who have gained no new precisions of language, and no variety in their cadence. His men in shirt-sleeves, and his society ladies, are not a local manifestation; they are the stuff of our; modern world, and true of more countries than one. I would praise the work for its fine tone, its humanity, and its realism; for all good art is realism of one sort or another.

It is complained that Eliot is lacking in emotion. "La Figlia che Piange" is an adequate confutation.

If the reader wishes mastery of "regular form," the "Conversation Galante" is sufficient to show that symmetrical form is within Mr. Eliot's grasp. You will hardly find such neatness save in France; such modern neatness, save in Laforgue.

De Gourmont's phrase to the contrary notwithstanding, the supreme test of a book is that we should feel some unusual intelligence working behind the words. By this test various other new books, that I have, or might have, beside me, go to pieces. The barrels of sham poetry that every decade and school and fashion produce, go to pieces. It is sometimes extremely difficult to find any other particular reason for their being so unsatisfactory. I have expressly written here not "intellect" but "intelligence." There is no intelligence without emotion. The emotion may be anterior or concurrent. There may be emotion without much intelligence, but that does not concern us.

_Versification:_

A conviction as to the rightness or wrongness of _vers libre_ is no guarantee of a poet. I doubt if there is much use trying to classify the various kinds of _vers libre_, but there is an anarchy which may be vastly overdone; and there is a monotony of bad usage as tiresome as any typical eighteenth or nineteenth century flatness.

In a recent article Mr. Eliot contended, or seemed to contend, that good _vers libre_ was little more than a skilful evasion of the better known English metres. His article was defective in that he omitted all consideration of metres depending on quantity, alliteration, etc.; in fact, he wrote as if metres were measured by accent. This may have been tactful on his part, it may have brought his article nearer to the comprehension of his readers (that is, those of the "New Statesman," people chiefly concerned with sociology of the "button" and "unit" variety). But he came nearer the fact when he wrote elsewhere: "No _vers_ is _libre_ for the man who wants to do a good job."

Alexandrine and other grammarians have made cubbyholes for various groupings of syllables; they have put names upon them, and have given various labels to "metres" consisting of combinations of these different groups. Thus it would be hard to escape contact with some group or other; only an encyclopedist could ever be half sure he had done so. The known categories would allow a fair liberty to the most conscientious traditionalist. The most fanatical vers-librist will escape them with difficulty. However, I do not think there is any crying need for verse with absolutely no rhythmical basis.

On the other hand, I do not believe that Chopin wrote to a metronome. There is undoubtedly a sense of music that takes count of the "shape" of the rhythm in a melody rather than of bar divisions, which came rather late in the history of written music and were certainly not the first or most important thing that musicians attempted to record. The creation of such shapes is part of thematic invention. Some musicians have the faculty of invention, rhythmic, melodic. Likewise some poets.

Treatises full of musical notes and of long and short marks have never been convincingly useful. Find a man with thematic invention and all he can say is that he gets what the Celts call a "chune" in his head, and that the words "go into it," or when they don't "go into it" they "stick out and worry him."

You can not force a person to play a musical masterpiece correctly, even by having the notes "correctly" printed on the paper before him; neither can you force a person to feel the movement of poetry, be the metre "regular" or "irregular." I have heard Mr. Yeats trying to read Burns, struggling in vain to fit the "Birks o' Aberfeldy" and "Bonnie Alexander" into the mournful keen of the "Wind among the Reeds." Even in regular metres there are incompatible systems of music.

I have heard the best orchestral conductor in England read poems in free verse, poems in which the rhythm was so faint as to be almost imperceptible. He read them with the author's cadence, with flawless correctness. A distinguished statesman read from the same book, with the intonations of a legal document, paying no attention to the movement inherent in the words before him. I have heard a celebrated Dante scholar and mediæval enthusiast read the sonnets of the "Vita Nuova" as if they were not only prose, but the ignominious prose of a man devoid of emotions: an utter castration.

The leader of orchestra said to me, "There is more for a musician in a few lines with something rough or uneven, such as Byron's

There be none of Beauty's daughters
With a magic like thee;

than in whole pages of regular poetry."

Unless a man can put some thematic invention into _vers libre_, he would perhaps do well to stick to "regular" metres, which have certain chances of being musical from their form, and certain other chances of being musical through his failure in fitting the form. In _vers libre_ his musical chances are but in sensitivity and invention.

Mr. Eliot is one of the very few who have given a personal rhythm, an identifiable quality of sound as well as of style. And at any rate, his book is the best thing in poetry since ... (for the sake of peace I will leave that date to the imagination). I have read most of the poems many times; I last read the whole book at breakfast time and from flimsy proof-sheets: I believe these are "test conditions." And, "confound it, the fellow can write."

JOYCE[3]

Despite the War, despite the paper shortage, and despite those old-established publishers whose god is their belly and whose god-father was the late F.T. Palgrave, there is a new edition of James Joyce's "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man."[4] It is extremely gratifying that this book should have "reached its fourth thousand," and the fact is significant in just so far as it marks the beginning of a new phase of English publishing, a phase comparable to that started in France some years ago by the _Mercure._

The old houses, even those, or even _more_ those, which once had a literary tradition, or at least literary pretensions, having ceased to care a damn about literature, the lovers of good writing have "struck"; have sufficiently banded themselves together to get a few good books into print, and even into circulation. The actual output is small in bulk, a few brochures of translations, Eliot's "Prufrock," Joyce's "A Portrait," and Wyndham Lewis' "Tarr," but I have it on good authority that at least one other periodical will start publishing its authors after the War, so there are new rods in pickle for the old fat-stomached contingent and for the cardboard generation.

Joyce's "A Portrait" is literature; it has become almost the prose bible of a few people, and I think I have encountered at least three hundred admirers of the book, certainly that number of people who, whether they "like" it or not, are wholly convinced of its merits.

Mr. Wells I have encountered in print, where he says that Joyce has a cloacal obsession, _but_ he also says that Mr. Joyce writes literature and that his book is to be ranked with the works of Sterne and of Swift.

Wells is no man to babble of obsessions, but let it stand to his honor that he came out with a fine burst of admiration for a younger and half-known writer.

From England and America there has come a finer volume of praise for this novel than for any that I can remember. There has also come impotent spitting and objurgation from the back-woods and from Mr. Dent's office boy, and, as offset, interesting comment in modern Greek, French and Italian.

Joyce's poems have been reprinted by Elkin Mathews, his short stories re-issued, and a second novel started in "The Little Review."

For all the book's being so familiar, it is pleasant to take up "A Portrait" in its new exiguous form, and one enters many speculations, perhaps more than when one read it initially. It is not that one can open to a forgotten page so much as that wherever one opens there is always a place to start; some sentence like--

"Stephen looked down coldly on the oblong skull beneath him overgrown with tangled twine-colored hair";

_or_

"Frowsy girls sat along the curbstones before their baskets"; _or_

"He drained his third cup of watery tea to the dregs and set to chewing the crusts of fried bread that were scattered near him, staring into the dark pool of the jar. The yellow dripping had been scooped out like a boghole, and the pool under it brought back to his memory the dark turf-colored water of the bath in Clongowes. The box of pawntickets at his elbow had just been rifled, and he took up idly one after another in his greasy fingers the blue and white dockets, scrawled and sanded and creased and bearing the name of the pledger as Daly or MacEvoy.

"1 Pair Buskins, &c."

I do not mean to imply that a novel is necessarily a bad novel because one can pick it up without being in this manner caught and dragged into reading; but I do indicate the curiously seductive interest of the clear-cut and definite sentences.

Neither, emphatically, is it to be supposed that Joyce's writing is merely a depiction of the sordid. The sordid is there in all conscience as you would find it in De Goncourt, but Joyce's power is in his scope. The reach of his writing is from the fried breadcrusts and from the fig-seeds in Cranley's teeth to the casual discussion of Aquinas:

"He wrote a hymn for Maundy Thursday. It begins with the words _Pange lingua gloriosi_. They say it is the highest glory of the hymnal. It is an intricate and soothing hymn. I like it; but there is no hymn that can be put beside that mournful and majestic processional song, the Vexilla Regis of Venantius Fortunatus.

"Lynch began to sing softly and solemnly in a deep bass voice:

'Impleta sunt quae concinit
David fideli carmine....'

"They turned into Lower Mount Street. A few steps from the corner a fat young man, wearing a silk neck-cloth, &c."

On almost every page of Joyce you will find just such swift alternation of subjective beauty and external shabbiness, squalor, and sordidness. It is the bass and treble of his method. And he has his scope beyond that of the novelists his contemporaries, in just so far as whole stretches of his keyboard are utterly out of their compass.

The conclusion or moral termination from all of which is that the great writers of any period must be the remarkable minds of that period; they must know the extremes of their time; they must not represent a _social status_; they cannot be the "Grocer" or the "Dilettante" with the egregious and capital letter, nor yet the professor or the professing wearer of Jaeger or professional eater of herbs.

In the three hundred pages of "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man" there is no omission; there is nothing in life so beautiful that Joyce cannot touch it without profanation--without, above all, the profanations of sentiment and sentimentality--and there is nothing so sordid that he cannot treat it with his metallic exactitude.

I think there are few people who can read Shaw, Wells, Bennett, or even Conrad (who is in a category apart) without feeling that there are values and tonalities to which these authors are wholly insensitive. I do not imply that there cannot be excellent art within quite distinct limitations, but the artist cannot afford to be or to appear ignorant of such limitations; he cannot afford a pretense of such ignorance. He must almost choose his limitations. If he paints a snuff-box or a stage scene he must not be ignorant of the fact, he must not think he is painting a landscape, three feet by two feet, in oils.

I think that what tires me more than anything else in the writers now past middle age is that they always seem co imply that they are giving us all modern life, the whole social panorama, all the instruments of the orchestra. Joyce is of another donation.

His earlier book, "Dubliners," contained several well-constructed stories, several sketches rather lacking in form. It was a definite promise of what was to come. There is very little to be said in praise of it which would not apply with greater force to "A Portrait." I find that whoever reads one book inevitably sets out in search of the other.

The quality and distinction of the poems in the first half of Mr. Joyce's "Chamber Music" (new edition, published by Elkin Mathews, 4A, Cork Street, W.1, at 1_s_. 3_d_.) is due in part to their author's strict musical training. We have here the lyric in some of its best traditions, and one pardons certain trifling inversions, much against the taste of the moment, for the sake of the cleancut ivory finish, and for the interest of the rhythms, the cross run of the beat and the word, as of a stiff wind cutting the ripple-tops of bright water.

The wording is Elizabethan, the metres at times suggesting Herrick, but in no case have I been able to find a poem which is not in some way Joyce's own, even though he would seem, and that most markedly, to shun apparent originality, as in:

Who goes amid the green wood
With springtide all adorning her?
Who goes amid the merry green wood
To make it merrier?

Who passes in the sunlight
By ways that know the light footfall?
Who passes in the sweet sunlight
With mien so virginal?

The ways of all the woodland
Gleam with a soft and golden fire--
For whom does all the sunny woodland
Carry so brave attire?

O, it is for my true love
The woods their rich apparel wear--
O, it is for my true love,
That is so young and fair.

Here, as in nearly every poem, the motif is so slight that the poem scarcely exists until one thinks of it as set to music; and the workmanship is so delicate that out of twenty readers scarce one will notice its fineness. If Henry Lawes were alive again he might make the suitable music, for the cadence is here worthy of his cunning:

O, it is for my true love,
That is so young and fair.

The musician's work is very nearly done for him, and yet how few song-setters could be trusted to finish it and to fill in an accompaniment.

The tone of the book deepens with the poem beginning:

O sweetheart, hear you
Your lover's tale;
A man shall have sorrow
When friends him fail.

For he shall know then
Friends be untrue;
And a little ashes
Their words come to.

The collection comes to its end and climax in two profoundly emotional poems; quite different in tonality and in rhythm-quality, from the lyrics in the first part of the book:--

All day I hear the noise of waters
Making moan,
Sad as the sea-bird is, when going
Forth alone,
He hears the wind cry to the waters'
Monotone.

The gray winds, the cold winds are blowing
Where I go.
I hear the noise of many waters
Far below.
All day, all night, I hear them flowing
To and fro.

The third and fifth lines should not be read with an end stop. I think the rush of the words will escape the notice of scarcely any one. The phantom hearing in this poem is coupled, in the next poem, to phantom vision, and to a _robustezza_ of expression:

I hear an army charging upon the land,
And the thunder of horses plunging, foam about their knees;
Arrogant, in black armour, behind them stand,
Disdaining the reins, with fluttering whips, the charioteers.

They cry unto the night their battle-name;
I moan in sleep when I hear afar their whirling laughter;
They cleave the gloom of dreams, a blinding flame,
Clanging, clanging upon the heart as upon an anvil.

They come shaking in triumph their long green hair;
They come out of the sea and run shouting by the shore:
My heart, have you no wisdom thus to despair?
My love, my love, my love, why have you left me alone?

In both these poems we have a strength and a fibrousness of sound which almost prohibits the thought of their being "set to music," or to any music but that which is in them when spoken; but we notice a similarity of the technique to that of the earlier poems, in so far as the beauty of movement is produced by a very skilful, or perhaps we should say a deeply intuitive, interruption of metric mechanical regularity. It is the irregularity which has shown always in the best periods.

The book is an excellent antidote for those who find Mr. Joyce's prose "disagreeable" and who at once fly to conclusions about Mr. Joyce's "cloacal obsessions." I have yet to find in Joyce's published works a violent or malodorous phrase which does not justify itself not only by its verity, but by its heightening of some opposite effect, by the poignancy which it imparts to some emotion or to some thwarted desire for beauty. Disgust with the sordid is but another expression of a sensitiveness to the finer thing. There is no perception of beauty without a corresponding disgust. If the price for such artists as James Joyce is exceeding heavy, it is the artist himself who pays, and if Armageddon has taught us anything it should have taught us to abominate the half-truth, and the tellers of the half-truth in literature.

ULYSSES

Incomplete as I write this. His profoundest work, most significant--"Exiles" was a side-step, necessary katharsis, clearance of mind from continental contemporary thought--"Ulysses," obscure, even obscene, as life itself is obscene in places, but an impassioned meditation on life.

He has done what Flaubert set out to do in "Bouvard and Pécuchet," done it better, more succinct. An epitome.

"Bloom" answers the query that people made after "The Portrait." Joyce has created his second character; he has moved from autobiography to the creation of the complimentary figure. Bloom on life, death, resurrection, immortality. Bloom and the Venus de Milo.

Bloom brings life into the book. All Bloom is vital. Talk of the other characters, cryptic, perhaps too particular, incomprehensible save to people who know Dublin, at least by hearsay, and who have university education plus mediævalism. But unavoidable or almost unavoidable, given the subject and the place of the subject.

NOTE: I am tired of rewriting the arguments for the realist novel; besides there is nothing to add. The Brothers de Goncourt said the thing once and for all, but despite the lapse of time their work is still insufficiently known to the American reader. The program in the preface to "Germinie Lacerteux" states the case and the whole case for realism; one can not improve the statement. I therefore give it entire, ad majoram Dei gloriam.

"PRÉFACE

_De la première édition_

Il nous faut demander pardon au public de lui donner ce
livre, et l'avertir de ce qu'il y trouvera.

Le public aime les romans faux: ce roman est un roman vrai.

Il aime les livres qui font semblant d'aller dans le monde:
ce livre vient de la rue.

Il aime les petites œuvres polissonnes, les mémoires de
filles, les confessions d'alcôves, les saletés érotiques, le
scandale qui se retrousse dans une image aux devantures des
libraires, ce qu'il va lire est sévère et pur. Qu'il ne
s'attende point à la photographie décolletée du plaisir:
l'étude qui suit est la clinique de l'Amour.

Le public aime encore les lectures anodines et consolantes,
les aventures qui finissent bien, les imaginations qui ne
dérangent ni sa digestion ni sa sérénité: ce livre, avec sa
triste et violente distraction, est fait pour contrarier ses
habitudes et nuire à son hygiène.

Pourquoi donc l'avons-nous écrit? Est-ce simplement pour
choquer le public et scandaliser ses goûts?

Non.

Vivant au dix-neuvième siècle, dans un temps de suffrage
universel, de démocratie, de libéralisme, nous nous sommes
demandé si ce qu'on appelle "les basses classes" n'avait pas
droit au roman; si ce monde sous un monde, le peuple, devait
rester sous le coup de l'interdit littéraire et des dédains
d'auteurs qui ont fait jusqu'ici le silence sur l'âme et le
cœur qu'il peut avoir. Nous nous sommes demandé s'il y
avait encore, pour l'écrivain et pour le lecteur, en ces
années d'égalité où nous sommes, des classes indignes, des
malheurs trop bas, des drames trop mal embouchés, des
catastrophes d'une terreur trop peu noble. Il nous est venu
la curiosité de savoir si cette forme conventionnelle d'une
littérature oubliée et lune société disparue, la Tragédie,
était définitivement morte; si, dans un pas sans caste et
sans aristocratie légale, les misères des petits et des
pauvres parleraient à l'intérêt, à l'émotion, à la pitié
aussi haut que les misères des grands et des riches; si, en
un mot, les larmes qu'on pleure en bas pourraient faire
pleurer comme celles qu'on pleure en haut.

Ces pensées nous avaient fait oser l'humble roman de
"Sœur Philomène," en 1861; elles nous font publier
aujourd'hui "Germinie Lacerteux."

Maintenant, que ce livre soit calomnié: peu lui importe.
Aujourd'hui que le Roman s'élargit et grandit, qu'il
commence à être la grande forme sérieuse, passionnée,
vivante, de l'étude littéraire et de l'enquête sociale,
qu'il devient, par l'analyse et par la recherche
psychologique, l'Histoire morale contemporaine, aujourd'hui
que le Roman s'est imposé les études et les devoirs de la
science, il peut en revendiquer les libertés et les
franchises. Et qu'il cherche l'Art et la Vérité; qu'il
montre des misères bonnes à ne pas laisser oublier aux
heureux de Paris; qu'il fasse voir aux gens du monde ce que
les dames de charité ont le courage de voir, ce que les
reines d'autrefois faisaient toucher de l'œil à leurs
enfants dans les hospices: la souffrance humaine, présente
et toute vive, qui apprend la charité; que le Roman ait
cette religion que le siècle passé appelait de ce large et
vaste nom: _Humanité_; il lui suffit de cette conscience:
son droit est là.

_E. et J. de G."_

WYNDHAM LEWIS

The signal omission from my critical papers is an adequate book on Wyndham Lewis; my excuses, apart from the limitations of time, must be that Mr. Lewis is alive and quite able to speak for himself, secondly, that one may print half-tone reproductions of sculpture, for however unsatisfactory they be, they pretend to be only half-tones, and could not show more than they do; but the reproduction of drawings and painting invites all sorts of expensive process impracticable during the years of war. When the public or the "publishers" are ready for a volume of Lewis, suitably illustrated, I am ready to write in the letterpress, though Mr. Lewis would do it better than I could.

He will rank among the great instigators and great inventors of design; there is mastery in his use of various media (my own interest in his work centres largely in the "drawing" completed with inks, water-color, chalk, etc.). His name is constantly bracketed with that of Gaudier, Piccasso, Joyce, but these are fortuitous couplings. Lewis' painting is further from the public than were the carvings of Gaudier; Lewis is an older artist, maturer, fuller of greater variety and invention. His work is almost unknown to the public. His name is wholly familiar, BLAST is familiar, the "Timon" portfolio has been seen.

I had known him for seven years, known him as an artist, but I had no idea of his scope until he began making his preparations to go into the army; so careless had he been of any public or private approval. The "work" lay in piles on the floor of an attic; and from it we gathered most of the hundred or hundred and twenty drawings which now form the bases of the Quinn collection and of the Baker collection, (now in the South Kensington museum).

As very few people have seen all of these pictures very few people are in any position to contradict me. There are three of his works in this room and I can attest their wearing capacity; as I can attest the duration of my regret for the Red drawing now in the Quinn collection which hung here for some months waiting shipment; as I can attest the energy and vitality that filled this place while forty drawings of the Quinn assortment stood here waiting also; a demonstration of the difference between "cubism," _nature-morte-ism_ and the vortex of Lewis: sun, energy, sombre emotion, clean-drawing, disgust, penetrating analysis from the qualities finding literary expression in "Tarr" to the stasis of the Red Duet, from the metallic gleam of the "Timon" portfolio to the velvet-suavity of the later "Timon" of the Baker collection.

The animality and the animal satire, the dynamic and metallic properties, the social satire, on the one hand, the sunlight, the utter cleanness of the Red Duet, are all points in an astounding circumference; which will, until the work is adequately reproduced, have more or less to be taken on trust by the "wider" public.

The novel "Tarr" is in print and no one need bother to read my critiques of it. It contains much that Joyce's work does not contain, but differentiations between the two authors are to the detriment of neither, one tries solely to discriminate qualities: hardness, fullness, abundance, weight, finish, all terms used sometimes with derogatory and sometimes with laudative intonation, or at any rate valued by one auditor and depreciated by another. The English prose fiction of my decade is the work of this pair of authors.

"TARR," BY WYNDHAM LEWIS[5]

"Tarr" is the most vigorous and volcanic English novel of
our time. Lewis is the rarest of phenomena, an Englishman
who has achieved the triumph of being also a European. He is
the only English writer who can be compared with
Dostoievsky, and he is more rapid than Dostoievsky, his mind
travels with greater celerity, with more unexpectedness, but
he loses none of Dostoievsky's effect of mass and of
weight.

Tarr is a man of genius surrounded by the heavy stupidities
of the half-cultured latin quarter; the book delineates his
explosions in this oleaginous milieu; as well as the débâcle
of the unintelligent emotion-dominated Kreisler. They are
the two titanic characters in contemporary English fiction.
Wells's clerks, Bennett's "cards" and even Conrad's Russian
villains do not "bulk up" against them.

Only in James Joyce's "Stephen Dedalus" does one find an
equal intensity, and Joyce is, by comparison, cold and
meticulous, where Lewis is, if uncouth, at any rate brimming
with energy, the man with a leaping mind.

Despite its demonstrable faults I do not propose to attack
this novel.[6] It is a serious work, it is definitely an
attempt to express, and very largely a success in
expressing, something. The "average novel," the average
successful commercial proposition at 6_s_. per 300 to 600
pages is nothing of the sort; it is merely a third-rate
mind's imitation of a perfectly well-known type-novel; of
let us say Dickens, or Balzac, or Sir A. Conan-Doyle, or
Hardy, or Mr. Wells, or Mrs. Ward, or some other and less
laudable proto-or necro-type.

A certain commercial interest attaches to the sale of these
mimicries and a certain purely technical or trade or clique
interest may attach to the closeness or "skill" of the
aping, or to the "application" of a formula. The "work," the
opus, has a purely narcotic value, it serves to soothe the
tired mind of the reader, to take said "mind" off its
"business" (whether that business be lofty, "intellectual,"
humanitarian, sordid, acquisitive, or other). There is only
one contemporary English work with which "Tarr" can be
compared, namely James Joyce's utterly different "Portrait
of the Artist." The appearance of either of these novels
would be a recognized literary event had it occurred in any
other country in Europe.

Joyce's novel is a triumph of actual writing. The actual
arrangement of the words is worth any author's study. Lewis
on the contrary, is, in the actual writing, faulty. His
expression is as bad as that of Meredith's floppy
sickliness. In place of Meredith's mincing we have something
active and "disagreeable." But we have at any rate the
percussions of a highly energized mind.

In both Joyce and Lewis we have the insistent utterance of
men who are once for all through with the particular
inanities of Shavian-Bennett, and with the particular
oleosities of the Wellsian genre.

The faults of Mr. Lewis' writing can be examined in the
first twenty-five pages. Kreisler is the creation of the
book. He is roundly and objectively set before us. Tarr is
less clearly detached from his creator. The author has
evidently suspected this, for he has felt the need of
disclaiming Tarr in a preface.

Tarr, like his author, is a man with an energized mind. When
Tarr talks at length; when Tarr gets things off his chest,
we suspect that the author also is getting them off his own
chest. Herein the technique is defective. It is also
defective in that it proceeds by general descriptive
statements in many cases where the objective presentment of
single and definite acts would be more effective, more
convincing.

It differs from the general descriptiveness of cheap fiction
in that these general statements are often a very profound
reach for the expression of verity. In brief, the author is
trying to get the truth and not merely playing
baby-battledore among phrases. When Tarr talks little essays
and makes aphorisms they are often of intrinsic interest,
are even unforgettable. Likewise, when the author comments
upon Tarr, he has the gift of phrase, vivid, biting,
pregnant, full of suggestion.

The engaging if unpleasant character, Tarr, is placed in an
unpleasant milieu, a milieu very vividly "done." The reader
retains no doubts concerning the verity and existence of
this milieu (Paris or London is no matter, though the scene
is, nominally, in Paris). It is the existence where:

"Art is the smell of oil paint, Henri Murger's _Vie de
Bohême_, corduroy trousers, the operatic Italian model ...
quarter given up to Art.--Letters and other things are round
the corner.

"... permanent tableaux of the place, disheartening as a
Tussaud's of The Flood."

Tarr's first impact is with "Hobson," whose "dastardly face
attempted to portray delicacies of common sense, and
gossamer-like back-slidings into the Inane, that would have
puzzled a bile-specialist. He would occasionally exploit his
blackguardly appearance and black-smith's muscles for a
short time ... his strong piercing laugh threw A.B.C.
waitresses into confusion."

This person wonders if Tarr is a "sound bird." Tarr is not a
sound bird. His conversational attack on Hobson proceeds by
a brandishing of false dilemma, but neither Hobson nor his
clan, nor indeed any of the critics of the novel (to date)
have observed that this is Tarr's faulty weapon. Tarr's
contempt for Hobson is as adequate as it is justifiable.

"Hobson, he considered, was a crowd.--You could not say he
was an individual.--He was a set. He sat there a cultivated
audience.--He had the aplomb and absence of
self-consciousness of numbers, of the herd--of those who
know they are not alone....

"For distinguishing feature Hobson possessed a distinguished
absence of personality.... Hobson was an humble investor."

Tarr addresses him with some frankness on the subject:

"As an off-set for your prying, scurvy way of peeping into
my affairs you must offer your own guts, such as they
are....

"You have joined yourself to those who hush their voices to
hear what other people are saying....

"Your plumes are not meant to fly with, but merely to slouch
and skip along the surface of the earth.--You wear the
livery of a ridiculous set, you are a cunning and sleek
domestic. No thought can come out of your head before it has
slipped on its uniform. All your instincts are drugged with
a malicious languor, an arm, a respectability, invented by a
set of old women and mean, cadaverous little boys."

Hobson opened his mouth, had a movement of the body to
speak. But he relapsed.

"You reply, 'What is all this fuss about? I have done the
best for myself.'--I am not suited for any heroic station,
like yours. I live sensibly, cultivating my vegetable ideas,
and also my roses and Victorian lilies.--I do no harm to
anybody."

"That is not quite the case. That is a little inexact. Your
proceedings possess a herdesque astuteness; in the scale
against the individual weighing less than the Yellow Press,
yet being a closer and meaner attack. Also you are
essentially _spies_, in a scurvy, safe and well-paid
service, as I told you before. You are disguised to look
like the thing it is your function to betray--What is your
position?--You have bought for eight hundred pounds at an
aristocratic educational establishment a complete mental
outfit, a program of manners. For four years you trained
with other recruits. You are now a perfectly disciplined
social unit, with a profound _esprit de corps_. The
Cambridge set that you represent is an average specimen, a
cross between a Quaker, a Pederast, and a Chelsea
artist.--Your Oxford brothers, dating from the Wilde decade,
are a stronger body. The Chelsea artists are much less
flimsy. The Quakers are powerful rascals. You represent, my
Hobson, the _dregs_ of Anglo-Saxon civilization! There is
nothing softer on earth.--Your flabby potion is a mixture of
the lees of Liberalism, the poor froth blown off the
decadent nineties, the wardrobe-leavings of a vulgar
Bohemianism with its headquarters in Chelsea!

"You are concentrated, systematic slop.--There is nothing in
the universe to be said for you....

"A breed of mild pervasive cabbages, has set up a wide and
creeping rot in the West of Europe.--They make it indirectly
a peril and a tribulation for live things to remain in the
neighborhood. You are a systematizing and vulgarizing of the
individual.--You are not an individual...."

and later:

"You are libeling the Artist, by your idleness." Also, "Your
pseudo-neediness is a sentimental indulgence."

All this swish and clatter of insult reminds one a little of Papa Karamazoff. Its outrageousness is more Russian than Anglo-Victorian, but Lewis is not a mere echo of Dostoievsky. He hustles his reader, jolts him, snarls at him, in contra-distinction to Dostoievsky, who merely surrounds him with an enveloping dreariness, and imparts his characters by long-drawn osmosis.

Hobson is a minor character in the book, he and Lowndes are little more than a prologue, a dusty avenue of approach to the real business of the book: Bertha, "high standard Aryan female, in good condition, superbly made; of the succulent, obedient, clear peasant type...."

Kreisler, the main character in the book, a "powerful" study in sheer obsessed emotionality, the chief foil to Tarr who has, over and above his sombre emotional spawn-bed, a smouldering sort of intelligence, combustible into brilliant talk, and brilliant invective.