In the American Jungle [1925-1936]

By Waldo David Frank

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Title: In the American Jungle [1925-1936]

Author: Waldo David Frank

Photographer: William H. Field

Release date: June 26, 2026 [eBook #78957]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: Farrar & Rinehart, 1937

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Credits: Richard Tonsing, Tim Lindell, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN THE AMERICAN JUNGLE [1925-1936] ***

IN THE AMERICAN JUNGLE

[1925–1936]

[Illustration: © _Sheldon Dick_]

In the
American Jungle
[1925–1936]

WALDO FRANK

_Photographic Decorations by William H. Field_

FARRAR _&_ RINEHART, _Incorporated_

NEW YORK · TORONTO

[Illustration: A vintage, stylized oval emblem resembling a leaf or
fruit, featuring the bold capital letters 'F' and 'R' on either side of
a central vertical stem.]

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

BY J. J. LITTLE AND IVES COMPANY, NEW YORK

_to my friend Adolph S. Oko_

FOREWORD

For the general idea and design of this book, I am indebted to my
friend, Harold Clurman, the director of the Group Theater. During
several years, he urged me to publish a collection of my papers similar
to “SALVOS” which united certain of my short critical writings from 1915
to 1924. I was always too busy—and the notion of a miscellany does not
appeal to me. At last, at his request, I handed him from my files what I
could find of my articles and papers published in the past twelve years.
I was amazed to find how much it was. Several months later, he returned
to me a selection, reduced by two thirds. He pointed out that what he
had put in order was not a miscellany but _a book_ with a beginning, a
middle and a conclusion: a book even with a “plot”!

The materials that compose this “collective portrait” of an era which
spans the Boom, the Depression, and (perhaps) the beginning, in Spain,
of the new World War that may end the world we have all lived in,
appeared originally in the following periodicals (of New York, unless
otherwise noted):

_The Adelphi_ (London), _The Dial_, _Europe_ (Paris), _Harper’s_, _The
Menorah Journal_, _La Nación_ (Buenos Aires), _The New Masses_, _The New
Republic_, _The New Yorker_, _Occidente_ (Rome), _El Repertorio
Americano_ (San José, Costa Rica), _Scribner’s_, _Soviet Russia Today_,
_Sur_ (Buenos Aires), _Virginia Quarterly Review_, _The Guardian_
(Philadelphia).

Many other magazines reprinted or translated some of this material, but
since I have no full list of these I have not named them.

W. F.

New York, December, 1936

CONTENTS

_Foreword_ vii

ONE: BOOM YEAR SKETCHES
1. I DISCOVER THE NEW WORLD 3
2. A SAVAGE ISLE 16
3. A MOB AND A MACHINE 21
4. MURDER AS BAD ART 25
5. THE BATTLE OF A CENTURY AND A HALF 29
6. ENNOBLING OUR CRIMINALS 35
7. READING THE SPORTS 38
8. THE NEW CONQUISTADORES 41
9. TWO FACES 45
10. THE DRUG ON THE MARKET 48

TWO: PORTRAITS
I. _MEN_
1. RANDOLPH BOURNE 59
2. CHARLES CHAPLIN 61
3. D. H. LAWRENCE 74
4. HERBERT CROLY 75
5. SIGMUND FREUD 82
6. SHERWOOD ANDERSON 93
7. HART CRANE 96
II. _AMERICAN TRAITS_
1. IN DEFENSE OF OUR VULGARITY 109
2. THE MOVIES AND THE MASSES 112
3. THE COMEDY OF COMMERCE 116
4. JAZZ AND FOLK ART 119
5. STRAIGHT STREETS 123
III. _IDEAS_
1. SERIOUSNESS AND DADA 128
2. MR. MENCKEN, KING OF THE PHILISTINES 135
3. PSEUDO LITERATURE 139
4. “UTILITARIAN ART” 142
5. ART IN OUR JUNGLE 146
6. THE ARTIST IN OUR JUNGLE 149
7. THE MACHINE AND METAPHYSICS 153

THREE: BOOKS
1. POE AT LAST 161
2. FRANCE AND THOREAU 165
3. FAIRY TALES FOR THE OLD 168
4. DUSK AND DAWN 172
5. ELEGY FOR ANARCHISM 177
6. THE BOOK OF LEO STEIN 183
7. REFLECTIONS ON SPENGLER 188
8. THE MODERN DISTEMPER 201
9. THE “UNIVERSE” OF T. S. ELIOT 220

FOUR: SOME PRACTICAL CONCLUSIONS FOR THE SURVIVAL OF MAN
1. SOLIDARITY IS NOT ENOUGH 231
2. WITH MARX, SPINOZA ... 240
3. FROM MANY MESSAGES TO MANY PEOPLES:
I. WAR IS WITH US NOW 254
II. TO THE STUDENTS OF CUBA 256
III. THE TOUCHSTONE 260
IV. TO ROMAIN ROLLAND ON HIS SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY 262
V. TO THE PREMIER OF FRANCE 265
VI. VALUES OF THE REVOLUTIONARY WRITER 269
VII. THE WRITER’S PART IN SOCIAL REVOLUTION 279
4. TERRE HAUTE HOTEL 287

INDEX 295

“... _in a dying world, creation is revolution_.”
“Our America,” 1919

“_The American jungle is rich in denatured elements of a transplanted
world: it consists largely in those deposits, cultural, political,
economic, which justify our calling ‘the new world’ the Grave of
Europe._”

“The Re-Discovery of America,” 1929

ONE: BOOM YEAR SKETCHES

1. I DISCOVER THE NEW WORLD

The most important room at home was the library. Our house was the usual
four-story brownstone segment in the unbroken wall of an upper West Side
block. There were plenty of windows. Those to the north looked out upon
the street where grocery wagons rattled by day and by night the gas
lamps dimly slumbered. Those to the south gave a broad view of another
wall of houses which at dark became fantastic with lighted windows
holding many secrets and black silhouettes mysteriously alive behind
drawn blinds. And beyond the houses was the glow of the great city. The
library had but a single window; it was too little for so large and low
a room. Even by day the library was dark and, since the window opened on
a strip of yard choked by an ugly ailanthus, I never looked through that
window. When I was in this room New York did not come in; New York
stayed distant and silent. The real world became this world of books;
and almost all the books had come from Europe.

Among the pictures on the walls were those of two Americans: Washington
and Lincoln. But they had little to do with the America outside the
window. They spoke to me less eloquently than the novelists and poets of
England, than the thinkers of Germany, than the Athenians and Romans all
living on the shelves. This library in my father’s house in the city of
New York was a sanctuary of Europe. It glowed with a secluded quiet and
with a life of its own. And here my childhood lived with an intensity
and depth of feeling that not school, not the streets could give me.

My father nearly every year went to Europe. We would go down to the ship
often, on the eve of his sailing, board the great vessel, and dine with
the captain in his cabin. I was in Europe then: everything, from the
food we ate to the words we heard, was strange to America. Father sailed
away, and mother bundled us children into a train. We got at last into a
shimmer of meadows and of young green trees. But even in the mountains
Europe was not far distant. Letters would presently arrive with foreign
stamps. They were long letters: page upon page of personal description
in which my father narrated his adventures in Hamburg, in London, in
Paris. His trips were short—business trips. When he came back he brought
Europe still more vividly along; in the air of his clothes, in the scent
of his label-plastered luggage. And then mother was always there: and
that made more of Europe. Mother was an artist. She sang every day.
Beethoven, Wagner, Brahms, Schubert, Schumann, Wolf—these were the
voices that came with us even to the mountains.

My room in the city home was on the top floor. I was the youngest, a
tragic fate since it meant my going earliest to bed. It was not easy,
this clambering up from the lighted drawing room filled with the cheer
of guests, through the shadowed house. But the fourth floor was mine,
and already I was a confirmed breaker of laws. I knew that my father
would presently sit down at the organ or the piano to accompany my
mother. I would then take a blanket from my bed, wrap myself snugly, and
seat myself on the stair. My mother’s singing came clearly through the
house. School was a dim fable beside the reality of those songs; even
the strong words on the library shelves were weak by contrast. That
lovely, breathing voice with its perfect modulation and its subtle
colors brought the lands across the sea miraculously near as I sat in
guilt—and in ecstasy—upon the stair.

So when I went to Europe (several times before I was old enough for
college) I found lands familiar to the library of my father and to my
mother’s music: familiar also through the American poets, Longfellow,
Lowell, Holmes. Cooper’s redskins and sea rovers were more remote to me
than the cockneys of Dickens, the Parisians of Balzac. As to Poe, whose
wistful little house my father showed me in a Fordham waste of goats and
cans, his land seemed a wraithlike world in no way kin to the
rectangular New York that was, for me, most of America.

Of course, this European “nature” of my boyhood was wholly and merely
conscious surface. My hours of school, my mates of the street, the
values and activities of parent and relative, under all, the food I ate
and the air I breathed—flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone—were American.
But these depths were voiceless, and I did not know them. Even the
family traditions: the adventures of my father’s father in New York
during the Civil War, the tales of my mother’s mother about the Yankee
army that burned her Alabama home and stole her heirlooms, and about her
running the blockade in a tiny rowboat in Mobile bay (with mother a
child in arms and the constant fear that if she cried the Yankee ships
would find them) failed somehow to come as close as the great tales I
read in Homer or in Tolstoi: tales of Europe. America was in me, of
course; but too close for my roving mind to know it.

In my fifteenth year I had a great adventure. I picked up a history of
American literature which spoke, coldly and slightingly enough, of an
unknown poet, of whose curious style there was appended an example
called “O Pioneers!”

I procured a green-bound volume, “Leaves of Grass”; it had a title page
in archaic type and the portrait of an ancient bearded sage, all grey,
who signed himself Walt Whitman. I read, studied, annotated, as I might
have done with the Bible if I had been reared religiously. Whitman
stirred deep voices in my soul; he inspired me. I believe in those early
days I understood him well enough. But one so obvious fact escaped me,
since I was not ready for it: the fact that this man was an American,
that his experience was related to my own and that this was why I loved
him! I thought he was as remote—and holy—as a Hebrew prophet!

That spring there was the annual oratory contest at the high school. The
usual bright lads rose before an auditorium of a thousand people and
bespoke “The Spirit of ’76,” “The Blessings of Democracy,” and so forth.
And then a strange thing happened. A short, black-haired boy stood upon
the rostrum and for half an hour harangued the audience about the merits
of an unknown, dead poet called Walt Whitman. He must have been eloquent
as well as amusing, for the judges gave him the gold medal for his
effort. But the whole affair remained somehow outside his experience as
an American. These teachers who had rewarded him for praising Whitman
kept on quoting Longfellow. Whitman’s value seemed well symbolized by
the useless medal of gold which the boy’s mother put away and which he
never saw again. Whitman was an outsider, a myth—almost an outcast.

But Europe came ever closer. I was done with school and too young for
college. So I was sent abroad. I discovered myself at sixteen, at
seventeen, to be of an age which on the Continent was deemed the age of
a man! I consorted with students from every land of Europe: Russians,
Spaniards, Serbians, Jews from Egypt, burly football players from Great
Britain. They were not “pretty” fellows. They knew life—women—books. We
sat about at night, drinking our tea with rum; and the air was less
thick with tobacco smoke than with the thunder of exciting talk.
Revolution, art, morality, death: all the old dwellers of the books
which I had met in my father’s library took on flesh, grew warm, grew
urgent. And here at last, so many miles from his Manhattan, Whitman
became alive; Poe found recognition. “America?” said my European
friends. “It is the place that gave us Poe and Whitman.”

I had engaged my room at Harvard. But I wanted to go to Heidelberg, I
wanted, like my friends, to make the rounds of the great universities of
Germany, England, Paris. I wanted to persevere in this world of midnight
tea and rum with its dizzy flights into art and metaphysics. Europe
beckoned me on, like a dark, mellow woman in whom the Mother eternally
old and the Lover wondrously young were merged. And my father would not
have stood against my will. He was an imperious, passionate man, whose
prime passion was respect for the personality of others. A tyrant in
matters of deportment, he hated all interference in adventures of the
spirit. He had watched me, perhaps amused, perhaps with a hidden pang,
go about at the age of twelve with my undigested load of Ibsen and Zola
and Tolstoi. He had observed me, bored with school, become a truant,
frequent the vaudeville shows or barricade myself from furious teachers
in the office of our high school paper. Now, when the formal letters
came from Heidelberg, telling the young American that he knew enough to
be admitted, my father would not have said no, whatever his conviction.
But my older brother was less philosophical. He came to Europe; and in a
hotel room high above the Seine we had what for me was a decisive
battle.

“You are not going to Heidelberg,” said my brother. “You are going to be
an American, by gum! And what’s more, you are not going to Harvard.
You’re queer enough as it is. You’re going to be not only an American,
but as _human_ an American as I can make you. I’m going to send you to a
place that will smooth out your angles and your crotchets. Yale for
you.”... And to Yale I went.

I suppose I had been ill-prepared for the “dear old Campus.” My
classmates were engrossed in football, not in ideas; in Greek-letter
fraternities, not in secret revolutionary orders. They got drunk on beer
and sang sentimental songs, whereas my friends in Europe had sipped
their liquor soberly for the most part, and got drunk on Nietzsche.
Good, groping, earnest fellows, my chums at Yale seemed children to me.
I went through college a rather cantankerous rebel. To amuse myself I
wrote dramatic criticism for a local paper, losing no occasion to bewray
America’s woeful “lack of culture”; I played Bach; I wrote a book on the
Literature of Modern France; and always my eyes continued to turn east,
across the Atlantic Ocean.

Active journalism in New York was a leap from a nursery to a sort of
jungle. The academic cloisters had struck me as anemic imitations of the
full-blooded youthfulness which I had seen in Europe. I liked sport well
enough; but was there not as well an athleticism in literature and in
philosophy? Now came New York once again: a New York of murders,
robberies, politics, and visiting celebrities who spent the
interviewer’s hour telling him pleasant things about America which were
not so.

This New York seemed wholly body. While the slums reeked with poverty
and vice, while the high spirit of youth was trampled out by the thresh
of mechanical progress, the City seemed aware only of problems of
traffic, of taxation, of money. A vast town, New York; but since it was
concerned only with the mechanics of sheer physical growth, it struck me
as a baby—a sort of Brobdingnagian baby. If a man proposed municipal
ownership of public utilities, or cheap gas, he was treated like a
monster. If a woman was suspected of infidelity, it seemed right to drag
her to a divorce court; and the important thing—the only important
thing—seemed to be to ascertain the fact; the deep hidden significances
of her character, of her unhappiness, of the subtle treatment of her
husband—all these elements of truth were ignored. I could not accept
this gross, this infantile America, which was all the America I knew.
Being a child myself, I made the same old gross mistake: I imagined that
my Paradise existed “over there,” across the sea. I packed a bag at last
and went to live in Paris.

When I arrived it was nightfall. I left my bags at a hotel and wandered
up the Boul’ Mich’—the gaudy thoroughfare of the Latin Quarter. I saw no
face that I knew in the thronged terraces of the cafés which made two
fertile banks from the Gardens of the Luxembourg down to the Seine. But
I felt happy and I felt at home. I began to write. I found myself in a
world where writing—the sheer creative act—was considered a sacrament
and a service: not because of what it brought, not for what it did—for
itself. It was in the air—this rhythm of creation. Life was looked on as
a lovely, mysterious adventure, and its true priests were they who sang
of it, who pictured it, who revealed its beauty. I made friends. Here,
among these swarms of enthusiasts who spent their days arguing about a
picture or a poet, I found men after my own heart. And I found a woman,
a true daughter of this world who took me in and made me part of it. And
then, after a brief year, just as I was beginning truly to be at home, I
packed my bags and I went back to New York!

What had happened? I was having a good time and a successful one. Living
was cheap there. It was extremely easy for a journalist like myself to
send articles and stories to the United States, convert the few dollars
into many francs, and live like a young lord in this perpetual holiday
town where poverty was no disgrace, where there was as much honor in
contributing to certain magazines as in being elected to the Senate! Did
not wealthy ladies of Paris find the same thrill in climbing five musty
flights of stairs to the garret of an obscure American author that our
own ladies found in dining with celebrities from Paris? Was there indeed
not a whole world here fashioned for the artist and ruled by his desire?
Paris itself, vast and modern, had the leisurely freedom of an
aristocratic village. Here was a huge city in which there were happy
people, in which there were trees and gardens, in which there was room
for all moods, all liberties—even for a bit of license.

I had more than I had ever had, and yet I gave it up quite simply
because I did not want it, and I could not stand it. In several of the
cafés of Paris there gathered artists from America. Many of them had not
been home in years; most of them came from small places in the interior
and had had no contact with Europe until they had come over. They spoke
seldom of our country. But when they did, they sneered, they jeered,
they swore they were done with the barbaric land that had given them
birth. I could not argue with them; so much of what they said was simply
fact. Yet it was in the company of these Americans that I began to feel
most sharply my need of coming back. If what they said was true, all the
more urgent was the return of men like themselves who claimed to be
conveyers of the truth, creators of beauty—men who could endow America
with what they accused America of lacking.

But I went little with these expatriates. My knowledge of the language,
my love and, bit by bit, my work gained me an entrance into the true
world of France, which before the War was the home of so much of Europe.
I was happy here, but I was not _needed_. I was being nourished by what
other men, through centuries and ages, had created. I was a parasite. At
least, so it seemed to me. I do not believe that I thought further in
those youthful days. Certainly, I thought scarcely at all of what I was
going to find when I returned. I knew simply that I was going home. I
left the best friends that I had ever had, the most congenial home, I
left my love (she never understood). I took a boat. I rented a room in
Washington Place. I stared at the dirty wall—and wondered what madness
had driven me. No matter. I was where I belonged!

The year was 1913 and I was twenty-three. I was alone and miserable as I
had never been. In Paris they had not understood why I had left them.
But in America no one even knew that I was here. I had outgrown my old
friends. I was done with newspapers. Everything that a young man most
needs—companionship, ideas, love—was beyond the ocean. Here? I lay on my
iron cot and stared at the blank walls; I heard the elevated trains
pound past and the arrogant motors shuffle and the crowds press, press
in their weary quest for money—in their vast indifference to all which
made _my_ world. I was unable to eat, unable to sleep—unable to work. At
times, in my weakness, I thought of what I had left behind in Paris. But
always I knew that I was not going back—never going back until I had
proven to my friends abroad, both the Europeans and the Americans, that
I was right in leaving.

In 1914 America was not what the young artist or writer found ten years
later. There were no magazines hospitable to virgin efforts, there were
no Little Theatres, no liberal weeklies. The land seemed a hostile
waste, consumed by the fires of possession. Whatever “literature and
art” there was had to be imported from Europe in order to find a market.
But did not this fact prove that such as I were needed? The very fact
that life was hard here, that life did not seem to want me, that America
was quite resigned to letting me starve—did not this prove that I was
_needed_, and that I had come home?

So I set to work upon the pleasant task of making myself wanted in a
world that seemed to be getting along extremely well without me. I soon
learned that it was getting on so well, chiefly on the surface. I had a
vision then, in those dark days, which gave me light and strength, and
which has never left me.

I saw our land as a fumbling giant child, idealistically hungry as was
no other land in all the West, but helpless to express its hunger. Our
forefathers had come here brimful of religious energy: Puritans from
England, Catholics from Spain, Jews from Germany and Russia. And here
were material things that must be done: a continent to clear, bridges to
build, a nation to house. Our fathers had learned to perform these
substantial chores; they had performed them so miraculously well because
of the spiritual force which drove them. But now that they longed to
express their deeper dreams, their subtler ideals, they did not know
how. So that, for want of better, they poured all their poetry and most
of their religion into the business at hand: made it express their
idealism which they could not express otherwise at all!

We spent so much time making money because the poets had not yet come to
teach us to make better things. We were so proud of our machines because
the builders of more significant beauty had not yet come among us. We
were such busybodies about the personal habits of our neighbors—keeping
them from an innocent drink or even from a cigarette—because the teacher
had not yet appeared to show us better ways of ennobling our souls. And
finally, we marched about in white sheets, passed restrictive laws
against immigration, grew intolerant of the chaos of creeds and races in
our midst, because we were not yet strong enough, mature enough, to
conceive of a unity of inclusion rather than of exclusion.

Now I was ready to see America. I had intellectually or in the flesh
been “round the world.” I had known personally the men of modern Europe,
studied the masters of ancient Greece, Israel, and India. I discovered
America last—which was the right way to discover it, since America is to
be the last word, the summing up of all the yesterdays which have poured
their blood upon the American shores.

I went west. Under the noisy, dirty, braggart mood of Chicago I felt a
childlike spirit—I found childlike men. I found a fertile and sweet
world pushing up in this town which Sandburg called the Hog-butcher of
the world—pushing up under the coal and the grime like springtime grass
beneath the muck of winter.

I helped to edit a country paper in the heart of Kansas. I spoke to the
farmers, wrote for them, lived with them. And though I had done the same
thing with the intellectuals of Paris, I found here a warmth of response
which I had not found abroad. Here in this crude corngrower hungering to
“git America and his dream together,” and in his overworked wife
scheming to give her girls the “culture” she had never had, was a seed
of the spirit which needed only nurture and the sun to flower. And I had
talks in the kitchens of solitary farms that moved me in a way
mysteriously deep and gave me strength.

I lived with coal miners. I found them hungry for light, possessed of an
infallible instinct for the tragic beauty of the world. They, too, were
spiritual seed long underground and ready to push up. And when a fellow
who had mined since he was twelve and who had never seen his dad by
light of day piloted me through a leaky shaft with a care that was
loving and paternal, I realized what I had won by giving up salutes of
another sort in Paris.

I went south—to the country which my mother had left as a baby. I spent
months in lodgings in that slumberous aristocrat of cities, Richmond.
Here, too, were esthetes, weavers of silly images of distant Paradise. I
did not see them. I saw a people, stricken still under the curse of a
past and under the load of an intricate present: a people hungering for
light, for expression—a people hungering and, hence, a people growing. I
came to know the Negroes in the cypress swamps of Alabama and
Mississippi. I lived with them, I spoke to them in their churches and
their schools. In these dark breasts was a flame. I realized the
wondrous wealth of spirit and of dream which America possesses in her
Negroes.

And I saw the Indians of the Southwest pueblos. In their classic
ceremonial dances, in their deeply unselfish religion of nature, in the
dignity and restraint of their lives and culture, I recognized an
American past—and an American example. Here was a spiritual splendor
which America had created. Like all our past it was waning. Would we
create it anew in our own culture?

Finally, after the War, I went again to Europe. I had begun to put my
vision of America into books. Many intellectuals had sneered. A large
group of them had even come together under the leadership of one of the
Americans who spend their time in Paris and had published a fat book to
prove that America was hopeless, an altogether unlivable place. Much of
the response which my books had won had come, not from the
intellectuals, but from those very byways of our country—the farms of
the West, the cities of the North, the fields of the South—where I had
wandered and where I had been nourished. And some of the response had
come from Europe. My books had been translated. And now that I was again
in Paris the writers of that great city called me to them and told me
with warm hospitality that this new America of which I wrote was what
_they_ needed. For, they said, the spiritual power of Europe was
declining. Europe’s noon was past. Europe, which had created and
nurtured us, now needed nurture! If America was indeed to be a land to
distil new spiritual values out of our modern chaos it would be the
savior of the Old World!

Some of the writers of France and England had been here, and were
pessimistic. “Do not believe him,” they said. “He and his sort are only
importations from Europe—they represent a transplanted dream of the Old
World. They cannot thrive in America. They will be crushed out. Their
light is a twilight, not a dawn. The future of America is steel, more
steel; is gold, more gold; is the triumph of a sordid, ignorant Herd.
There is no hope.”

But at these men I smiled. They had seen what I saw as a boy: they had
been repelled by the crude, the ignorant surface....

A few days before I left for home I was sitting in a library infinitely
richer than the one in my father’s house. It was the library of the
master, Anatole France. There he sat in his red skullcap by the open
fire. About him in manuscript, in illuminated volume, in precious
bibelot, ranged wide treasures of European culture, and in him lived the
essence of that culture—the exquisite distillation of the thought of a
hundred ages.

“Make no mistake,” he smiled at me, “Europe is a tale that has been
told. Our long twilight is before us. But I believe in your American
dream. And I will tell you why. It is not because of your books. It is
because of the pictures I have seen, in common magazines, of your girls
and your women. You have said a great deal about Puritanism, about
materialism in America. Those glorious girls belie all that. How could
an ugly world produce such women? How could such women produce an ugly
world?”...

_1925_

2. A SAVAGE ISLE

I’ve been away from home for almost a year. In France, in Germany, in
Lithuania and Poland, in Egypt and Palestine and Tunis, I’ve talked with
eager men about my own fabulous country. Everywhere people knew about
America. They told me all about it. I learned a lot.

I’m a peaceful fellow, not given to argument. And I’m impressionable,
delighted to agree with what is told me. This I find particularly easy
when what I hear is pleasant; when I am taken, for instance, in my
capacity of American, for a citizen of Eldorado or of Ophir. So
gradually, as the months of my absence grew, I found myself accepting
what I heard, in Europe, Africa and Asia, about my native land.

By the time I took ship from Boulogne, this—more or less—is the portrait
of America which the industrialist of Essen, the rabbi of Posen, the
Vilna medical professor, the Tunisian judge, the merchant of Damascus,
the Parisian dentist, the nationalist of Egypt, had impressed upon me:

America ... meaning above all New York ... is the most modern, the most
civilized, the most genteel, the most efficient, the most expeditious,
the most comfortable spot on earth. In America, there are no low or
humble classes. In America, everywhere, the families dwell on the
twentieth floors of palaces equipped with electric ice and radiant heat;
and when they descend to the street it is to roll away in private autos.
In America, everybody has a hand in the state; everybody has a heart for
public welfare; everybody reads; everybody considers everybody’s rights
to peace and comfort. In America, the rich lavish their money upon
scientific progress for its own sake; and of course, in America,
everyone is rich.

... In America, the women are beautiful, free and pure. They are
comrades to men. The American man is as pure as his mother. Vice is not
tolerated, drink is unknown.

... It is true that this American folk is overconcerned with material
well-being. But at least it has uplifted material well-being to the rank
of an art. The American people have perhaps too great a care for money.
But, at least, they spend it with splendor, and get for what they spend
their heart’s desire. For here are gleaming cities, marvelously fed with
sun and air; here are farmlands ribboned with smooth roads and labored
by miraculous machines.

... In America, to sum up, are men and women elegant, cheerful,
leisured, powerful, serene. The rest of the backward world is jealous of
America, of course. The world, in places, quite sincerely thinks that
there are spiritual values which shining America may have missed. But
America is the apogee of material refinement. Beside American towns,
Paris must seem an unkempt village, Warsaw a dumpheap....

Finally my boat put into the great American harbor. I came up on deck,
my eyes shiningly ready to enjoy the America of the talkers of Europe,
Africa and Asia.

I saw no scintillant city rising like an army of arrows toward the Sun,
its father. What I saw was a conglomerate of buildings, formless with
haphazard shapes, a phalanx of skyscrapers as formidable from the
distance as an old comb lacking half its teeth. A sprawling and grimy
town above the noble Hudson. And the famous buildings, if they were at
all the symbol of power, made me think of a baby giant, in weak control
of his muscles, who had heaped this tilting mess of blocks upon the
floor of his playroom.

The river-front streets had a brash rottenness that hurt, after the
mellow rottenness of Fez. The houses were cheap and dirty. They revealed
no imagination: a dull obsession seemed the architect of these
innumerable banks of brick. A folk had dumped these houses where they
stood, with its mind elsewhere or totally absent, with its heart cold or
altogether lacking. As the taxi shunted me along, going slower than a
rickshaw in Pekin (a taxi dirtier than any in Madrid, and driven by a
man who needed but a soiled burnoose and a turban to brother him with
the sword-eater in the Tangier Sacco), I thought of the improvised
squalor in certain modern sections of Egyptian towns and of the far
sweeter and swifter rhythm of the Saharan camel. And as the traffic
crawled under the marshaling terror of the cop, I remembered the ease
and speed with which one flies through the intricate network of Paris.
Fifth Avenue has a splendor; Park Avenue (when at last I reached it)
flaunted the elegance of a Brobdingnagian refrigerator, electrically
cooled. But I’d gone through an hour of back yard and alley to get
there....

I went uptown. I discovered empty lots throughout the heart of the city,
and unpaved stretches of street where my car bumped precisely as I had
been bumped on the winter-logged roads of Poland. Indeed, more and more,
this iridescent city of men’s dreams—in its disorder, in its dirt, in
its noise, in its lack of form and style—brought to my mind the towns I
had seen in Eastern Europe: towns where for ten unceasing years armies,
rebellions, insurrections, pogroms, have spewed their havoc.

I dismounted at last from my taxi, and began to look into the faces of
this most pampered, ultracivilized and genteel people. Since they are
having a good time, enjoying the “top of the world,” why are they so
gloomy about it? Since they are at ease in their Zion of physical
comfort, why are they so uncomfortable, so nervous, so harassed? Since
they have been polished off by all the polishing machines of the
Modernist Machine Age, why do their brutal faces make me quake? I am no
dauntless Galahad. But I have roamed the water front of Antwerp,
searched the night kasbah of Algiers, tramped the lightless wastes of
London’s Wapping, tempted the traps of Cádiz and of Jaffa. I have never
seen faces more sullen, more dehumanized, than these of New Yorkers. I
forgot all about my conversations with the informed gentlemen of Europe,
Africa and Asia. I recalled certain statistics and knew that I was in a
town where thieving is a soft profession and where holdups and
assassinations hugely outnumber the totals in populous European
countries.

Also, I was forced to remember that alcohol intoxicates. In my first ten
hours I saw more drunkenness in my native village than I had observed in
as many months in Spain.

At last I was safely in bed in a room the price of which for the night
was a little over the cost of a week’s rental of a furnished farm in
France. There came to my blasted ears, beneath the zephyrous purr of a
million motors emitting carbon gas and of a thousand radios drenching
the air with the still more noxious fumes of ballyhoo, fragments of
flattering talks about my native land in Paris, Berlin, Warsaw,
Jerusalem and Cairo.

“Comfort” ... I heard: “speed ... efficiency” ... “mechanical
perfection” ... “civilization too easy, too happy, too refined.”... On
the fields of France they had once builded great Gothic myths; and Egypt
has her Sphinx; and Palestine wove the legends of Jehovah. Now, the sons
of these mythmakers croon fables of an America where houses sing with
gladness, and men move noiselessly and swift from pleasure to pleasure.

Please do not mistake me. I have no grouch; I am not pessimistic. I live
in the land of my birth through choice; I deem myself fortunate in being
a New Yorker. But the notion that our country is at an apex of
perfection is the most inept falsehood. We are barbarians in a savage
jungle, we are at the sultriest beginning.

That, precisely, is the fun of living here. Everything, however
primitive and basic, still must be accomplished: the present generation
of Americans are more profoundly pioneers than Daniel Boone, more
original adventurers than Columbus. The myth consists of supposing that
we are, to date, more than a lot of babies rising from the womb of
Europe.

Of course, the European and African and Asiatic supporters of this myth
have been helped by ourselves. They have got their “information” and
their “facts” from the News. That modern Wonder, compact of cable,
print, radio, and motion picture—has it not “linked the whole world
close together,” making each man know all about his brothers? And could
I expect the American myth to fail to carry in Morocco, when it succeeds
right here?

Grab your paper and plunge into the subway. The steel corridors have an
infernal beauty and the subway stinks. The noise deafens you and you are
jammed for forty minutes between strap-hanging troglodytes all reading
the same paper. That paper shrieks an incessant alternation of Lust and
Death, fulfilling the portrait of a savage jungle. No matter. On the
editorial page you will be sweetly informed that your land is the
Pinnacle of Progress, your town the culmination of man’s seeking ages.
And you, too, will be convinced of the American—the modern—myth.

[Illustration: © _Acme_]

I know a way out, if you want one. Let the conduits of “information” and
“news” be placed in the hands of philosophers and men of science. For
instance, give the dailies to the metaphysicians; the weeklies to the
psychologists, the radio and movies to experts in social science. And
let it be stipulated that no edition and no story be released, until the
_entire Board agree upon the truth_. This would at once diminish the
output of press, radio and cinema to precisely what that output was in
the year 1200 B.C., and thereby enhance our accurate knowledge of the
world—and of America—to what that knowledge was in those more illumined
days.

_1928_

3. A MOB AND A MACHINE

I went up to the opening ball game at the Polo Grounds. A number of
thousands of others went along with me. I suppose it may safely be
surmised that all of us were there to have a good time. However varied
our definitions of what a good time is, all of us, at least, must have
had the idea that a good time was to be had at a ball game.

What happened to us, up there, strikes me as pathetic. I am not
referring to the particular brand of ball played that afternoon by the
Giants or the Braves. It was typical baseball, more or less: and it was
the typical scene.

Here was the great stadium filled with the black human mass. The field
is enormous; the stands must be huge to compass the field. The majority
of us were pretty remote from the inner diamond where most of the game
takes place. On the periphery of it all were we—we, the great human
throng—spread parabola-wise around the field. And in one corner of that
field was the tight, shut diamond: and was the machine of players going
through its motions.

It would be hard to exaggerate the abyss that separates a ball game at
the Polo Grounds from the vast crowds that watch it. We all know the
picture of the hungry lad peering at the man in Childs who flips the
wheat cakes on the grid inside the window. It seems to me that that boy
is less remote from his cakes than we were from our ball game.

Just think of those titanic stands of steel. If they are not wholly
filled, their emptiness makes a menacing unlit presence all about,
chilling the spectacle of the game. And if they are packed, they form a
human mob so great it is unwieldy. No normal ball game can stir it more
than ten seconds out of every hour.

We and the teams, moreover, had so little in common! Good baseball, such
as is habitually played by the Major Leagues, is a smooth-running,
impersonal affair. As little is left to the discretion of the players on
the field as it is possible to leave them. They are tools, or rather
parts of a mechanism run by a “mastermind” who sits on the bench.
Batsman and fielder mechanically carry out motions whose plan and
purpose are established for them. Even in the ultimate personal element
that remains—the hitting of the ball, the fielding of the ball—the good
player is a specialist, a coldly trained performer whose ways are very
far removed from the ways of the urban, sedentary throng. The beauty of
baseball, indeed, is precisely in its mechanical perfection. It is
related to the beauty of a machine, rather than of art.

Far, far away is the crowd. It is not close in any sense, as is the
theatre crowd, for instance, close to the actors on the stage. A theatre
is a shut, packed unity: crowd and performers are physically knit. And
what the physical proximity of audience and stage does not effect, the
emotions expressed on the stage supply. Humor, pathos, passion, dancing,
music—these are all symbols enacted by the players and immediately
current in the life of every man and woman watching. But the ball game
is a machine: by and large, it remains as separate from the mob as might
a brilliantly intricate dynamo set out upon the field.

Sitting there, that day, I understood why Babe Ruth—ignoble, fat fellow
that he is—deserves his vogue. I understood that a man like the Babe is
indeed greater than the National Game. It is such as he who enable the
wistful mob to have some sort of contact with the game. For baseball is
only clockwork; but the Babe is a boy—moody, clever, human. He “gets
across.” One crowd sees the game: another crowd follows it on the
scoreboard of Times Square; America reads of it in Kalamazoo and
Junktown. All, with a difference only of degree, are separate from this
highly organized, privately owned, secretly controlled affair of
baseball.

Here comes a player, with whom the crowd can identify itself. Babe Ruth
catapulting the pill into the grandstand is a symbol. There have been
subtler batsmen, but all of them, Lajoie, Wagner, Sisler, Cobb, aimed
for the base hit which stays _inside_ the field. The Babe’s home run is
an effort on the part of the machine to _connect_ with the crowd. When
the ball reaches the bleachers, contact is established. The game and the
watchers of the game for that instant have the ball in common. Babe Ruth
is the demagogue of baseball.

Not only is Babe Ruth greater than the game: such little episodes as the
periodic scandals, so deplored by moral managers and punctilious
pressmen, are little less than godsends. If they did not crop up from
time to time, Judge Landis would do well to invent them. They, too,
introduce into the machinery of baseball certain negotiable passions:
public responses to bribery, temptation, nobility and vice, come to
reinforce the old worn response of partisanship—a response difficult to
sustain when players are swapped from town to town like cattle. Anything
that makes us feel—even if what we feel is only anger—helps the game.

What a hungry, wistful crowd we are, seated in our ascetic seats! The
game itself rarely holds us. Most of us, where we are placed, cannot
spot a ball from a strike, until we see it posted. We cannot tell
Bancroft from Marriott at the bat, without looking up the number and
consulting our score card. And save for a few tense moments, the game is
as static down there as a dead motor on a winter morning.

No wonder we are driven to help ourselves to entertainment!

We call every player by his first name. That helps. It makes him less
remote, away down there.

We shout advice to him. Praise. Vituperation. We josh him, we cuss him
out. That helps. It makes us, in some wise, participants, after all, in
our great National Sport.

When a ball comes our way, we make the most of it. We shout at a long
fly, even if it is caught. We pray for a home run in our particular
direction.

But even when the game runs on, smooth and cold and remote, we can make
use of it. It permits us to act like children—or like madmen. That
helps, by golly! Where else can we scream ourselves hoarse—about
nothing? Where else can we make all the strange, uncivilized noises of
which the human throat is capable? We hoot, shout, boo, scream, whistle.
We get excited—without consequences. We get profane, abusive,
grandiose—without danger of having to pay. Downtown, excitement about
much is bad business. Here, corybantic ecstasy about nothing is good
form. To hell with the ball game, after all. We can enact lyrical dramas
of rage, disgust, beatitude—flinging our jewels of gesture to the empty
air, even if the game be a machine and a sell.

And after an hour and a half of this, we can pack ourselves like grains
of sand into a stifled elevated train, and read in the headlines of the
paper we have just bought what a significant national event we have just
witnessed....

It is quite true that the old-fashioned humble game was better sport.
The bleachers hugged the field. The players were visible: we could see
the sweat on them and the look in their eyes. They made more errors, but
even in that were they not closer to us? Well, like everything else in
our America, the Game’s got bigger—and that means better. Even sport had
to be specialized. It used to be an enjoyable means of moving our own
bodies. Not any more. Now there’s a machine that does the moving, while
our forty thousand bodies sit packed and rancid in the grandstands. You
gotta expect to pay for the privilege of belonging to the most
progressive country on earth.

_1925_

4. MURDER AS BAD ART

Nearly every day you see the statistics in the papers. “Half as many
homicides in Erie in an hour, as in England in an era.” “As many
assassinations in St. Louis in a second, as in Yucatán in a year.” “More
murders in Manhattan in a month, than in Schleswig-Holstein in a
century.” From which it is to be inferred that private slaughter is an
American activity.

When, moreover, you observe the high consideration accorded to our
slayers—a consideration expressed in most cases by letting them alone
(and this, in a democracy where such a privilege is almost unheard of!)
or—in the few authenticated instances of capture—by hero worship and
adulation, it becomes further clear that we regard the murderer somewhat
as Spaniards the matador, as Frenchmen the poet, as Germans the
philosopher, as Jews the prophet.

Murder is an American expression, a folk art. It contains some virtue so
close to our desire that we have protected it jealously from the class
distinctions which begin to encroach on our once so purely democratic
life. The American murderer can win a front page, be he millionaire or
beggar. The same sob sisters will write him up—gilded clubman or lowly
loafer. There is no hierarchy here but Merit; no limit to glory save the
intensest competition. Murder, in short, is an American art. My quarrel
with it is that it is bad art; and that America’s growing devotion to it
threatens our cultural progress.

Consider, first, the psychology of murder. Murder is above all a
solution. We take an elementary case. _A_ hates _B_—hates the sight and
presence of _B_. So _A_ kills _B_. _A_ no longer sees what he hates to
see. _He has succeeded_: he has found a solution. This is the
instinctive murder. We will complicate it with a higher impulse. _A_
wants _B_‘s purse. _B_, alive, would prefer not to give his purse to
_A_. So _A_ shoots _B_ or slits _B_’s throat. _B_ no longer objects to
giving _A_ his purse. _A_, once again, has succeeded. He has found a
solution. This is the emotional murder—what the Europeans know as the
_crime passionnel_: since the commercial desire, the will to earn, is
the dominant American emotion. We go still higher in the category. _A_
wants _B_’s girl, or _B_’s social status as Beer Baron. _B_, active and
alive, is too handsome and too clever. _A_ spoils _B_’s beauty by
bashing in his face, and overcomes _B_’s intellectual superiority by
bashing out his brains. _A_, now unimpeded, wins Girl and Fortune. He
has succeeded again: found a solution again. This is the intellectual
murder: since Shakespeare and Milton severally tell us that love of
woman and love of fame are the last infirmities of the noble mind.

Having thus placed murder under the Microscope provided by a scientific
age, we have detected in it a constant germ: what might be called the
_success bacillus_—the will to a quick solution. Now it must be
understood why murder is so advanced and wide a practice in the United
States. We are believers in success: we are clamorers for a solution: we
are no brookers of delay. Take our three hypothetic situations between
_A_ and _B_; and consider how in a less successful milieu than our own
they might be blunderingly met. A French _A_ hates a French _B_: he
grins and bears it—or he fights, perhaps vainly, to overcome his
hatred—or he avoids _B_—or possibly he comes close to his foe and, by
studying him well, strains to turn hate to love. These are arduous
endeavors, for which there is no _guarantee_ of success. None of them
_gets results_, like arsenic or a bullet.

A London _A_ covets the purse of a London _B_. Unless he is as atypical
as genius, _A_ will not dream of murder. He will pick _B_’s pocket, or
gamble with him, or slip by stealth into his room at night—or even do
without! Again, it is clear that success is less assured. The solution
is in doubt: the result is far below 100 per cent certain.

And now, finally, _A_ belonging to any of the effete societies of Europe
has a rival in _B_ for a girl and for social fortune. He will probably
try to get at the girl (an uncertain method where a moment’s success
“carries no insurance”) or he may try to outstrip _B_ by study and
application. The processes are long, difficult, full of hazard. The
American way of assassination is sure-fire.

But the American method gets so quickly and nakedly at the result, by
destroying what stands in the way: _which is Life itself_. And not alone
the life of _B_: what _A_ avoids—trial, struggle, doubt—is just that
content of experience which enriches living and is the stuff of art. The
American system is very competent, and very sterile. It is related
neither to life nor to art: but rather to the machine.

Let us consider our other American arts. We shall then see at once how
general is this love of a _quick_ solution; and how systematically we
eliminate from life those elements which might hinder a solution. Quite
recently we were mad over the Crossword Puzzle. The puzzle was soluble:
it made success easy: and it contained nothing—neither sense nor
content—except the incentive toward success. Even if one did happen to
fail, despite the aid of dictionaries and of neighbors, in finding the
“3-letter word meaning the adult of kitten,” next morning’s paper put an
end to the agony. Similarly, there is the Movie and the Popular Story.
They must contain a mechanism leading in simple and directest terms to
Success and a solution. They must dispense with any forms of “life” that
might impede solution. We can see now how harmoniously murder fits in
with the other common ways of American Law and Order.

So much for our recognizable arts. If we tum to our public life—to our
“serious” side—we encounter the same habit. We have social problems: and
we solve them. Folks get drunk on alcohol? Easy: abolish alcohol.
Roundhead foreigners cluttered up our landscape? Easy: abolish
immigration. Dour dramas corrupted Sweet Sixteen? Easy: censor the
drama. Crazy communists upset bedtime story mood of bourgeois gentlemen?
Easy: jail ’em and let the Supreme Court of the United States outlaw
their nonsense. These are all problems they still have in blundering,
backward Europe. By gosh, we’ve solved them.

And we’re constructive, too: not merely defensive. Having money means
having a good time. We’ve learned that. So we are abolishing every
value, and throwing in contempt each occupation, which does not aim at
money: either in the earning of it or in the display of it, once it has
been earned. And finally, success is success. Having discovered this,
there is nothing left but to murder all moods and impulses which would
deny this crucial American proposition.

You have the idea. We jolt off more folk in New Jersey in a week than
they do in France in a generation, because murder is so consonant with
the American Idea. Of course, murder’s the low form of our art: a folk
art. (We have our pickpockets, too.) But you can’t get away from it. The
murderer is a go-getter. The murderer has a problem, and he solves it.
The murderer sees what he wants, and he takes it. The murderer believes
in quick action: he is a maker of success: he is a man with results.
(“Success” magazines and popular platform artists please copy.)

And all this makes for bad art because—as Goethe put it—“art is long.”
The short cut gets you “there.” But what if the “short cut” cuts out
life itself? You’ve had nothing on the way. And when you are once
“there,” what can you do but start again—on another short cut—for the
next place? This is the joker in our competence. We do away with the
means: and behold! The Means are everything and the End is nothing. It’s
like the modern Sunday afternoon. We used to go nowhere in particular,
on foot: and see the country. Now we motor a hundred miles to X. And X
is nothing. And we’ve gone so fast, and swallowed so much carbon
monoxide gas, that the way was nothing either. So we speed on to Y and
to Z, ad infinitum, ad nauseam.

To solve the problems of life is very simple. All you need do is to
eliminate—to murder—life. That gets rid of the problems: and that
explains 99/100 of what men call civilization. For life is all Problem,
and the brave dwelling therein: and the solution is death. A good life
is the art of avoiding quick solutions. And murder—this so popular
American practice, this so simple mechanical means toward a solution—is
a good symbol of the bad art of America.

_1925_

5. THE BATTLE OF A CENTURY AND A HALF

PHILADELPHIA (JULY 4, 1776-SEPT. 23, 1926)

The rain was the hero of the evening. The gentle falling rain. It
appeared second on the scene, pattering down so modestly just after
Tunney had climbed up, and preceding the Champion Dempsey. It was not
greeted quite so cordially by the crowd as were Gene and Jack. But ere
long it made itself felt. At the end, it held undisputed sway.

The rain was the hero of that memorable hour in which the Mauler of
Manassa lost his crown to the Sweet Marine—for a variety of reasons. To
begin with, everybody saw the rain; and don’t you dream for an instant
that every one of those good 130,000 American patriots who had come so
far—at such expense and trouble—just to celebrate their country’s
Sesquicentennial birthday, _saw_ the Fight. Did the seats lack
visibility? Not a bit of it. A marvel of architectural finesse is the
great stadium. But even Mr. Rickard could not stretch the structure of
men’s sight nor mold to a more plastic shape the sort of scrap he had
staged. The seeing was carefully graded, as everything should be in an
orderly Republic.

For $27.50 (up) you _saw_ the Fight, and the stripe on Jack’s trunks;
you saw the exquisite process whereby Dempsey was softened, slowed,
mauled, unshaped by the obdurate indifference of Tunney. The sum of
$16.50 gave you two men—one square head and one oblong—manifestly clad
in purple and blue trunks; face and condition a blank, but bodies
spinning visibly enough, and hopping and hugging and lunging, boring and
jabbing in a ten-round dance. Fairly balanced, they were, under the
heavy crown of the loudspeakers. No one went down, no one went through
the ropes. Tunney was steadfast and Dempsey was wild. So $16.50 got a
mere guess at the decision of the Fight you had come so laboriously to
behold. At $10.00, what you saw was a couple of bright bugs with swift
antennae, making love or something in true insect fashion—and getting
nowhere, so that you could notice. And at $3.30, you beheld, all about a
far flame, a spot, a sky of moveless, pivotless heads, a sky rolling
with human thunder. And that was worth the money.

But when the rain came, the gentle falling rain, it played no favorites.
It did not pour buckets on Mayor Walker’s crown, and drip a mere drop on
Paddy. And how the rain was needed! Don’t you believe it put a damper on
that mob. Individual men and women may have been disgruntled—although
they didn’t show it. But the crowd itself, and the spirit of the show,
_called for_ the rain.

In the mists which tided to the crowd from the high shell walls, see a
symbol of tedium, and you’ve got the idea. A solid, stolid thing was the
mob, massing from the ringside. When the lights that stared from
brackets all around went out, the crowd seemed dead. Myriad heads rose
from the flanks of the thing like carven facets—like knobs—like
artificed protuberances on a woody substance. You felt that a plane, if
it were big enough, could run over the vast surface, and smooth it, and
smooth off the heads. You felt there’d be a lot of sawdust, and that’s
all. You were unjust, however. For when the lights screamed back,
shedding their green-blue ice on the hot crowd, you saw that each of
these myriad individual knobs had a face: mostly a man’s, perhaps a
woman’s, face. The expression was dull, not too lifelike; and almost
never varied. But if you doubted the monumental genius of the painter of
all those phizes, you couldn’t help admiring the assiduity for going to
such trouble.

Then the Fight, to make the stadium come alive. Shouts, cheers, murmurs,
ran at first through the inert thing: trickled, jabbed at it,
harried—and failed to fuse it together. Many sparks and no flame. The
spirit of the evening was not a spirit of fire. Sogginess,
wetness—spirit of the rain was what Philadelphia summoned from its weary
streets to meet the wearied visitors from afar. And that’s why, when the
rain did fall, it was right. You can’t blame Mr. Rickard. How could he
know? How could he know, for instance, that this stadium, unlike other
circuses, sprawls too horizontal from the ring, is too fluid in its
forms to be galvanized into a furious hard passion? A fight scene should
be more vertical, more funnel-shaped. Then your scrappers have a chance,
with their lean frail arms, to weave a spell to pull the human lump
together—fire it, make it the mad, single-howling creature which loomed
above Dempsey and Firpo in New York.... And how could Mr. Rickard
foresee that his two prize babies, this time, would keep their feet so
well?

If the prize fight is to outlive its present mastodonic bulk, and
not—like other dinosauri—collapse from sheer flatulent vastness, the
pugs’ arms will have to grow stronger so that there is more flooring, or
their legs will have to grow feebler, so that there is more flopping. In
a huge stadium, you can see a man go down flat—and that is always worth
a week’s salary and ten hours’ sweating in trains. But boxing, boring,
sparring, dancing, spinning—but a bloody nose and Jack’s shut
eye—what’n’ell do such fine points get you, when you cannot _see_ them?
The fat ball park developed the fat Babe Ruth. Slugging makes contact
with the huge modern mob, where all the place-hitting of Nap Lajoie
would be lost. The fisticuff equivalent of a fast-bounding ball in the
bleachers is a couple of giants tumbling each other, as in the
Dempsey-Firpo fracas. There was none of that in Philadelphia.

The crowds were childish about it; and you cannot blame them. They
wanted action: thudding, sudden action. Without it, they were bored. How
far they had come! what hours they had voyaged, leaving wife and
children! what hours’ hard earnings expended! what sweat exuded! what
shoe leather worn away, in order to be in Philly! Was it to see two
boxers, bobbing in a white-roped ring? Once they were there, they
couldn’t wait to get home. A knockout in round one would have delighted
them. Immediate action—what the French in another context call _la
jouissance immédiate_—that was the infantile temper of the crowd. They
howled down the announcer, when he wasted time on adjectives. They were
nonpartisan. They were for Tunney when his blow landed; they were for
Jack when the thud of _his_ glove came over the acred heads. They were
for anybody who’d bring it all crashing to a decisive thrill. Poor
public! Hadn’t they paid two million dollars for _something_? I suppose
that is why Mr. Rickard, whose influence with the weather is well known,
brought down the rain.

Which leads me to our Showman. The show was, of course, the packed
stadium. Or, if you prefer, the show was the show itself. The Fight was
the pretext for bringing the show together. To this end, Jack and Gene
fought for championship. To this end, one hundred and fifty years ago,
our fathers fought for independence. So that Philadelphia might have her
celebration and dawdle through it meagerly for many months on such
nurture as the Pageant of Freedom (loss $700,000)—and recoup it all in
the sudden financial glory of a scrap fight, which a hundred-odd
thousand paid for, and which the radio stay-at-homes alone followed
clearly. But if the Show was the show itself—who saw it?

Not the newspapermen, not the frontiersmen in the wide, cheapest spaces.
All of them erroneously had their eyes on the ringside. The chief
appreciator of this thing of beauty was the chief creator of it: Mr. Tex
Rickard himself.

From 8:00 to 9:30 P.M. I followed this enraptured artist as he moved
from entrance to entrance of his golden dump. I was happy to catch the
esthetic gleam in his eye, and to hear him murmur:

“Gee! Only look at ’em all! See that silver blimp tipping the stadium
askew as if we were on a boat in a storm. See that Penn State Building
yonder, like a city in the air. See the heavens rolling, rumbling near.
All so fluid, all so fairy-like—above the solid substances of my crowd!
One hundred thirty thousand ... solid ... solid ... _paid for_! By
Michael Angelo,” cried our leading modeler of mobs, “it’s worth earning
half a million dollars to make a thing as beautiful as this.”...

And so, to make that beauty perfect, he summoned down the rain. It
worked on the crowd like water on a thirsty plant. It eased them—brought
them together. It gave them something more immediate and urgent than
that distant dance in the ring. Water, drooling from one bosom to
another, joined them. The little raindrop, bounding from head to head,
made brothers as it bounded. We knew that our forefathers, fighting for
freedom, had fought to make a Nation, after all.

Men and women removed their hats and swathed their heads in
handkerchiefs that gleamed in the gloom like turbans. The stadium turned
Oriental; the fight fans became worshipers at some rite. Now, the
remoteness of the bout was good—since a rite before an altar should be
occult. Now, the cavortings and borings of two men on a light-blazed box
seemed fitting. And it was well that a little man in an incongruous
dinner coat should make noiseless speech under a diadem of arcs and
amplifiers; and that his voice should loom, by some sudden miracle, into
each shadow of the conchshaped pile. And, finally, it was right that at
the very end, at least a hundred thousand of the worshipers (who had,
they thought, come to _see_ a fight) should stand quiet until the Metal
Voice belched forth the news to them of _who had won_.

Slowly, sweetly they plashed away through the mud and the motors, toward
their distant homes. Through the waterlogged rhetoric of a National Fair
which needed a prize fight to put it on the map. And the heavens wept
gently.

But when we reached the Penn Station at Broad Street, all my hopes for
mankind were reborn. With a greater drive than Dempsey’s, with more
stamina than Tunney’s, silent mobs of men stormed with drenched bodies
through the gates—to the New York trains. And then I knew that my
brothers, after all, were capable of enthusiastic action when some high
purpose urged them.

_1926_

6. ENNOBLING OUR CRIMINALS

So it has come to this. They’re advertising for the crook and the yegg.
The first practical sign of the uplift was in the modest little placards
which blossomed out some time ago in the “L” stations: they reminded
prospective robbers of ticket offices that, _if they were caught_,
they’d get from six to seven years. The suggestion, of course, was: not
to be caught, and doubtless some few courageous men were thereby
inspired to do better work. But now there are to be flamboyant
posters—every bit as good as the old ones which urged us to Buy Liberty
Bonds, to Save Sugar, to Save the World from the Kaiser.... These new
works of democratic art speak out to all whom they concern: “You CAN’T
win. Ships Don’t Sail Beyond the Arm of the Law.” Or, “You CAN’T win.
You Have to Get All the Breaks. One Little Slip Means Sing Sing.”

It is fair to assume that these exhortations are not addressed to the
little girl who works all day in a milliner’s shop; nor even to the
plumber riding home from his pipes. There must be a criminal class,
large and plebeian enough to use the streetcars, to whom these
advertisements are devoted and whom they are aimed to improve. This is
highly significant as perhaps the final proof that we are a democracy. I
feel, however, that much good material is neglected by not putting the
posters also in the taxis.

At last the criminal class is to be exalted. Today, of course, it is
small pumpkins to hold up a bank clerk or sandbag an aged millionaire as
he saunters from his club. Mediocre men—men of conservative instincts
and cool passions—have degraded the ranks of crime. All this is now to
be changed. The crook is to be challenged! The yegg is to be dared! “YOU
CAN’T WIN” shout the ads. This will, of course, discourage the weak
members. It will fire and inspire the strong ones. It will weed out the
cautious crooks. It will raise the moral and spiritual standard of the
whole fraternity of pillagers, marauders, brigands, thugs and pirates
who grace our peaceful land, and serve to circulate moneys and emotions.

Dick Turpin, Robin Hood, the great corsairs, had no encouragement like
this. They worked against a spirit of states and peoples which in every
way encouraged “virtue.” When one thinks of the drawbacks of those days
one wonders that picaroons, spielers and strong-arm men survived at all!
It merely goes to show the indestructibility of genius. Men were
discouraged from peculation by thoughts of God, and by the subtle
suggestion of the priests that it was _harder_ to go straight! Moses had
thundered: “Thou shalt not”—with the assumption that, of course, _thou
couldst_. Jesus of Nazareth went even further. He made it clear that it
was almost impossible to be good. For ages, the aristocracies and the
churches kept up their propaganda, discouraging crime on the ground that
crime was easy, forgivable and mean.

We have changed all that. “You can’t win my swag!” challenges the
banker, knowing well that this is the very tune to inspire the daring
crook against him. Indeed, the best of this new scene of our Democratic
Drama is the altruism of the leaders.

They have suffered, after all, very little from holdups. Crime has been
endemic, but sporadic. The land buccaneering art needed uplift and
stimulation. It needed the standards and the token of popular support
which advertising—that university of democracy—alone would give it.
Enough vivid posters encouraging superior youth to bust safes or board
bullion-carrying motors—through the method of challenge and of a call to
adventure, and we can look forward to the day when all banks will be
broken, all rich ladies stripped of their jewels, and all motors in the
hands of thieves, save, of course, those taxis which are already run by
licensed yeggmen.

Our ruling class disproves the cynicism of the materialist philosopher.
Are they not now inspiring a criminal class, with educational posters,
to despoil them?

But perhaps there’s a way out of this dilemma, after all.

Everyone knows that about fifty years ago our pioneers and pork-barrel
experts instituted the campaign which has resulted in the present flood,
throughout the land, of novelists and poets. Advertising methods in
those days were more intimate, because the science had not been
standardized. Yet the process was essentially the same as that now begun
for the benefit of our criminal classes. Instead of shouting in posters,
it was whispered about: “Write Poetry—and Starve.” “Creators—You Can’t
Win. The Possessive Arm of the Law Will Get You, Even in Paris.”

The result, of course, was Greenwich Village, and our ten thousand
Little Theatres. In the bright lexicon of youth, there’s no word of
challenge like CAN’T. But the crowning stroke of this maneuver for
supplying our land with a sufficiency of poets, was the system of awards
and prizes which has since sprung up.

The creators, of course, were first _challenged_ into existence by the
possessors. Then, those who were wise enough to make their imagination
and their art work _for_ the possessors, were paid sumptuously in coin.

Similarly, bank robbers and holdup men must first be inspired to know
the dignity of their calling. These posters will help to draw the right
class of energetic youth. All that remains, then, will be to announce
positive rewards for those criminals who make good.

_1925_

7. READING THE SPORTS

Oh, how glad I am that spring is coming and that baseball’s here! For
once again, I can get something from the papers. I am what America would
unanimously call a highbrow. Put me down as that, since the Majority
Rules. It is because I am a highbrow, spending my days and nights in
philosophic contemplation, that I rely on the sports in our dailies.
During these last months, life has been bitterly empty. At its best, pro
football is a vague business, and tennis is the sort of game you must
see in order to believe. I have suffered frightfully for lack of news.
But now I am myself again. The sun shines promisingly in my window.
Mayor Walker has thrown out the first ball and at last I can spend my
pennies evening after evening, for Baseball Finals: certain at last of
having _news_ to read.

It is, if you insist on explanations, because I am a highbrow spending
my days and nights in philosophic contemplation that I require the
sports. You don’t see? Well: let’s examine the matter like two highbrows
together.

I prop my morning paper carefully (so as not to spill it) against the
water tumbler, with its edge held down by the plate which holds my
grapefruit. Right column spread: Briand and the League of Nations. Do I
read it? No. Why do I not read it? Because I am not concerned in
International Affairs? Wrong again. It is because I am concerned in
International Affairs, and know something _about_ International Affairs,
and know a good deal about papers—that I skip this column. For I am
aware, whatever the true crux of the crisis, that I’ll not find it
printed. Vague conjectures, superficial facts, details, a perfect
avoidance of everything causal—of all that _counts_ in this particular
matter—this is what my faithful paper spreads before me, on
International Affairs. Next door, an article about the Police and
Bootlegging and the Crime Wave in our city. I am exceeding interested in
all crime news, and in the liquor market. That is why I skip the column.
If I desire to be sure what really happened, I must wait till I can drop
in on the boys who know one thing and who write another.... Left column:
the big story about Congress. It also fails to qualify. Nothing but the
hot air is in the print. The real plots, plans, motives, are as far from
this open page as are the committee rooms and dining rooms of Washington
from the visitors’ gallery at the Capitol.

I turn the page. I fare no better. Discovery of ruins in Yucatán, Egypt,
the Gobi Desert. I know the “desk” has sedulously deformed the trickle
of “quick” news which the telegraph has shot across the sea.... Divorce?
I’ll get none of the violet rays of subtle human truth in this odious,
scarlet, lyingly “whole” report. Taxi smashup? Perhaps the names at
least are right (though even they may be misspelled, unless they’re
famous). Music? I happen to know too much about music to marvel
convincedly at Marion Talley’s voice.

Ah, but here is the book page! I may glance at the ads. They tell me at
least, with a modicum of truth, that Mr. Mencken’s new novel is out; and
that the Hexameter Epic to which Mr. Broun has devoted so many years of
silence is to be published in the fall. But will these lengthy and
pontifical disquisitions about the current output give me either _facts_
or credible _opinion_? Alas! I fear not. There is more honesty and
candor here than in the sections devoted to politics and crime. But not
more competence. Real information about books and art requires an
informer with background and perspective, and fairly permanent esthetic
standards.

And I crave facts! I’m a highbrow: I want to _know_ at least of
SOMETHING that’s happened in the world, since yesterday. So I turn to
the sports page.

I am told that Babe Ruth fanned three times, and I believe it! I am told
that Vance pitched as good a game as that famous one of Walter
Johnson’s, five years ago in Detroit. I’ll stake my dollars, it’s true!
Here is the statement that the Giants blew in the seventh and the
Pirates hammered five earned runs. I know it! I know the runs were
earned! (What a relief it is, to know anything at all in our chaotic
world—when even the atom has crumbled!)

I am pretty certain that these boys in the Majors are really Major
Leaguers, and deserve to be there, by the best of baseball standards. I
believe these baseball critics. I am willing to accept, without the
tedium of a personal inquiry, that the fellows who are playing in
Paterson or Oshkosh are not as good as their brothers in Big Time. But I
am quite as sure that the real Major Leaguers in politics, law,
business, literature, education, are usually ignored by the papers;
whereas every morning there’s a new crop of tenth-rate Minors in the
five-column spreads.

McGraw would stand for no Mayor Hylan in his line-up. It wouldn’t pay
_him_, as it paid Tammany. No sentimental blurb can hide the fact if
Ruth has batted .170 for a week. No lack of a blurb can blur the
fielding and batting splendor of George Sisler. There’s plenty of stuff
about the past, that we believe in; plenty of hopes for the future. But
today—what can we believe today? In the sports I get rare satisfaction,
for I can say: “It’s in the papers, and I do believe it.”

You’ve got to have _some_ certainties at breakfast. You’ve got to have
_some_ English written in a style living, appropriate, honest. There’s
plenty of fiction: forty pages, daily, in our average-sized journals.
Forty pages of cake. That’s all very well. But, being a plain highbrow,
I need a little of the bread of fact. Thank the Lord for baseball.

_1926_

8. THE NEW CONQUISTADORES

So I went to Florida for a rest....

Of course, I left all my money there in real estate ventures, and had to
return by boat. This is a cheaper way than Pullman, and I soothed my
pride by arguing that it would round out my experience. In Miami,
Sarasota, St. Augustine and Jacksonville, I had encountered nothing but
millionaires. There must be a nether side, an “other half of the world,”
even in Florida. More modest revelers in sunshine surely must go south
by winter and doubtless I would find these coming north by boat.

I was mistaken. The steamer was crowded. Every cabin and berth were
occupied by men and women who, according to admissions obliquely and
nonchalantly let fall in talk, were larded with money. Everyone had
tried to get a _de luxe_ stateroom, alas! and had failed. Everyone,
moreover, was traveling by boat because of a tender love of the sea.
There was not much wind; but a good portion of our company were sick.
Nor do I recall any gazing at the ocean, save on one or two instances
when porpoises were sighted. Perhaps there was more sea to the voyage
than the pampered landowners had bargained for. It is true that from
beginning to end the boat was utterly surrounded.

And besides, there was too much of an intellectual, cultural,
public-spirited nature to discuss on board for any childish pleasure in
salt water. These were men and women on a holiday. Yet, everybody knows
that the athletic mind finds rest, not in lazing, but in a simple change
of the topic of cerebration. These men and women had gone South
ostensibly in quest of sunshine, alligators, golf and bathing. Their
alert minds had soon discovered that Florida today was the very apex of
American progress, the cynosure of all live American eyes, the ideal of
every purse possessed of the creative impulse to increase and multiply.
What more inevitable than that, returning to their estates in Kalamazoo,
Newark and the Bronx, they should discuss and discuss?

We were foregathered in the smoking room.

“They are sure doing wonders down there in Florida.” A heavy Elk spoke
with gleaming eyes. His chest was deep and so was his voice. It was
strange how two-dimensional those eyes seemed.

As the four others of us round the table nodded and sipped our near beer
and chewed at our cigars, I became aware of a strange presence overhead.
The smoking room was fitted out after the fashion of an old English inn.
In the ceiling were open rafters clouded in smoke. And here, straight
above us, through the darkling mist, I saw another group of men gathered
like us about an oaken table.

At first, I thought that there must be a mirror in the beams, catching
our group through the haze; for these men above were placed like us. But
as my vision cleared I saw that they were different, after all. They
were clad in steel coats of mail; swords swanked angularly at their
sides; they wore flaring boots; armored gauntlets were drawn off, and
freed the harsh-haired fists of conquistadores clasping silver goblets
filled with ruby wine.

My neighbor answered—a weasel fellow, all grey, whose nose seemed in a
perpetual tremor of scenting and searching:

“Why, Jacksonville’s population alone has doubled in ten years!”

—_Tell the Padre that we have made another hundred converts_, came from
the smoke-veiled rafters.

“They got 268 manufacturing plants that can turn out $50,000,000 worth
of goods a year.”

—_Our first stone building at San Agustin is a school for the Indians._

“You know that filling-in of marsh water front at Sarasota cost the
Ringling Brothers about $10,000. They sold it at $13,500 the acre.”

—_The new Cathedral was built by Christian natives. We have sent the
deed of the property as a gift to the University of Salamanca._

“Miami has a transient population of 90,000. That’s what pays ... the
transients.”

And over my head the echo:—_We are being urged to marry with the Indian
if need be, and to settle. Are these men not the hidalgos of a great
land? Has not Don Francisco called them brothers of the Spaniard?_

“Fifteen thousand hotels in Florida.” The Elk eyes glowed.

—_A Mission in the Everglades at last!_ was the refrain.

“The whole thing is stupendous,” came the shrill voice from the grey man
at my side. “It’s the greatest land rush in the history of the U. S. A.”

“Which means, in the history of the world,” said a surgeon who operated
in lots on the side. He was a man burly and sinuous. There was in him
something of the otter and a good deal of the boar. “Why, compared to
this, the great movements of history—the gold rush into California, the
dash to the Klondike, the opening of the Middle West and the Northwest
with Harriman and Hill, were puny.”

He was an eloquent as well as learnèd speaker. And as each glorious
instance rolled from his soft mouth, there came an echo mysteriously
transformed by the smoky rafters....

—_Movements of history ... passage of the children of Israel across the
Red Sea ... the quest of the Holy Grail ... Crusades ... Columbus._...

“But it ain’t business only!” I protested.

“You bet not,” said the Elk. “‘Come to Florida and see the nation at
play.’” He quoted the great line without hesitation.

I saw our nation at play. Motoring ... movies ... lot jugglings ...
motoring ... walnut chocolate fudge sundaes and bad booze ...
motoring ... boosting, boasting ... motoring....

Overhead clinked silver goblets. The conquistadores were humming a
“malagueña.” From the mist about them came a glow as of mellow vineyards
yielding sunny wines, and of women dancing. Below, hard lips told of
sport.

Said our Elk: “I dropped in on the Yankees at St. Petersburg. Those boys
clear a fortune even out of training.”

The tale of sport from overhead was different. Honor and love were
counters; the players risked life and joyously won death.

“Not alone a nation at play,” exclaimed the surgeon. “Florida is a
frontier with all the culture of the capitals. Here is a whole state
being opened up, with the best accommodations! For modern improvements,
New York’s got nothing on it.”

“And they ain’t forgot religion,” added the grey man with the tremulous
nose. “They just put up a church in De Land, cost $300,000. You bet I
bought all the lots I could in a town like that. Where they spend money
on a church, they’re going to stick. A swell church means business.”

—_Our Mission was builded by volunteers from the old Settlements
elsewhere. They were not paid, of course; but we had to shoot many
infidel natives who did not understand why we wanted to build so fair a
church in a land that was not ours. Yes, many were killed and some were
tortured. There is no room for infidels. We let the gold go home for the
greater glory of our Gracious Queen._

“Well,” cried I, emptying my mug of legal beer, “Florida is certainly a
hum-dinging first-class show of American progress.”

“It’s enough to make you proud,” said the Elk.

“—and rich,” smiled the sly surgeon.

“Why, in Jacksonville every guy in town’s got to wear a big button—and
if he don’t, you just bet he gets into trouble. It’s yellow and on it is
printed in red [those are old Spain’s colors, you know]: WE ARE
BELIEVERS IN JACKSONVILLE.”

—_We are believers in God_, came clearly from the rafters.

_1925_

9. TWO FACES

In the literary office of a certain magazine there is a vast table piled
with books. “Mostly junk,” the editor will explain. My hand feathers the
outskirts and picks a volume with title: “Calvin Coolidge. His First
Biography.” I am not permitted to speak of it here. Nor shall I linger
wistfully over the so symbolic circumstance that a book about a living
President should be a thing void of ideas, vile in composition, rancid,
and false in spirit. Within its covers, I found the portraits of two
faces: one of the President and one of the President’s mother. Thereby
hangs my tale.

She was beautiful. She looks out at you in a black dress of satin,
sterncuffed in white, high-collared, with a cameo at the throat. The
hands lie demure in the lap. The hair is drawn tight and sideways to the
ears. She looks out at you, not so much from the frontispiece of a book
as from New England.

She is impressive. The sharp small chin is firm. The mouth is pursed,
its prim lips faintly flexed into a downward frown. The nose is
straight. It has delicacy; its nostrils seem to quiver not from emotion,
but from restraint of emotion. Under the plastered hair is a forehead
high and ample: a square forehead which is the feminine form of the
stern unsubtlety of pioneers. It holds a mind serene through exclusions,
correct through lack of doubts. The eyebrows are straight as a whiplash.
Above them the flesh puckers like a girl’s, ere the forehead’s rigor
claims it. But the eyes are deep-set as in some dark seclusion.

They glower. Their gaze is reproof. And their sight is a shadow. Pain
lurks in them, muted and proud, and constant. There speaks a virtue
assumed, a mastery willed: almost a habitude of judgment. The eyes
dominate all. Under the girlish brows with their faint fleshliness,
above the exquisite nose, within the contour both fragile and brittle
which the folded hands whitely enhance, these eyes are paramount.
Tenderness turns hard; frailty assigns itself master; weakness wills
itself mighty. The result is a transformation. This face, so gracious in
its elements, gives for its final word inhospitality and shutness. The
result, in more personal terms, is Calvin Coolidge.

His face is the response to his mother’s. She was the obscure farmer’s
wife in the Connecticut River Valley. There, as with countless other
women, her loveliness had its begrudging bloom. Winters long as a siege,
summers of swift fever, the inclement lordship of Puritan ideals, made
her astringent. Weather attuned to will hardened this flesh and drew the
spirit down to the sure rigor of material affairs. Virtue became a
saying of Nay and an economic cunning. Poetry took property for symbol.
And so at last, on a certain Fourth of July, this daughter of New
England gave birth to Calvin Coolidge. Not she alone. A whole decadent
Puritan tradition gave birth to him; fathered his spirit; molded his
memorable face.

The little man waxed great. And as he grew, his face became the
caricature of his mother’s fairness. It is a caricature horrible in its
significance, superb in its logic.

Chin, mouth, nose, brow, eyes of Calvin Coolidge are children of the
splendors strangled in his mother. Her face already is this twilight, is
a recession of splendors. Her features speak but greyly an ancestral
greatness. Moral power, will, devotion, chastity, singleness of vision,
bore this woman. But the essence of their means to life made the mind
intense to the exclusion of content; made the beauty neurotic; made the
virtue shut. Made, inevitably, their own culminant death whose Person
now presides the American lands.

The chin of Calvin Coolidge has grown pointed, out of all proportion: it
is a shallow, contentless thrusting. The lips have almost disappeared.
The mouth is a crease of shrewd, complacent purpose. The fold of
resolution beneath his mother’s nose becomes a dugout of meanness. The
nose itself is bulbous, perhaps with too much half-baked nutriment: it
is a proboscis of forwardness unchallenged along the path which the
canny eyes select from all the paths of the world. The forehead is blown
into a windy conch, unruffled and unfilled save with the echoes of dead
covenants. It crowns the face like a seashell; and the face itself
becomes, beneath it, a pucker of soft parts like some naked creature
peering forth for food. The head, indeed, is the Rhetoric of absence.
The face is the expression of an immaculate instinct for sure and mean
details.

[Illustration: © _Fairchild Aerial Surveys_]

Again, as with his mother, the man’s eyes give the key. They have lost
the tragedy of hers. They have flattened, hardened, and come out to the
surface. They do not, from a secret depth, glower upon a hostile world:
but have pressed, with a twist and a leer, to Victory. They twinkle.
They have the lasciviousness of cold possession. They are the logical
eyes of the battener on nullities: the eyes of the democratic
politician.

So, as Calvin Coolidge, professional legislator, might declare: The Nays
have it. Here is a face at last, ultimate and stripped to the model of a
will like a machine. A face where no dream lingers beyond the dreams
approved by a smug world: a face which no thought troubles that has no
answer in the current coinage: a face that knows not passion, unless it
be charted and chartered in the Statutes. The mother’s frown is gone
with the conflict it expressed. Here, in lieu, is a smirk. All the
realms of spiritual risk which her men, good pioneers, to such good
purpose barred, have here stayed out, indeed. A race’s turning of its
ideal power into the body of Success becomes this face and body,
stripped to cunning, instinct with the spirit of acquisition. The symbol
becomes a man; the man becomes a symbol. He crawls up the greased ladder
of public honors. He becomes a leader and an idol, in whom the mob can
worship its own meanness....

_1926_

10. THE DRUG ON THE MARKET

It is prevalent and poisonous. And the land is proud of it. Its
manufacture is a huge industry; its sale is a popular art. Billions of
dollars are spent in making it: millions more go to the appurtenances of
its use: and billions are paid in wages to men and women who devote
their lives, openly, to its production, distribution, upkeep. The states
all license it, turning a tithe of the wealth spent for it by our people
to their own coffers. Great magazines and newspapers grow fatter with
its advertisements. Some papers, indeed, are entirely given to its
commercial and esthetic aspects. And no publication, however ethical in
editing its columns, however adverse to such drugs as coffee or tobacco,
refuses to display its blandishments for money.

All America lives under its influence, and does not suspect that it is
enslaved by a drug. “Shows” are planned yearly in great towns to
propagate its sales and sing its praises. Special sections of the
dailies detail its progress. Schools teach the beginner how to enjoy it.
And everywhere ordinances and officials tune the whole life of the land
to the needs and habits of those who use it.

It comes in varieties of kind which display distinct differences in
expenditure of money. And these gradations have a truly hierarchic
value. In a democracy where castes are vague, where money-power has few
manifest badges of dress or standard of living; where, indeed,
millionaire and clerk go to the same movie, read the same books, travel
the same roads, and where intellectual distinctions must be very
carefully concealed, the conspicuous uses of this drug have become a
standard of social status. The lowest classes aspire, first of all, to
earn the means of _visibly_ possessing it. When they have risen so far,
they may be said to have a foot on the first rung of the Ladder of
Success. Thence, they are urged, instructed, exhorted, by advertisement,
editorial, numberless methods of herd pressure, to progress upward. It
is neither uncommon nor unworthy to mortgage a farm or keep it bare of
such luxuries as furniture and books, in order to purchase a more showy
form of the drug: one whose effects are swifter and whose price is
higher.

Like all drugs, this one has estimable virtues. Its effect is great on
the motility of man, when used in moderation. It is a synthetic product.
It is not found in a state of nature, but must be concocted; although,
of course, from natural ingredients both mineral and vegetable. I do not
know how man first came to put it together. Probably his love of new
combinations led him. I doubt whether the incentive to increase our
mobility on earth was there at the beginning. (The thing, by the way,
was invented in Europe; and in Europe, largely still, it is controlled
within the limits of good use.) But America soon transformed it from a
delicate ornament to the mastering instrument it is today. It increases
man’s power to move things, and to move himself. It increases his power
to see things. It opens up to him stretches of the world he might
elsewise never reach: communities of action and intercourse with other
men whom he might elsewise not come near enough to work with.

This virtue of the drug is a positive contribution. It makes it not
unworthy to be placed in man’s esteem beside other concoctions long
known and loved. Alcoholic drinks, for instance, with their heat-making,
cheer-making, fat-making, nerve-relaxing power: tobacco, which is a
subtle sedative to mind and stimulant to nerve: coffee and tea which
cheat fatigue: opium, morphine, cocaine, ether, by means of which men
and women are helped across the crises of the body without the drain of
too great suffering.

The drug’s most typical and most desired effect is the sense of
_self-motion_. The user feels that he is “on the go.” The faith that he
is covering ground or getting somewhere (although that “somewhere” be of
no intrinsic value) is, of course, the type of morbid rationalization
common to all addicts of all poisons. The sensation of flight is the
main matter. The drug is a means of physical escape. It becomes a symbol
of psychological escape.

Now, “progress” is an American superstition whose chief feature is
movement. To progress, you’ve got to move on: you’ve got to be
perpetually passing from what _is_ to what will never, never be—since as
soon as _that_ is, it also must be passed. This superstitious tic is
potently flattered by the effects of our drug. From being a means of
motion and escape, it has grown into a symbol of progress. It began by
cajoling our nerves. It ends by cajoling our ideals.

Of course, this subtle transition from use to abuse is generic of all
vices. Far too soon, the ill annuls the good which tempted us into the
path leading to addiction. But with older narcotics, men have had time
to learn the dangers hidden in delight. They have elaborated mental and
moral mechanisms to protect them. It is deemed a “social vice” in Europe
to drink too much liquor. Men almost everywhere have become “afraid” to
employ opiates without the doctor’s sanction. Sometimes this instinct of
defense hardens into law. America, for instance, as befits a timid land,
was armored by Constitutional Amendment against the ravages of a mug of
beer, against the blight of a little glass of wine. (This may not be
known to the reader, who can verify it by consulting any lawyer.) The
instinct of self-protection is naturally strong in the small and the
weak. This makes it all the more amazing that America has developed no
defense, and no awareness of the need of defense, against the
holocaustic uses of this drug on our market.

The reason is, that we have not yet had it long enough. The lapse from
use to abuse has been too subtle and too short. And the reason is, also,
that there has been confusion between the sensory effects of the drug
and what Americans consider their ideals. The notion, for instance, of
bare movement as value—is this, indeed, a human value or is it the
delusion of a drug fiend? or the idea of utilitarian progress whereby
all present life is successively sacrificed to a never-reached tomorrow?
or the standard of measuring worth which makes man neglect himself and
give his love only to the accumulation of dead external objects? It
might well be argued that such “values” as these are the results of a
drug habit, rather than the spiritual traits of a Great Republic.

The key to the popular appeal of this narcotic is, then, an induced
sense of flight—idealized into the delusion of “progress.” The addict
becomes nervous and restless. He hungers to “progress” with his drug to
help him move; and also he aims to heighten the outward splendor of the
drug itself, so that the world may judge his “progress” in the world by
it. Battening on change, he dares not stop. He must go on moving. And
since even motion can become a constant almost as steady as rest, he
must be forever changing his pace of motion. His life must be accented
motion—ever irregularly accented. And change, from being a means,
becomes an end.

Now follow other results. Swift movement, increasing the extension of
our sight, enfeebles the intensity and quality of what we see. With the
delusion of seeing more, we see less: with the delusion of unfolding
more miles of the world, the span of living shrinks. The drug is foe to
meditation, to solitude, to careful and loving observance. It frees the
addict from resorting to himself in the crises of dullness: he need not
explore the devious trails of his soul, when so many, wider, asphalted
roads are beyond him. But meditation and leisurely observance are the
traits whereby life becomes real.

In lieu of them, we have the bare experience of passing. Moments are not
dwelt in; they are overcome. The “present” of life, no longer a treasure
to be mined, is a barrier to be vaulted. But moments and places are real
to us only in so far as we put ourselves _within_ them. Now with this
drug the converse happens: we take ourselves _away_ from moments and
from places. Moments and places grow void. Life becomes a succession of
zeros.

Within each soul there is a kindred process. The drug is a substitute
for thought and for emotion. So hallucinatory is its sensuous effect of
“progress” that the addict literally _moves out_ of his troubles. Are
troubles not matter for thinking and for feeling? And do not thought and
feeling require some rest—or at least some constant, unconscious
motion—in order to be enjoyed? This drug of ours, spelling flight,
flight from the hour and the place upon us, brings flight as well from
the problems of life that fill the place and the hour.... Remains only
motion ... only the emotion of motion.

The drug’s use is a short cut: and nothing is more dangerous and
sterile. A short cut through time, through place, through life—leads to
death! Life is swift, and the value of life is the value of every
moment. A machine, an act, a drug which makes us leap this moment is
murderous. Alas! here, too, there has been confusion between the effects
of a narcotic and what we consider our ideals. For we are proud of the
short cuts with which we clutter and sterilize our world. Newspapers,
telephones, radios, are imperious short cuts, demanding that we devote
an ever-increased portion of our days to details and surfaces of men and
matters we might well ignore. The use of this drug eliminates the ground
between the “beginning” and the “end.” But both “beginning” and “end” of
anything are abstractions, darkness, death. The _between_ is life. So
the use of the drug lessens life.

It has another, curious effect upon the user: a subtle one, hard to
grasp—but not without importance. It lifts the user from the embrace of
living things, setting him, half insulate, in a machine. To walk the
earth, to sail the sea, to ride a horse or plod behind one in a buggy—to
drink the heady brews of grain or vine—these are all ways of touching
life. But to box oneself into a thing of iron, and race through the
verdurous world as fast as ever one may, is to get almost out of life,
even without the common aid of accidents. It is to exile oneself from
the sensuous growing earth which is our ultimate food.

Now, to move is to overcome resistance. And to overcome resistance _too
well_ is to avoid life’s loveliness which dawns on men only when they
are forced to pause. The perfect, unconscious mechanism of an animal
knows neither thought nor beauty. The child begins to think and to
enjoy, only when life stops him. This drug of ours induces a child’s
heaven—or an animal’s. It makes things too easy: seeing the world,
seeing folks, seeing your girl, too easy. And man can stand the
adversity which bores him, far better than a lubricated ease. To see an
endless series of places is to value none of them. To see too many folks
is to see too little of oneself. For the value of things lies, in great
extent, in the amount of ourselves we must put forth to get them. Take
love-making, for example. Resistance and time are so necessary for its
right consummation that even the brutes know it. Make the tryst between
the boy and the girl too facile and too swift—eliminate the hazards of
invading little brothers in family drawing rooms—and the couple will
very soon prefer the delights of a hard-won brown bottle to the delights
of each other.

So the vicious circle rounds. And the drug whose use was to bring
increased power and joy turns its addict impotent and sad. This specific
concoction has done much to make of us a gloomy people. Or, perhaps, it
was the other way. Being a lugubrious lot, we have fallen victims to a
drug which turns us even worse: making us roll along on lines of motion
far less fancifully pleasant than the devious ones induced by alcohol.

Unfortunately the drug’s ill results have not yet made us sick of it. We
are merely demanding more of the same. Swifter mobility to kill time and
trouble; more elaborate and expensive emptinesses to fill empty
holidays. In the American town, the effect is sadly visible. The streets
are cluttered with the wheeled instruments in which the drug is used.
And the air is fouled with its miasmic fumes. And the poor folk who took
to it in order to be free, in order to know flight from trouble, find
themselves grooved into traffic lines, manacled by traffic laws,
crawling like slaves under the haughty signals of the cop.

Verily, the hour calls for some great solver of problems to save the
nation. I think at once of Mr. Henry Ford. He has been so successful in
solving our transportation problems. He has earned so much wealth in
that beneficent task. And he has shown himself so eager to go on serving
his people—if possible, in bigger, better ways! Has he no scheme for
curbing the evil uses of this Thing which causes our noble countrymen to
roll along the landside in a complacent stupor?

_1927_

TWO: PORTRAITS

I. MEN

II. AMERICAN TRAITS

III. IDEAS

_I. MEN_

1. RANDOLPH BOURNE

A girl friend of his mother snatched him away from the wise arms, to hug
and coddle him; let him slip and dropped him from the balcony where they
were standing. This is the origin of the sad mutilations with which
Randolph Bourne went through life. The tale has the true depth of a
legend. The affection of a young woman, clumsy with unskilled love; the
desire to share, to help, perhaps—and as aftermath, the lifetime of
agony and visible disgrace. This is the sort of irony that Randolph
relished, and bore with him through the world. Beholding him, one felt
that his deformity somehow was not the profane traditional one: it was
rather the stigmata of some miscarried loveliness.

He was very deformed. Not alone was he dwarfed and hunchbacked: his face
was twisted, he had a tortured ear, his color was sallow and his
breathing was audible and hard. He walked in a cape that hid him. He
took a chair for the first time in your presence, let fall the black
shroud about him, and revealed a form so mangled that you despaired ever
to find sufficient ease for the sort of conversation his immediately
brilliant mind demanded.

But the magic of Randolph Bourne was not separate from his poor body,
and at once you knew this. This is why, in writing of his splendid
spirit, it is meet to dwell upon his misery. Within half an hour, your
discomfort was gone—so miraculously gone that your mind was prone to
look about for it. But whenever, in the future, awareness did return of
the grotesque shape in which this spirit was imprisoned and was doomed
to walk, it was intellectual altogether: the mind needed to stir the
senses with the thought of it, while the senses moved in full ease
within his presence.

It was Randolph’s eyes and hands that brought about the wonder. The
hands were exquisite, gentle, quiet. They seemed made for such clear
profundities as the playing of Bach: they bespoke his style—the caress
of his ruthless understanding. And they flowered from his body with the
inevitable irony of all his being. The eyes were penetrant, studious.
There was a reticence in them, after the adventure, not before it. You
knew from them that Randolph Bourne was wise, and that he had withdrawn
some subtle spirit of himself forever from gross contacts: that he had
learned to see and to experience without the ill-focused turmoil of too
close contacts. So surely consonant were his hands and eyes with what he
said, that the body became a sort of Christian _Lest Ye Forget_—a sign
to thrust you back into the humiliating coil of life, from the high
freedom of his discourse.

All of him had this counterpoint. His spirituality was shrewd; his
warmth was ironical and measured; his gaiety was leashed; above all, his
direct caustic wit was barbed with a general indulgence. The body had
forced on him this complex economy of emotion. And there ensued from it
a splendor of free energy for every challenge of liberty, for every
accolade of the creative life. This little man, indeed, so celled in a
crushed body that even breath was hard, became a rounded athlete of the
spirit, as none, perhaps, of us who have survived him. The loss of
Randolph Bourne is a shadow that lengthens....

_1925_

2. CHARLES CHAPLIN

Chaplin’s eyes are a blue so darkly shadowed that they are almost
purple. They are sad eyes; from them pity and bitterness look out upon
the world. They are veiled: while the man moves forward with
irresistible charm, his eyes hold back in a solitude fiercely
forbidding. No one who sees the eyes of Chaplin can feel like laughing.
They are the one part of the man which does not show in his pictures.

For fifteen years these eyes have looked out on Hollywood. Much nonsense
has been written about this suburb of Los Angeles, which is itself a
suburb of the country. America reviles it as an indecent stranger
somehow lodged in its midst, or romanticizes it into a scene from the
“Arabian Nights.” But, of course, Hollywood is no worse a place than any
provincial city of our land; nor better. Hollywood’s producers are
typical money men; its directors are typical professional men; its
actresses and actors are typical girls and boys. Its army of mechanics,
craftsmen, engineers, are the usual American sort: grime them up a bit,
lower their wages, and they would fit in to your town garage.
Hollywood’s swarm of aspirants buzzing about the lots are typical
floating seed of the American jungle: the wastrel seed that finds no
soil to root in, whether it rots near home or blows away. Only in one
respect is Hollywood unusual: its girls are really as fair as all girls
would like to be.

Hollywood is the perfect mirror of banal American success. Ordinary
souls dream extraordinary dreams—in the way of ordinary souls. And in
Hollywood the dreams come true. Here is uncounted money, here is
glamour, here is the exact mechanical production of that ideal to which
success means a show. And Chaplin, with those frightening eyes of his,
which almost no one ever sees, looks out upon this world, his home since
he was twenty-four. There is another world which he looks in upon: the
grey, grinding London of his childhood. He loves the London slums; for
these slums were his and they are in his heart. But on his mother’s side
the blood of Chaplin is half gypsy. Through her, whom he brought from
England to live near him on the Coast, yet another world lives in him: a
world of meadows and irresponsible laughter.

In the city of success he carries with him the taste of the London
slums. But even there he was not at home: even for that sad past which
formed his body and his mind he has a grim, ironical refusal—since
there, too, the gypsy in him was a stranger.

This counterpoint of sympathy and denial is our first clew to the man.
The drawing room of his house is packed with bibelots, pictures,
bric-a-brac, sent him by the admiring splendor of the world. Here are
tributes from Chinese mandarins and from the royalty of Europe. And
here, too, on the wall, hang a few colored lithographs of Whitechapel
and Wapping. Chaplin loves to take these from the wall. They depict
streets that are like some cold inferno, in which the people stir slowly
like souls stripped of all save the capacity to suffer. Watch his eyes
as he looks at this picture of his childhood world. They are at once too
soft and too hard. The emotions of understanding and of refusal are
separate in them. In this room I once sat with Chaplin while the Comte
de Chasseloup exhibited to us what are perhaps the most terrible
photographs in the world: close-ups in progressive detail of tortures
and executions which he had collected in China. We looked on the
deliberate process of men being carved alive—as a butcher quarters a
calf. We saw faces black with the horror of their pain, and then white
with the relief of death. And in Chaplin there was the same counterpoint
of feeling. His eyes took in the tremendous pity of these portrayals of
man’s way with man. Suddenly his eyes hardened; he jumped up, and his
mouth was cruel. “There’s humanity for you! By God, they deserve it.
Give it to them! That’s man. Cut ’em up. Torture ’em! The bastards!”...
The pity he had felt was intolerable to him. He summoned hardness to
wipe it out: to save himself from this danger of being overwhelmed.
Chaplin does not wish to give himself to any emotion, to any situation,
to any life. Life draws him too terribly for that. Whatever he feels
must immediately arouse its opposite; so that Chaplin may remain
untouched—immaculate and impervious in himself.

With this same reserve he moves through Hollywood. He is no recluse. His
secret apartness is far subtler than that. He frequents the Coconut
Grove at the Ambassador, where the slightly decayed youth of the Coast
ferments in dance. He sits for hours in the smoke of his friend Henry
Bergman’s restaurant on the crowded boulevard. He goes to parties—to
those of his friend Marion Davies at her Beach House, to those of
William Randolph Hearst at his ranch. And wherever he goes he is the
life of the crowd. He acts, he mimics, he plays, he insists on amusing
and on being seen. But always there is the same immediate wavering away
from the life about him and from the effect he produces. He does not
give himself nor does he really take. Above all, he does not
aggressively refuse any advance or emotion. He is noncommittal.

_Intactness_—this is the principle that best explains the balance of
opposites in feeling, conduct, thought, which he sets up. He is like an
atom that must journey alone through the world. The atom moves an
intricate course, swerving here and there, myriadly attracted, myriadly
repelled, seeming to give, seeming to respond—always remaining free and
alone. A direct refusal of the world about him would mean a definite
relation with it. This is not Chaplin’s game. If the world draws him, he
responds—passive. His course has been swerved, but he is uncommitted. He
resolves every force with its opposite. Emotionally this means that he
frustrates in himself every impulse of utter giving or of utter taking.
He remains unpossessed and ultimately unpossessing. But this deep
frustration is the key to his profound success. Do not pity him for it.
He is no pitiable creature.

With sure instinct Chaplin has guided his personal life through channels
where he would be always alone. He loves the world he lives in, and
despises it. He does not want to change it: no man is farther from the
fervor of the prophet, and yet few men have done so much to show it up
as ridiculous and worthless. He does not want another world. He uses
this one, just as it is, in order to ensure his aloneness. But, were he
really alone, he would meet in the silence of himself some acceptance
which would prove his unity with the world. So he courts the world, and
dwells in it, in order to frustrate such a possible self-encounter.

There was a time when Chaplin seemed to me a kind of fallen angel: an
angel cursed by God with all human feelings and with the inability to
fulfill them: cursed with the gift of evoking laughter and love and with
no power to take laughter and love to himself. But this was a
sentimental error. The inordinate tenderness of the man, his gentility
and grace, are checked by his native rejection of the self-bestowal to
which such qualities must lead. Hardness and ruthless egoism are as
primal in him as the generous emotions. He refuses to be lost in any
synthesis of love. He must remain the atom of himself. And in his
perfect poise _between_ the forces of the world—the poise of
opposites—this is what he remains. And this is what he wants.

What he wants, Chaplin has infinite resources for getting. The shrewd
technique of his art is but a phase of the same art in his life. This is
the man who, when he was first approached with an invitation to enter
pictures—untried and unknown—jacked up the initial offer of seventy-five
dollars a week to twelve times that figure. “I saw they were anxious,”
he explained to me. “When I said to them, ‘I think I’ll study
philosophy; I don’t care for acting,’ I saw them go white. That’s how I
knew what I was worth.” And this is the man who, three years later, when
Mary Pickford, Fairbanks, Griffith, Hart and himself were in danger of
being shamefully exploited by the business end of the game, gathered
them all together into “United Artists” and preserved a fair portion of
the treasure to the men and women who were doing the work. Chaplin is
endowed with consummate powers for connecting with the world. “I’d make
a great banker,” he once told me. He is intelligent, so intelligent that
he intuitively grasps the abstruse currents of modern thought, esthetic,
political, even philosophic. He is sensitive, so exquisitely that the
gamut of human joy and pain plays endless responses within him. And he
is passionate and earthy, a lover of good food and of women and of racy
words. All these gifts naturally conspire to make him one with the
world. Yet there is in him this dominant need to be one only with
himself, to submit to no marriage, to let himself be lost in no union,
to which his mind and sense impel him. What, in this diathesis, can he
do? He can keep on moving. He can make his life a constant journey
through the inconstancy of impressions which, if he dwelt with them,
would bind him. He can make of his life an _escape_.

The life, then, of this first master of the motion picture, is motion.
His art is the treasured essence of his life. The theme of the Chaplin
picture is Chaplin himself, in relation (opposition) to the world. He
journeys through it, immeasurably roused, solicited, moved—yet aloof,
yet intactly alone. The form of the Chaplin film is his own body, set
off by the world: his body made into a mask behind which the man, all
intact, goes slyly and painfully on his impervious journey. And the plot
of the Chaplin film is merely some sequence of episodes in this constant
opposition of himself journeying through life and never fused within it.

Of course, it is not as easy as it sounds. Precisely because his work is
the incarnation of his life mood, of his life journey, its birth is a
delicate issue. In the beginning there is the atomic Chaplin, cast in
some role that will motivate his passage through the required number of
reels. But that passage—as pawnbroker’s assistant, circus fool, convict
pilgrim, fireman, seeker of gold, tramp, janitor, country bumpkin,
etc.—that passage must be blocked out with events. Each foot of the film
is an event, an encounter between Chaplin and the world. Since the art
is to be the essence of his life, it, too, like his life, must be
completely _fleshed_; and must breathe! From each encounter, either with
another person or with some inanimate object like a brickbat, there must
rise visible and palpable the personality of the entire journey. So each
event of the film must be a work of art in itself. And there must be
sequence, breathing, flowing, mounting. Each event must rise into the
next until the mass of events becomes a plastic music where each episode
is a note. The whole tale is a motion of events to represent the journey
of the man—his escape, intact, through the myriad mass of life.

The mood of the tale, being intimately Chaplin’s own, is carried within
him. What he must wait for is the precise scale of episodes that will
form the mood. Even when the events have come to him (the particular
stunts of the film), they must be weighed and measured. Where do they
fit in? Do they fit in at all?

This period of gestation is painful and long. Chaplin lies abed an
entire morning. He broods, measuring the tentative “body” of his tale by
the inner sense of what he wants. This sense is infallible, but it is
inarticulate save as the completed picture will be its articulation.
Chaplin does not know, he has no words for saying, the exact timbre and
gamut of physical actions that will express this particular body of his
life journey. The picture will be his knowing.... Meantime, several
miles away, his studio awaits him. It is a charming lot, several acres
in size. Here lives Kono, the remarkable Japanese factotum who manages
Chaplin’s personal journey through life, who serves as a kind of
intelligent oil against the inevitable frictions of the inevitable
encounters with stranger and friend. Here wait his general staff: Alf
Reeves (who has been with him since music-hall days), Harry Crocker,
Carl Robinson, Henry Bergman, Henry Clive, Roland Totheroh—possibly the
director Harry d’Arrast, who once worked with him in Crocker’s present
place and who remains his chum. All these men are distinguishably sweet,
sensitized, intelligent, aloof in the crass Hollywood world. (That world
is full of workers who carry on after they have left him, bearing the
stamp he gave them—Menjou is a celebrated instance.)

The staff all feel the tension of their chief. The strain, indeed, is so
great that there are men in the “industry” who could not stand it. At
last, possibly around noon, Chaplin arrives. The instant has come when
he is ready. He has dropped into his clothes, stepped into the limousine
which waits all morning at the door, with the engine throbbing. He is
hatless, tieless, and his vest is open. But the clothes are the most
dapper product of the London tailor. He wears them, at work, like a
gypsy. Even in this detail there is the meeting of the Chaplin
opposites. Gypsy and exquisitely groomed young gentleman delete each
other: leaving, as ever, merely Chaplin.

He joins his crowd in the little bungalow on the lot, where lunch is
served and where he has his dressing rooms. Tentative moments of the
film are brought up, altered, discarded, readjusted. Chaplin paces, his
face hard, his mouth half open, his eyes far off in himself.
Infinitesimal details are studied, rehearsed, discussed; gags, postures,
meanings, properties, business. Walking up and down, the little man
holds in his head the film’s inexorable rhythm, the inner logic of its
growth. As the ideas fly back and forth, in words and mimicry, Chaplin
brings them to the measure in himself: rejects or accepts.

There may be months of this. Nothing seems to be going. The corps of
workers champ and chafe. Chaplin moves with his preoccupation through
his habitual life: parties, dinners, wanderings about town, swift
flights with friends, long hours alone. At last certain scenes, having
withstood the critical pause, seem certain. Carpenters and plasterers
get busy. Sets rise on the lot. Chaplin wanders about among the hammers,
alone or with his group: judging, silent, suddenly exasperated, lost in
a new angle of vision—giving sharp orders that destroy the work of
weeks. A shot that cost a long journey to location (and $50,000) will be
ruthlessly scrapped. Later a scene will be repeated a literal hundred
times; and, if the fifty-ninth time was right, each detail of it will be
so clear in Chaplin’s eye that he will reproduce it for the camera.
Finally, a thousand feet of photography will be collapsed into a yard so
pregnant with the essence of the event that it will move, intact like
the man himself, through all the world.

This perfect consciousness of Chaplin as craftsman would, of course, be
less conspicuous in any other place. (In Paris, for instance, where men
work with words and with pigment as Chaplin does with human masses, his
métier is understood as merely the highest form of a common practice.)
But Hollywood is a usual American town—not a capital of artists. And the
studios of Hollywood confine their precision and consciousness to
problems of mechanics and finance. They are monuments of esthetic
vagueness, intellectual nullity, artistic hit-or-miss. The usual story,
to begin with, is an externalized contraption put together by the
combined shrewdness of half a dozen wholesalers parading as writers,
scenarists, directors and producers. The actors have no accurate
technique. The directors have no conscious control. In such a
combination the chance artist is helpless and lost. When a scene is
“pretty good,” it is shot. And the result is the kind of flat
approximation that feeds the dreams of the millions. But by the time
Chaplin gets ready to rehearse a scene its precise place in the
architectonic of his tale has been measured, even as the theme itself
has been measured in his life. And as he rehearses, he knows what
happens. I mean that he knows the interplay of muscle, mass, space, and
their focal value as the camera lens will catch it. He is no expert in
photography. In his especial choreography he is supreme.

All organic life has a commanding, individual rhythm: the beat of a
heart, the slant of a mind, the indecipherable stir of cells must go
with that rhythm. Such an organic rhythm besets the consciousness of
Chaplin, incarnating his subjective mood into a story. At the beginning,
he knows the rhythm only. He has to grope for the episodes to flesh it.
But when he finds his episodes he knows what he wants. And at the moment
of shooting a scene he knows how to recall what he wants. And he can do
this because, from the twist of a leg to the flicker of an eye, he knows
how everything is done.

All this, however, has not explained what it is that Chaplin is doing.
His work may be the incarnation of his personal escape from those
trammels of life to which his sensitivity and capacity for love expose
him; his way of escape may be shrewd with all the shrewdness of his
cockney-gypsy genius; and the esthetic expression of that journey of his
soul may be done with consummate craft. Yet the inward value of the
entire adventure is not yet clear.

We can best approach the significance of Chaplin’s art by considering
another constant presence (besides himself) in his meditations on the
story, in his conferences with Crocker and d’Arrast, in his rehearsals,
in his final prunings, acceptances and rejections. That other presence
he always alludes to by a simple name. He calls it “they.” “They” is the
public. “They” collaborates unceasingly with Chaplin. “They” has the
final veto over even Chaplin himself.

Of course, a similar “they” seems to preside over all the lots of
filmland. But in the usual studio there are a number of men pawing over
the platitudes of the human race in the deliberate effort to concoct
from them a pattern which the public will pay for. Chaplin, too, is a
child of the theatre. And there is no theatre without a “box” in front.
But in the studio of Chaplin there is, most really of all, a man of the
people—a cockney, a gypsy, a music-hall fellow—who looks into the eyes
of the world as into a mirror, in order to see _himself_ more
objectively and sharply. So it is that, coming to Chaplin’s public, we
return to the man. By means of this reflection we can see at last, in
clarity, how he manages his escape and what it is which, behind the mask
of “funny-legs,” goes its immortal journey into the heart of the world.

Chaplin looks upon the world of today. He sees failure: poverty, agony,
disease, chaos, fear, pitiful passion, pitiful love. He sees success:
deceit, garishness, tinsel, boast, disillusion. He sees his own past in
London—his mother in the drab uniform of the poorhouse. He sees his own
victorious present. He sees and feels too much. He is afraid of being
lost in this world. There is a kernel of him that is neither this
success nor this failure: a core in the man that can dance its own life
if only it may remain alone. That is why he must escape; why he must
look on all the invading world as an enemy and must hate it. Chaplin is
a hard and princely fellow: his brow is strong, and his jaw and his
mouth. But the modeling about his temples is girlishly tender, and the
deepest spirit in his eyes is a retreating terror. He is afraid for that
core in him of grace and loveliness and youthful dance. To protect it,
he will fight—he will employ all his skill, all his hardness.

Now consider Chaplin’s public, which is the modern world. In each breast
live grace and loveliness and wistful dream. But in the common man that
personal treasure of each heart cannot remain intact. Family, business,
law and war invade it. All civilization becomes a foe, trampling on this
secret heart, dispersing its dream, bruising and breaking its love.

Chaplin, who has striven to keep it whole for himself, has made his
fight for the world. Here, in his films, the grace and beauty of the
human “atom” are visible once more. Behind the mask of Chaplin—behind
the swinging cane, the ambling, painful feet, the tight drawn coat, the
cocky derby hat—marches the common loveliness of man—marches and
journeys as it must through a hated modern world—dissociate from social
forms, shabby, despised, pitiful, poor; yet miraculously intact and
miraculously triumphant.

Rousseau, I suppose, perfected this tragicomedy of the modern world,
with its dualistic conflict between beauty and civilization, between
love and man’s habitual life. Marvelously gifted, he gave to the world
its rationale for the impulse to creep back into a mythic childhood, to
worship the self at the expense of the towering forms about it. As Mr.
Lardner might say: “Jean Jacques started something.” Charles Chaplin has
finished it. (Even the cut of his comic coat recalls the romantic
century—the age of Alfred de Musset.) The cult of loveliness at war with
the sobrieties of life could beget no greater art than this journey of
Chaplin carrying beauty untouched through an atmosphere of heavy
institutions, of brickbats and policemen. French intellectual, London
clerk, Chinese coolie, Mexican peon, Park Avenue child, in the common
distress of their submission to a world too full of money to leave room
for singing and for dancing, can gaze together at this secret triumph
which Chaplin has enacted for them. His song explodes their oppressive
world. His primitive refusal to “grow up” in the “respectable way”
becomes the modern spirit of revolution.[1]

In the old days Charles Chaplin worked not less meticulously, but a good
deal faster. His theme has always been the exact transcription of the
mood of his life. But when his life was simpler, the bridge to his work
was more immediate. It was easier for the man to remain impervious,
intact, virginally himself. The instinctive operation of his will had
found no invasion too bruising or too tiring for him to repel. But he
has had to pay the toll of his way; and that toll has grown great. It is
hard to sustain one’s solitude when one is so full of eagerness as
Chaplin; and when, precisely because the world loved his aloneness, the
world has done everything to destroy it. His recent struggles, not so
much against the clamor of the public as against his own human need for
that peace and love which can be gained only by some union with another,
have made him conscious of himself. Consciousness and weariness have
stood between him and his journey—slowing him and slowing his work,
which is the expression of that journey. His hair has turned grey, and
his beautiful face is lined.

“The Circus” marks the crisis. The terrible year[2] that separated its
first-made scenes from the last brought a new somberness into his art.
The picture on which he is at work at present is the most meditative,
the most complex, the darkest story he has ever imagined. A progress
like that which distinguishes the end of “Don Quixote” from its
rollicking outset is manifest in his work. Chaplin is still alone; still
intact. But the fight he has had to wage in order to remain so has worn
him. It is the natural destiny of so passionate a man to lose himself.
Thus far Chaplin has refused this death. It would mean, indeed, the
death of his old gay art. It might mean the birth of a new tragic
artist.

Meantime the circumstances of his career in Hollywood have conspired to
perfect his solitude. Here was an artist whose theme was an essential
motion: the pantomimic medium of the motion picture was there to express
him. But now the motion-picture industry of Hollywood decides to talk.
Chaplin, whose excellence made him solitary enough, finds himself almost
literally alone.

A little more entirely than he may have dreamed, he is having his way.
He is alone in his great house, alone with his few friends, who love him
but who cannot really reach him. He is alone among his professional
comrades, who, unlike him, have abandoned the silent picture. Chaplin
has reached a goal. A goal is an end. An end can be also a beginning.

_1929._

3. D. H. LAWRENCE

Lawrence lived his entire life in a transition. Hence his painful and
irascible temper: hence also his illuminations, exquisite and unbearable
as direct contact with a nerve.

One world he had left: the world of plural “facts.” He was no dupe of
the parade of detailed separatenesses that clutter mortal eye. He knew
that this world of things, this matter-of-fact and practical world of
commonplace, was false; for he had left it for a truer. But that other
world he never quite attained: the world of unity and wholeness, whereof
all things are momentary foci. He was close enough to this world to be
pulling away from the other: but he was not of it sufficiently to accept
the world of “things” in the transfigured sense that makes things real.
He was close enough to the true to win from it vision and power to
illumine the “things” he fought; close enough to create a vision of them
as an artist. Yet he was not of the true world of organic oneness so
deeply as to incorporate himself within it and thereby to be at peace
with the many.

He was always striving to organize himself in wholeness: and always
failing, and always furious and exacerbated by his failures. These
failures are his life, and are his books. The characters of his stories
are never wholly persons in the sense of either world: the passion of
the writer of his books is never wholly either illumination of his
characters as organic bodies or life within the characters themselves.

Lawrence was exiled from the moderate pace of things that enact their
part in the Whole unconsciously. This blessed naturalization he had left
forever. He could never share the peace of the clod which knows not its
share in the Life it enacts. Nor could he accept the clod, from within
the realm of the conscious Life itself. The ecstasy of knowing himself
part of the Whole was never quite natural for him; he never assimilated
it into the processes of living. To possess that ecstasy, he had to deny
the lineaments of life: he had to seek extraordinary moments. The true
ecstasy of knowing the many common things of the world as the common
features of life’s oneness was never his.

He was imprisoned in transition. And he frantically strove to
incorporate himself entirely in the world of truth by lopping off his
attachments to the separatistic world that dragged him. Thus his
denial of “mind,” of tenderness and pity, of the feminine as
contradistinguished from the female. These were qualities that seemed
to hold him back near the world of “many-ness” which he hated as
false. He was neither strong enough nor clear enough to know that it
was his failure to fuse these qualities into wholeness, rather than
the intrinsic qualities themselves, that thwarted him and kept him
divided.

_1930_

4. HERBERT CROLY

Most men are set and long past growing before they are forty. This is
true of the conspicuous and successful, no less than of the common. They
have contrived, from their first impacts with the world, some attitude,
trick or gesture; it works; they stick to it until they are repetitive
as machines. Herbert Croly was a growing man until he was stricken; and
the rate of his growth kept on accelerating with the years. This rare
capacity, which toward the end transfigured him, was his true genius.

If we analyze the nature of his growth, we come close to the man, and
understand what made him so sound and beautiful a being. And the first
trait upon which we come is his humility. Herbert Croly was
authentically humble. Not humble with the inverted pride of a Franciscan
or of a character of Dostoevski’s—because of raging lusts intolerable to
himself which he had to flay into their opposite lest they drive him
mad. Herbert Croly’s humility came from a true sense of himself in the
world—a sense of true proportion. In the years when I knew him, at
least, he never seemed to be looking upon himself alone: always, he felt
and saw and thought himself within a texture that was the world. From
this proportion came sobriety and humility; and from this organic
contact with life’s sources, a springlike energy that kept him growing.

There was nothing, I suppose, superficially brilliant or arresting about
him. He was in cool fact what Whitman romantically sang: a “divine
average.” By which I mean that he was a man whose pre-eminence came from
the purification and exaltation of those traits that made him most like
others. With the shining talents of the market place he was not lavishly
gifted. The talent he had is rare in any mart: the passion for growth,
the moral, intellectual powers needed for growth, and a courage in
devotion to the life of growth that served him in his long fight as
sudden illumination serves the romantic hero.

How differently shrewd he was from the shrewd men with whom he
deliberately consorted, and whom he ruthlessly noted while, for the most
part, they took scant note of him. This world of atomic egos, bursting
with pride and will, and disappearing into the darkness of the mass,
after their brief explosion. And Herbert Croly, beginning in the mass,
groping his obscure way through a sense of brotherhood and life, into
true personality, into wisdom. His first impulse was to accept. And this
alone marked him off from his intellectual generation, and made his
discoveries far more potential. He had a sympathy for the commonplace.
His humility, deriving from his sense of proportion, made him
instinctively, even intellectually, share. Here, his “averageness”
ceased. For what he accepted and shared he weighed with the same quiet
ruthlessness that he brought to bear upon himself. That is why, at the
end, he had won a deeper vision of his world than had any of his
fellows. He had begun by letting himself be part of it, refusing
nothing. From within, he had scrutinized, purified—inexorably judged.

Yet, if in this spirit, temper, method, he was different from the New
York in which he worked, it was because he carried on so purely an
American tradition. It is true, of course, that he did not come of old
American stock, both his parents having been born in Europe. But it is
also true that in the making of Americans lineage is the least factor.
The immigrant is potentially American: that is why he came: he is
brother in spirit, if not in blood, of Roger Williams or of Franklin.
Moreover, the land itself stamps the child more deeply than do his
fathers. Thus, despite the European background of Herbert Croly, there
was much of the Puritan about him, a great deal of the pioneer. He
trekked our continent of the modern spirit “on foot,” slowly and
laboriously blazing his way through the American chaos. He understood
creatively and creatively served it, because he had given himself to it;
and this he had done because—like Emerson, like Whitman, like Thoreau,
like all its deepest critics—he had faith in it.

These homespun traits, almost exactly transposed from the plane of the
American forefathers, reveal the nature of his ideological growth. The
man who, twenty years ago, wrote “The Promise of American Life” had been
essentially one who accepted the intellectual pattern of the hour.
Herbert Croly was thinking in terms, then, of government commissions
with ideals of knight-errantry, of moral agencies somehow working out
through legislative bodies. His way of facing the problem of the good
life at that beginning would have been familiar enough to Gladstone or
to Burke. But, having accepted the pattern, he applied to it a sincerity
of penetration rare in any hour. His book, instead of following, became
the test—and the destroyer—of its own pattern. He was feeling his way;
and all of his career may similarly be termed a feeling of his way.

This trait gives the quality of his style; it lacked charm and ease
because it was a process rather than a conclusion. It never flowered; it
burrowed and made roots: whatever energy it evolved from its growth
turned downward into deeper roots instead of blooming upward. From the
standpoint of English, this is a grave defect. A written style should be
a fruit, not an embryology for some future fruitage. But from the
standpoint of the promise of American life, the style, like the man
himself, was the very substance. His words portrayed the passage of the
author slowly, circuitously through the jungle of half-decayed surmise
which is the heritage of our generation. The ultimate light of what he
wrote was the consequence of that passage. His words might be said to
have ended with light, in contrast to most modern words which begin with
glitter and end in darkness.

This book of 1910 began with a certain premise: America has the
political technique and the human equipment to fulfill itself. The book
studies the equipment—institutional, personal—turns back on its premise,
and rejects it. The book does not conclude; it institutes. While the
author writes, he grows: instead of ending, he changes. At the finale,
he is free of the pattern of his hour, truly free since he has first
accepted it and lived it through.

More than once, he espoused causes that seemed contradictory to the
essence of the man as I later came to know him. Thus his acceptance of
the War, his sponsorship of the Progressivism of Roosevelt, his apparent
dedication to the Pragmatism of John Dewey. But to condemn him for this
was to misjudge him by standards that did not apply. Herbert Croly was
not a prophet; he was an experimental and emergent force within the body
politic—the force that energizes prophecy and must precede it: he
personified the gradual principle of detachment within the process of
his time. He was not espousing these causes that were, indeed, denials
of his essence, so much as living through them, and as growing through
them. By his acceptance of the War, of the noisy and supine
Progressivism of Theodore Roosevelt, of the spiritually prostrate
Pragmatism of John Dewey, he was—in his own way—getting beyond them. And
his humble method is, to me, the only possible promise of our nation,
which, too, having accepted these false positions, with a self-knowledge
and a humility like Herbert Croly’s may also get beyond them.

His ultimate refusal was significant because he had lived through what
he rejected. Herbert Croly went through a gamut of faiths in political
reform; that is why his final doubts about the political method and his
convictions on psychological and religious re-education were important.
He was well versed in the instrumentalisms and technological credos of
his day; that is why his recognition of the nuclear spiritual force
within the person and beyond the reaches of pragmatic methods was
important. He knew the principles and methodologies of modern
engineering; that is why his transposition and application of them to
the problem of the person were important, and why his ultimate religious
interest—emergent from a practical participation in the affairs of our
day—was so convincing and potential.

These later phases of his growth were clear only to those who personally
knew him. He spoke of two books that he was going to write: a sequel to
“The Promise of American Life” and an intimate record of his own
evolution. I do not know if any part of these works was ever set down.
But I feel that the quality of the man and the form of his spirit were
best revealed to his friends. At night, within the shadows of his
bookshelves, a release came to Herbert Croly. He was morbidly sensitive.
He spoke so low that when one ate with him in a restaurant it was
difficult to hear what he said. Yet to have raised his voice in a public
place, one felt, would have been an outrage to the nature of this man
who was, without doubt, the deepest publicist of his generation. In his
own occult way, Herbert Croly had embraced the world. A kind of dogged
heroism through the years had driven him to accept the crass contacts of
politics and journalism. For that was the method of his philosophy: his
knowing was action. But now, in the stillness of his room, his knowing
became words. What he said had a luminous strength, like wine kept long.
For these were words aged in the cellar of himself. The exquisite
perceptions had grown strong in secret. His eyes glowed, at such times,
with his words. He was relaxed. A flame burned from the hard wood of his
reticence.

Like an old wine, this strength of Herbert Croly’s was not aggressive.
It did not come to you; you had to find the means of taking it. He had
none of the prophet’s and mystic’s need of self-assertion or of
liberation from the trammels of his time. His method was always the same
humble one: to work in the substances of the day, to live his day, and
slowly to go on emerging without separation from the day’s humble
matters.

Some men synthesize the actuality of their time. Such a one was Theodore
Roosevelt, once Croly’s friend. Another kind, more rare and more
precious, synthesize not the day’s actuality, but its promise. Such was
Herbert Croly. But even within this group, he was unique. These men are
likely to be at odds with their hour, and quite aloof. Their method of
revelation is often the prophetic attitude which refuses all
participation with the actuality which they transcend. But Herbert Croly
synthesized American promise by his acceptance of the American fact. He
did not intuit his promise, he distilled it from the facts themselves.
He was very far from the conventional prophet or mystic. His exquisite
nerves grappled with the iron and blood of the twentieth century. What
could come of this embrace of an almost feminine spirit with a body in
which plunged a billion horsepower? The spirit of the man remained
undriven, clear; it became the record of a slow revelation.

If we translate his career into terms of our national destiny, how does
it read? America runs the gamut of political credos. America sets up its
external technologies and worships in them its own infantile power.
America swears by the machine, and patterns from it arts and folkways.
Under high-sounding slogans of pragmatism and instrumentalism, America
submits to the hour—to all the miseries and tyrannies of a caste clad in
the immediacy of the hour. But America will, from its experience, return
unto itself; learn that there is no substitute for the strength and
value that reside secretly in man, and that there is no conduit to
mastery of the world other than mastery of self. America will again hear
the voices of the fathers who came to create a dwelling place, not for
gilded slaves of the machine, but for man—a world made new, not by
mechanical proliferation, but by the growth of the spirit of man and
woman.

Such was the progress of Herbert Croly, who moved through the American
jungle to find himself, and in himself projected what must be the
destiny of his country, if that destiny be salvation. The promise of
American life has had no truer form than this life.

_1930_

5. SIGMUND FREUD

The nineteenth century in Northern Europe was a time of Titans
struggling to create worlds of their own. The medieval Catholic world
had crumbled: simple or timid souls still lived in it, but for several
hundred years the strongest spirits had been engaged in tearing it to
pieces. This destruction was, of course, creative; was, indeed, largely
the cultural work of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries in
astronomy, geography, physics, economics, mysticism and esthetics. But
it was work of pioneering or analysis, rather than of synthesis. And it
bequeathed to the eighteenth century, not a new world for the whole man
to live in, but a miscellany of abstract, mutually discordant principles
with which to begin to build it. These principles were known as laws:
there were the laws of mathematics, of mechanics, of biology, of the
natural and the economic man. They were all based upon the law of
reason, and this was religiously believed in. The destructive centuries
had not invented the faith in reason; that faith was a legacy of the
Catholic world which reason, by shifting its premise, undermined.
Reason, to be hypostasized, requires an unchallenged premise; in
Catholic theology this premise was the revelation of the Bible; now it
was to be the revelation of the human senses or of the original
rightness and divinity of man. With such instruments, abstract and
confused, the forerunners of the nineteenth century (Kant, Rousseau,
Blake, etc.) strove to create a cosmos of their own to replace the
glorious fertile world of St. Francis, Aquinas, Dante.

The period of great romantic art was ushered in; and it had many forms.
In philosophy, there were Schopenhauer, Hegel, Spencer, Comte; in the
novel, there were Balzac and Dostoevski; in music, there were Beethoven,
Moussorgsky, Wagner; in painting, there were Delacroix, Ingres, Cézanne;
in the sciences, there were Marx and Darwin. All these men, despite
immense distinctions, were of one family. They were in touch with
objective reality, masters of inquiry, often discoverers in the fields
from which they mined their materials. But their constructions, unlike
the worlds of the great Catholic creators right down to Bach, Descartes,
Racine, were the embodiments of the personal will of their creators.
There is, here, no contradiction; nor were these nineteenth-century
worlds less “real,” because personal, or of less social use. Man is not
an isolated atom. The genius who erects a world in the image of
himself—if his self-search be deep and his self-mastery strong—will
produce a work of universal nature. The more profound the subjective
impulse, the more complete the command over objective nature in order to
fulfill it. That is why the scientific realism of a Cézanne
qualitatively equals that of a Darwin; why a poet like Wagner portrays
the reality of Middle Europe; why an economist like Marx may write as
emotionally as Isaiah; and why we find in the solipsistic verse of a
Rimbaud prophecies, which science has fulfilled, of the nature and
behavior of the atom.

I have needed to speak of these nineteenth-century Titans, because
Sigmund Freud, whose work dates from the 1890’s, is the last of their
line. To understand him, we must know his family. It was a family of men
moved to replace, by their own work, the broken synthesis of Catholic
Europe. They were all absolutists, seeking in some genetic principle of
unitary vision the pattern that God supplied in the old order. The law
may have been progress and reason or (as in Dostoevski and Rimbaud)
their denial; may have been will or (as in Schopenhauer) its overcoming;
it may have been some genetic rule like the survival of the fittest,
sexual selection, Aryan-Lutheran supremacy, class struggle, etc. Always
there was implicit in the texture of these men’s constructions an
absolute rationalism, or the nullification of reason; a faith in the
sufficiency of the senses as a report of truth, or total rejection.
These worlds, risen from an abstract and absolute law, were built of
materials preponderantly personal—more idiosyncratic, indeed (although
the work were a book on economics), than the love lyric of any medieval
poet who accepted his immersion in a common cosmic pattern.

The twentieth century will be different: its creative work will be to
reconcile and integrate apparently contradictory laws by the aid of
supersensory dimensions. It will be the relativistic age, in which the
discoveries of the absolutists of the nineteenth century—Nietzsche and
Marx, Dostoevski and Darwin, Rimbaud and Spencer—will be worked together
for the making not of worlds, but of _the world_, and not less personal
because socially pragmatic. To this new era, barely ushered in by men
like Bergson, Whitehead, S. Alexander, André Gide, Franz Kafka, etc.,
Freud does not belong. But in the perspective of cultural history, he
will be seen as a contemporary of Darwin, Schopenhauer, Dostoevski,
Marx; and he may be known, by the fecundity of his work, as their equal.

Freud began as a physician; as one seeking to heal human ills. But he
found, in the dark places of the human heart, a world as personal,
tragic and universal as the world of Dostoevski. The psychological
system of Freud is, first of all, a great human drama. Here, in the
arcana of the soul, are complex organisms: the superego, dwelling place
of the fathers—conscience and tradition; the id, hinterland of the
immense accumulations of instinct, habit, appetite; and between them the
ego, where lives the individual will. These organisms are interacting
units, from whose clash rise devious characters with strange names:
cathex, complex, sex-urge, death-urge, neurosis, fixation or repression
or sublimation of libido. They are all filled with the life of action;
they make lyric and epic conquests of the objective world; they also
interlock in secret combat or in more terrible alliance, giving forth
the gamut of emotions from horror to ecstasy, and producing the many
mansions of human deed from pastoral beginnings when the infant offers
its prized excrement as a gift to its mother, to heights where men make
philosophies and religions.

This world of Freud has complex unity. Among the welter of symptom,
dream, and cultural act move the “heroes”: the radical urge for life
(sex and self-preservation) and the masochist-sadist hunger, born of
life, for the return to death. And like all the esthetic constructions
of the nineteenth-century Titans, this world has a personal savor. “The
Interpretation of Dreams,” Freud’s pivotal work, in its revelation of a
passionate individual nature may be compared with the “Confessions” of
Rousseau (the father of the century), with Dostoevski’s “Notes from
Underground,” with Volume I of “Capital,” with Schopenhauer’s “The World
as Will and Idea,” and with “Thus Spake Zarathustra.” A man is speaking.
He is building a system from his discoveries and observations by the use
of a legitimate instrument of science. But first and last, _a man_ is
revealing himself. And only less intensely is this true of all Freud’s
books. Whether he writes of the genetic sources of Da Vinci’s art (in
“Leonardo da Vinci”) or of a savage totem (in “Totem and Taboo”) or of a
slip of the tongue (in “Psychopathology of Everyday Life”), he brings
himself to the construction. While with healing hand he touches the
lesions of a soul, he is really carrying to these dark places a flame
from his own Promethean nature.

Most men solve their inner conflicts by forgetting about them (with the
magic of ready-made solutions or of drugs, sexual, mechanical,
alcoholic, patriotic); some men need to create a world of their own to
solve them. Marx, suffering within himself the lesion of social
injustice, created a world that mankind will use as a rationale of cure
for its social diseases. The humbly religious Darwin, agonized by an age
of “Enlightenment” that had dissevered him from God only to marry him
with chaos, forecast a biological order where the human species could
begin again to find the peace of integration between its lowest and its
highest parts. Freud also makes answer to a personal conflict.

He is a man who accepts the dogma of nineteenth-century science. “There
is no other source of knowledge,” he says, “but the intellectual
manipulation of carefully verified observations, in fact, what is called
research ... and no knowledge can be obtained from revelation, intuition
or inspiration.” This is pure eighteenth-century rationalism. Thus
armed, he goes down into the irrational depths of the soul, a chaos to
be conquered. His highway is the dream; and the Freudian technique of
dream interpretation by word and thought associations and by the use of
symbols is one of the mightiest acts of the imagination. The domain
where the dream has led him, which he calls the id, is a jungle of the
lusts of human organs aprowl like wild beasts among the tropical trees
and swamps of primeval habit. But Freud will not surrender to this
phantasmagoric and miasmic world; he will draw forth from its flux, by
means of reason, energy for the three-dimensional world of reasonable
practice, and this limited world he will insist to be the one reality.
It is a struggle between uneven forces, and the consequence is a
psychological design (called “real”) that is drenched with the
passionate and heroic will of its author.

It is illuminating to compare this Freudian world with the world of
Dostoevski. The novelist explores the same Amazonian jungles of the
unconscious, made manifest in their most morbid extremes. He, too, has
gone down, through the need of an integrating principle that shall
transfigure this chaos into truth. His method is the precise opposite of
Freud’s. Dostoevski follows the unconscious impulse of men to its
irrational source, and he accepts this source as the sole reality,
finding in it his God and his values. He rejects as unreal the
contradictory world of reason and all the social-moral constructs of
reason. This rejected “conscious” world is dream for Dostoevski; the
nineteenth-century culture built from it in Europe is false for him; and
in the obscurantist ecstasy of what Freud calls the “lowest levels of
the id,” the Russian finds his salvation of “waking.” Freud moves toward
the irrational source only to reject of it what reason cannot bind; and
only such energies of the unconscious as reason can draw back into a
world of social conformity will he call “real.” The materials of
Dostoevski’s art, made plastic in the great organisms of his novels, are
identical with the materials of Freud’s world made into the looser
esthetic form of a psychological system.

Dostoevski does not succeed in his absolutist attempt to deny reality to
all experience of reason: if the irrational ecstasy is man’s sole
waking, there is much sleep in his books, and hence their substance. The
same holds with Freud. He would be the first to disclaim victory in his
attempt to naturalize all the energy of the id within the domain of
reason. There is much “sleep” and much darkness in his system: hence its
livingness.

Time and again, Freud is led to limits where he is face to face with
Dostoevski’s “real”—the mystic and the occult. “It can easily be
imagined,” he says, “that certain practices of the mystics may succeed
in upsetting the normal relations between the different regions of the
mind, so that, for example, the perceptual system becomes able to grasp
relations in the deeper layers of the ego and in the id which would
otherwise be inaccessible to it. Whether such a procedure can put one in
possession of ultimate truths [there speaks the absolutist devotee of
reason] may be safely doubted. All the same, we must admit that the
therapeutic efforts of psychoanalysis have chosen much the same method
of approach. For their object is to strengthen the ego, to make it more
independent of the superego, ... to take over new portions of the id.
Where id was, there ego shall be.”

Freud does not admit the premise of the mystic method, which is, of
course, that the cosmic lives within the individual unconscious (the id)
so that the following of percepts to their source rounds man’s circle to
God. But Dostoevski, typical mystic in revolt against the world of
reason, would not see the implication in Freud’s rationalist method: if
the findings of reason are universal, reason must be cosmic. This
rationalist premise is also mystic, and also irrationally rounds the
circle between man and God. Freud, like all the nineteenth-century
rationalists, is an unconscious follower of the older, ethical Kant.
Dostoevski was a conscious, and hence a more reasonable, mystic. But
both groups of absolutists, in their attempt to exclude a part of man’s
equipment for finding truth—the one group reason, the other group
organic intuition—are doomed to failure. And in Freud, no less than in
Dostoevski, this awareness of limitations gives the poignant note of the
Titans who are helpless to create a world against the indefeasible God
who is the Whole. In all the great nineteenth-century creations, there
is this discord between the will and the work. It gives to the pages of
Freud a personal vibration that is not the least of their value.

What of the scientific values of Freud’s work? Psychoanalysis is, first
of all, a therapy in the treatment of nervous and psychic disorders.
Thousands of physicians, for the most part in the Central European and
Anglo-Saxon countries, practice it, and seemingly with success. But
therapy is the least important aspect of Freud’s work. Most of the ills
of personal maladjustment which the Freudian analysis may cure are
symptoms of the disorder, economic, social, cultural, of the
contemporary world. The right way to overcome them is to attack the
disease, not its individual symbols. In this task, the light thrown by
Freud on the human psyche is of great importance; the actual relief
given to a few persons is immaterial. The time required by an analysis,
and the expense, make the method (under our present system) available
chiefly to the type of idle woman and parasitic man who are not worth
saving at the price of the lengthy effort which the analyst must devote
to readjusting them into a morbid world. It would really be better for
the whole leisured class, who have supported so many analysts in luxury,
to be converted en masse to the Catholic Church. They could all go to
Lourdes, whose record of cures is vastly more varied. There is this
difference, however. When a patient finds relief at a Catholic shrine,
no one is the wiser: the cure has been worked in an invulnerable
darkness. But when even the most useless society woman is analyzed by a
Freudian, although she may not be cured, the analyst and science know
something more about the human soul. Psychoanalysis as a therapy is
justified, in so far as the physician is more important than the
patient.

Freud, therefore, is within the tradition of his Jewish fathers, to whom
Wisdom was never (as it was with the Hindus) an end to be independently
attained, but the common fruit of the tree of humane living. Freud, the
physician, is moved to heal the suffering of his fellows; and from this
humble, socially immaterial ministration has issued a deep knowledge.

I am not qualified to judge the precise final values, as objective
science, of the Freudian system. But, of course, objective science has
no final values. Despite its assumption of definitive laws, the light of
generations makes of the science of any epoch a mere trend or method
toward knowledge. That scientific work whose path is followed farther,
is good work; and here is its ultimate value. Thus the mathematical
science of a Pascal or a Leibnitz is good; and in this sense, it is
already clear that the Freudian technology is good. His dicta on any
specific problem, such as the origin of neurosis or the setup of the
psyche, may be amended. Indeed, Freud has himself refuted several of his
early propositions. For instance, he used to hold that in the anxiety
neurosis, the repression caused the anxiety, and his analytic experience
has now taught him, as indicated in “A New Series of Introductory
Lectures to Psycho-Analysis,” that the anxiety comes first, and that its
source is a (disguised) actual trauma. In the technique of analysis,
this reversal is important. But it reveals at what deeper level than any
fact or system lies the scientific value of Freud’s work. Freud’s vision
of the soul as an organism in dynamic integration with the physical
body, with the social body, and with the historic body of mankind, has
given us a _method_. And by this method we have come more close than we
had come before to the sources of behavior, to an anatomy of ideas and
emotions. Already, the uses of the method have proliferated widely. It
has shed light on the social origins of man, anthropological and
cultural; and on the problems of character formation without which there
can be no science of education and no science of ethics. By its
fecundity, the method of Freud’s psychology will perhaps prove to be as
good science as the method of Darwin’s biology or of the Marxian
historical critique.

I have said that the least value of Freud’s work is its therapy; I may
amend this by saying that in therapy lie its greatest evils. Persons who
go to psychoanalysis to be cured of neurosis or of a functional
maladjustment, inevitably look for guiding values which anciently were
given by religion. They seek _a way of life_; and the analyst is placed
in the position of spiritual leader. This is not Freud’s claim. He
scouts all Weltanschauung beyond the scientific acceptance and ordering
of the report of the senses. These rationalists are all naïve in their
failure to recognize the limiting dogmatism of their creed. A measuring
rod that negates what lies beyond its scope is the sternest of
dogmatists. The man who disclaims any individual norm of values, and yet
deals with the subtlest problems of human adjustment, implicitly accepts
the values that are current and actively rejects what lies outside his
measure. The patient is sick because he does not fit into the world as
he finds it; the analyst who cures him helps him into this world, which
means that he has set up, as the desired norm, the values of the world.
If the analyst is not aware of this, his acceptance is merely the more
blind and his work upon the soul of the patient the more irresponsible.
This is a serious criticism to be made against psychoanalysis from the
viewpoint of a world sorely in need of revolution in the domain of
values. And it may well be that the maladjusted neurotic of today is
closer to the norm of healthy social transformation than the neurotic
whom Freudian analysis has made “fit and content” within a society of
false individualism and cultural decay.

A more serious, because more philosophical, indictment is that the
Freudian system (not the method) makes of mental life a region without
polarity with either cosmos or individual person. The explorer Knud
Rasmussen once asked an Eskimo, who lived within the ice of the Arctic
Circle and whose food was the raw flesh of caribou, “What do you
understand by the soul?” And Ikinilik, the savage, answered: “It is
something beyond understanding, that makes me a human being.” Freud, the
man, would probably agree; Freud, the nineteenth century rationalist,
cannot admit of this “something beyond understanding.” He must draw his
charts of human behavior, his maps of the mind, without allowance for
this “x.” But what if the “x” is needed to produce, from Freud’s
hypothetic id and ego, the human being? What if all Freud’s analytic
counters, lacking this “x,” do not add up into the synthesis—the actual
person? “The id,” says Freud, “is the whole personality and the ego is
within it.” But Freud’s id is a chaos of instinct and desire, timeless
and spaceless, from which by definition all cosmic connection is
excised. How does it manage, out of its anarchic tidings, to throw up
the ego and the superego with their cultural cosmic sublimations? Where
is the forming factor? Dostoevski, who finds God at the irrational and
subnormal source, has a more logical explanation. Jung, the Swiss
psychologist, although he lacks Freud’s intellectual genius and although
his work is not, like Freud’s, a great esthetic body, is more logical,
calling the id the “collective unconscious” and finding there the cosmic
seed that can explain the human fruit. You can insert no new element,
says Whitehead, in an evolving organism. It must be there at the
beginning. Freud, in his rationalist refusal to allow within the id, at
least hypothetically, the mystic “x” which can alone explain the
flowering from the muck of the intellectual and esthetic capacities of
man, meets the tragic fate of all rationalists whose ultimate syllogism
proves the irrationality of the rationalist dogma.

But whatever the reader judges to be the validity of the Freudian system
or the virtues of his own use of his method, he must know, as he reads
the books of Sigmund Freud, that he stands within the presence of true
human greatness. Freud, indeed, is one of the supreme intellectual
heroes of our time: one of those men who make life more livable for us
all through the fact of their existence. In his writings, we sense the
heroism of his effort, armed alone by faith in reason, to conquer cosmic
continents. We think of the first Spaniards, exploring with the
blunderbuss and a Cross, yet giving the Americas to man. Freud, also,
with a faith and weapons equally foredoomed, has discovered a new world
which, by outliving him, will make him immortal.

_1934_

6. SHERWOOD ANDERSON

One must approach the stories of this storyteller in the spirit of
reverence, in the spirit of mystery—as one approaches the child. Let the
critical come after. If one begins by analyzing Sherwood Anderson, one
will not receive him; and all one’s analysis will go for naught. Let him
lodge in us ungrudgingly; not till then let our intellectual
questionings have play.

For his tales are a testimony; and they testify to the still infantile
revelation of Our America. What would have happened in Europe, if the
naïve confessionals of convert Gaul and Frank and Goth had been analyzed
before they were accepted? Anderson’s books are a relation of the search
for fresh religious values; a groping toward an Apocalypse in our own
inchoate terms. Woe to us if we do not nurture this act in the childlike
simplicity of the man who gives it!

We shall create a Scripture in our land. And of the stuff of Scripture
are the glowing songs of “Winesburg, Ohio,” “A Story Teller’s Story,”
the subsequent volumes. Scripture they are not. They are not hard,
clear, strong enough for that. They are to our new Scripture that shall
be, possibly, as were the lost Songs of Miriam to the subsequent Books
of Moses; as the pre-Vedic psalms to the Rig-Veda; as the stammering
testimonies before St. Isidore of Christians from the Rhine to the
Guadalquivir, to that medieval Scripture of Abélard, Anselm, Aquinas.
They are source, a living inchoate source. We must let them speak in us
and for us, in order to grow beyond them.

If we fail to accept them, America will turn against them. There are
already signs of this revulsion—weakness turned into bravado—in the
shrill gestures of young-old men like Ernest Hemingway. We shall have to
spew out this false maturity; we shall have to go back and _live
through_ Anderson in order to grow beyond our childhood.

From the molder heap of nineteenth-century America rise flames of
longing and dance a moment in the air. Then they fall back into the
smoke, lost, fetidly lost. There is still too much damp muck for the
divine bonfire which America shall be. We cannot yet burn. We can get
ready to burn.

Such is the burden of Sherwood Anderson’s books; they are a playing of
wistful flames over the muck heap. There have been other flames,
hardier, greater. Either they came before our modern muck heap, or they
played on its edge. The flames of Thoreau, Melville, Poe, the fire of
Whitman, stood clear enough away to cast light to Europe. Anderson’s
flame is more modest. But it is at the heart, not at the edge of the
molder. It does not light Paris and London; it helps warm _us_. It helps
prepare the muck heap for the great bonfire. Its value lies in its
inwardness, in its humble staying.

All the tales of this storyteller are little inward-creeping tongues of
fire. Anderson himself is a fragment flame flickering through America’s
chaos: licking, curling, dancing, smoking, fainting. He is not organic,
he has no body and no eyes. He ignites nothing. He warms, he lessens the
dank, he cleanses the stench of the muck heap. After, the bonfire.

When we have accepted him, we can place him; and by this means place
America. Looking upon this man’s nature, listening to his words, above
all to the dull beat of his feet, we realize what a task this is: to
make America into a holy land. Elijah and Amos wrestling with their
idolaters, the Judges and Prophets swearing to force their pack of
stubborn shepherds into the Word of God, had a task no harder than ours
who would make America into a luminous land. If you have doubts, here
are books to strengthen despair; if you hesitate in your need to
transcend despair, here are books to hearten you by their songs of man’s
mysterious emergence.

Whence came Sherwood Anderson? and what had he? If this be not God in
his blundering step, in his blinded eye, then God is not immanent on
earth. Not intelligence, not shrewdness, not cultural purpose, moved
this man. To the end he will be deaf, dumb, blind. The Midwest lives in
his stories but not in his knowledge of himself. He comes to New York, a
man past forty years. Can you say that he saw even one skyscraper, even
one person? High men, low men, bitter men and sweet, dance in equal
delirium before him. He goes to Europe, a pilgrimage through the
detritus of his own youthful readings about Europe. So he has gone
through life: so, in a true esthetic form of faint emergence out of
chaos, he has created his tales. Creeping flames searching in muck and
drench for the dry brand, striving so wistfully hard to catch on, to
ignite!

I spoke with a sharp critic from England about “A Story Teller’s Story.”
He disposed of it with ease: it lacked form, it lacked clarity of image
and thought, it gave nothing of Ohio, nothing of New York; it was vague
in picturing the associates of childhood, the transition years; it had
no incisive word on the artists encountered in the East. The European
mind could not touch the flavor of this revelation. What it saw as
muddle is search; what it saw as evasion is honest effort.

Sherwood Anderson used to sing of the gods, the new-old gods coming out
of the corn into the streets of Chicago. Primitive gods they were,
almost phallic. Mere trunks of power, moving; mere conveyancers of life
greyly luminous into the builded blackness of our cities. Sherwood
Anderson is such a god, himself. There must be many, ere the new Elohim
grow into the new Jehovah.

_1926_

7. HART CRANE

_I dwell in Possibility
A fairer house than Prose,
More numerous of windows
Superior of doors._
EMILY DICKINSON

Agrarian America had a common culture, which was both the fruit and the
carrier of what I have called elsewhere “the great tradition.”[3] This
tradition rose in the Mediterranean world with the will of Egypt, Israel
and Greece, to re-create the individual and the group in the image of
values called divine. The same will established Catholic Europe, and
when it failed (producing nonetheless what came to be the national
European cultures), the great tradition survived. It survived in the
Europe of Renaissance, Reformation, Revolution. With the Puritans, it
was formally transplanted to the North American seaboard. Roger
Williams, Thomas Hooker, Jonathan Edwards; later, Jefferson, Madison,
Adams, carried on the great tradition with the same tools, on the same
intellectual and economic terms, that had been brought from Europe and
that had failed in Europe. It was transplanted, it was not transfigured.
But before the final defeat of the Puritan avatar—a defeat ensured by
the disappearance of our agrarian economy—the great tradition had borne
fruit in two general forms. The first was the ideological art of what
Lewis Mumford calls the Golden Day: a prophetic art of poets so diverse
as Emerson, Thoreau, Poe, whose vision was one of Possibility and whose
doom, since its premise was a disappearing world, was to remain
suspended in the thin air of aspiration. The second was within the lives
of the common people. Acceptance of the great tradition had its effect
upon their character; and this humbler achievement is recorded, perhaps
finally, in the poems of Robert Frost.

Frost’s record (“North of Boston,” 1914; “Mountain Interval,” 1916) was
already made when the United States entered the War; and the War brought
final ruin to the American culture of “free” individuals living for the
most part on farms, whose beauty Frost recorded. The tradition which had
tempered the persons in Frost’s poems had already, before the Civil War,
sung its last high word in the old terms that were valid from Plato to
Fichte. And this, too, was fitting, for the Civil War prepared the doom,
which the World War completed, of the agrarian class culture. But the
great tradition, unbroken from Hermes Trismegistus and Moses, does not
die. In a society transfigured by new scientific and economic forces, it
must be transfigured. The literature and philosophy of the past hundred
years reveal many efforts at this transfiguration: in this common
purpose, Nietzsche and Marx are brothers. The poetry of Whitman was
still founded on the substances of the old order. The poetry of Hart
Crane is a deliberate continuance of the great tradition in terms of our
industrialized world.

If we bear in mind this purpose of Crane’s work, we shall be better
prepared to understand his methods, his content, his obscurity. We
shall, of course, not seek the clear forms of a poet of Probability,
like Frost. But we shall also not too widely trust Crane’s kinship with
the poets of the Emersonian era, whose tradition he immediately
continues. They were all, like Crane, bards of possibility rather than
scribes of realization. Yet they relied upon inherited forms—forms
emotional, ethical, social, intellectual and religious, transplanted
from Europe and not too deliquescent for their uses. Whitman’s
apocalypse rested on the politics of Jefferson and on the economics of
the physiocrats of France. Emerson was content with the ideology of
Plato and Buddha, his own world not too radically differing from theirs.
Even Emily Dickinson based her explosive doubts upon the permanent
premise of a sheltered private garden, to which such as she could always
meditatively retire. These traditional assumptions gave to the poets of
the Golden Day an accessible, communicable form; for we, too, have been
nurtured on the words of that old order. But in Crane, none of the ideal
landmarks, none of the formal securities, survive; therefore his
language problem—the poet’s need to find words at once to create and to
communicate his vision—is acute. Crane, who began to write while Frost
was perfecting his record, lived, instinctively at first, then with
poignant awareness, in a world whose inherited outlines of person,
class, creed, value—still clear, however weak, in Emerson’s Boston,
Whitman’s New York, Poe’s Richmond—had dissolved. His vision was the
timeless One of all the seers, and it binds him to the great tradition;
but because of the time that fleshed him and that he needed to substance
his vision, he could not employ conventional concretions. In his lack of
valid terms to express his relationship with life, Crane was a true
culture-child; more completely than either Dickinson or Blake, he was a
child of modern man.

Harold Hart Crane was born in Garrettsville, Ohio, July 21, 1899. His
parents, Clarence Arthur Crane and Grace Hart, were of the pioneer stock
that trekked in covered wagons from New England to the Western Reserve.
But his grandparents, on both sides, had already shifted from the farm
to small-town business, and Clarence Crane, who had inherited his
father’s general store in Garrettsville, became a wealthy candy
manufacturer in Cleveland. Here the poet, an only child, lived from his
tenth year. At thirteen, he was composing verse; at sixteen, in the
words of Gorham Munson, “he was writing on a level that Amy Lowell never
rose from.” In the winter of 1916, he went with his mother, who was
separated from her husband, to the Isle of Pines, south of Cuba, where
his grandfather Hart had a fruit ranch; and this journey, which gave him
his first experience of the sea, was cardinal in his growth. The
following year, he was in New York, in contact with Margaret Anderson
and Jane Heap, editors of “The Little Review”; tutoring for college;
writing; already passionately and rather wildly living.

At this time, two almost mutually exclusive tendencies divided the
American literary scene. One was centered in Ezra Pound, Alfred
Kreymborg, the imagists, Harriet Monroe’s “Poetry” and “The Little
Review”: the other was grouped about “The Seven Arts.” Young Crane was
in vital touch with both. He was reading Marlowe, Donne, Laforgue,
Rimbaud; but he was also finding inspiration in Whitman, Sherwood
Anderson and Melville. His action, when the United States lurched into
the war, reveals the complexity of his interests. He decided not to go
to college and by his own choice returned to Cleveland, to work as a
common laborer in a munition plant and a shipyard on the lake. He loved
machines, the earth tang of the workers. He was no poet in an ivory
tower. But also he loved music; he wanted time to write, to meditate, to
read. The conflict of desires led him, perhaps, to accept what seemed a
comfortable compromise: a job in the candy business of his father.

The elder Crane seems to have been a man of turbulent and twisted power,
wholly loyal to the gods of Commerce. He was sincerely outraged by the
jest of fortune which had given him a poet for a son. Doubtless, he was
bitter at his one child’s siding with the mother in the family conflict.
But under all, there was a secret emotional bond between the two, making
for the ricochet of antagonism and attraction that lasted between them
until the father’s death, a year before the son’s. The candy magnate set
laboriously to work to drive the “poetry nonsense” out of his boy. Hart
became a candy salesman behind a counter, a soda-jerker, a shipping
clerk. He received a minimum wage. Trusted employees were detailed to
spy on him, lest he read “poetry books” during work hours. Hart Crane
escaped several times from the paternal yoke, usually to advertising
jobs near home or in New York. And at last, in 1920, he decided to break
with both Cleveland and his father.

His exquisite balance of nerves was already permanently impaired. The
youthful poet, who had left a comfortable household to live with
machines and rough men, who had shouldered “the curse of sundered
parentage,” who had tasted the strong drink of literature and war,
carried within him a burden intricate and heavy—a burden hard to hold in
equilibrium. Doubtless the chaos of his personal life led him to
rationalize the accessible tangent ease from the strain of balance which
excess use of alcohol invited. Yet there was a deeper cause for the
disequilibrium which, when Crane was thirty-two, was finally to break
him from his love of life and to destroy him. Hart Crane was a mystic.
The mystic is a man who _knows_, by immediate experience, the organic
continuity of his self with the cosmos. This experience, which is the
natural fruit of sensitivity, becomes intense in one whose native energy
is great; and lest it turn into an overwhelming, shattering burden, it
must be disciplined and ordered. A stable nucleus within the self must
be achieved, to bear and finally transfigure the world’s impinging
chaos. Personally, Crane did not win this synthesis.

But the poet was clearer and shrewder than the man. His mind sought a
poetic principle to integrate the exuberant flood of his impressions.
The early poems, collected in “White Buildings” (1926), reveal the
quest, not the finding. Allen Tate, in his Introduction to this volume,
writes: “The poems ... are facets of a single vision; they refer to a
central imagination, a single evaluating power, which is at once the
motive of the poetry and the form of its realization.” But the central
imagination, wanting a unitary principle, wavers and breaks; turns back
upon itself instead of mastering the envisaged substance of the poem.
That is why, often, a fragmentary part of a poem is greater than the
whole: and why it is, at times, impossible to transpose the series of
images into the sense-and-thought sequence that originally moved the
poet, and that must be perceived in order to move the reader. The
mediate principle, coterminous with the image logic of the poem and the
feeling logic of the poet, is imperfect. The first lines of the volume:

As silent as a mirror is believed
Realities plunge in silence by....

are a superb expression of chaos and of the poet’s need to integrate
this chaos in the active mirror of self. Page after page, “realities
plunge by,” only ephemerally framed in a mirroring mood which alas!
melts, itself, into the turbulent procession. Objective reality exists
in these poems only as an oblique moving-inward to the poet’s mood. But
the mood is never, as in imagist or romantic verse, given for and as
itself. It is given only as an organic moving-outward toward the
objective world. Each lyric is a diapason between two integers of a
continuous whole. But the integers (subjective and objective) are almost
never clear. This makes of the poem an abstract, wavering, esthetic
body. There is not yet, as in the later work, a conscious substantiated
theme or principle of vision to stratify the interacting parts of the
poems into an immobile whole.

But in the final six lyrics of this volume (“Voyages”) there is the
beginning of a synthesis. Its symbolic theme is the Sea. The turbulent
experience of Crane’s childhood and youth is fused in a litany to the
Sea.

... Sleep, death, desire,
Close round one instant in one floating flower.

The sea, first source of life, first Mother, is death to man. To woo it
is to return to death’s simple singleness. This solution from the burden
of chaos is like the erotic mysticism of D. H. Lawrence. Immersion—hence
loss—of the burdened mystic self in perfect sexual union is a romantic
myth, old as the myth of the Sea. It satisfied Lawrence. But Crane was
intellectually too strong, and too robust an artist, to abide it. “White
Buildings” closes on the unitary theme of surrender. But the poet is
ready to begin his quest again.

In 1924, the poems of “White Buildings” written but not yet published,
Crane was living in Brooklyn, in range of the harbor, the Bridge, the
sea-sounds....

Gongs in white surplices, beshrouded wails,
Far strum of fog horns....

And now, the integrating theme came to him.

The will of Crane in “The Bridge” is deliberately mythmaking. But this
will, as we have seen, is born of a desperate, personal need: the mystic
_must_ create order from the chaos with which his associative genius
overwhelms him. The poem retains this personal origin. The revelation of
“The Bridge,” as principle and myth, comes to an individual in the
course of his day’s journey; and that individual is the poet. In this
sense. “The Bridge” is allied to the “Commedia” of Dante, who also, in
response to desperate need, takes a journey in the course of which his
need finds consummation.

Lest the analogy be misleading, I immediately amend it. Dante’s cosmos,
imaged in an age of cultural maturity, when the life of man was
coterminous with his vision, contains time and persons: only in the
ecstatic last scenes of the “Paradiso” are they momently merged and
lost. Therefore, the line of Dante’s poem is clear, being forth and back
in time: and the focus of the action is cogent, being the person of the
Poet with whom the reader can readily graph points of reference. Crane’s
cosmos has no time and his person-sense is vacillant and evanescent.
Crane’s journey is that of an individual unsure of his own form and lost
to time. This difference at once clarifies the disadvantageous esthetic
of “The Bridge” as compared with that of broadly analogous poems of
spiritual search, like the “Commedia” or “Don Quixote.” It exemplifies
the role played by the cultural epoch in the creation of even the most
personal work of genius.

In “Proem,” the poet exhorts the object of his choice—the Bridge. It
shall synthesize the world of chaos. It joined city, river and sea; man
made it with his new hand, the machine. Parabola-wise, it shall now
vault the continent, and, transmuted, reach that inward heaven which is
the fulfillment of man’s need of order. Part One, “Ave Maria,” is the
vision of Columbus, mystic navigator who mapped his voyage in Isaiah,
seeking to weld the world’s riven halves into one. But this Columbus is
scarcely a person; he is suffused in his history and his ocean; his will
is more substantial than his eye. Nor does he live in time. Part Two,
“Powhatan’s Daughter” (the Indian princess is the flesh of America, the
American earth, and Mother of our dream), begins the recital of the
poet’s journey which traces in extension (as Columbus gives in essence)
the myth’s trajectory. The poet awakes in his room above the harbor,
beside his lover. Risen (taking the harbor and the sea-sounds with him),
he walks through the lowly Brooklyn streets: but walks with his cultural
past: Pizarro, Cortés, Priscilla, and now Rip Van Winkle whose eyes,
fresh from sleep, will abide the poet’s as they approach the
transfigured world of today. The poet descends the subway that tunnels
the East River (the Bridge is above); and now the subway is a river
“leaping” from Far Rockaway to Golden Gate. A river of steel rails at
first, bearing westward America’s urban, civilization (“Stick your
patent name on a signboard”) and waking as it runs the burdened trudge
of pioneers and all their worlds of factory and song. The patterning
march of the American settlers traces the body, gradually, of
Pocahontas; the flow of continent and man becomes the Great River; the
huge travail of continental life, after the white man and before him, is
borne southward, “meeting the Gulf.” Powhatan’s daughter, America’s
flesh, dances and the flesh becomes spirit. Dances the poet’s boyhood
memories of star and lake, of “sleek boat nibbling margin grass”; dances
at last into the life of an Indiana mother, home from a frustrate trek
to California for gold, who is bidding her son farewell; he is going
east again to follow the sea. (“Write me from Rio.”)

There are no achieved persons in the universe, barely emergent from
chaos, of Hart Crane; and this first crystallization—the prairie
mother—is the first weak block in the poem’s structure. Now, with Part
Three, “Cutty Sark,” the physical course of the poet (the subway ride
has exploded into the cosmic implication of the River) returns to view,
but blurred. The poet is in South Street, Manhattan, near midnight: he
is carousing with a sailor who brings him in snatches of song Leviathan,
Plato, Stamboul—and a dim harbinger of Atlantis. “I started walking home
across the Bridge”: there, in the hallucinatory parade of clippers that
once winked round the Horn “bright skysails ticketing the Line,” the
poet is out again, now seaward.

Part Four, “Cape Hatteras,” is the turning point of the poem. Thus far,
we have seen the individual forms of the poet’s crowded day melt into
widening, deepening cycles of association. Columbus into the destiny and
will of the Atlantic: two lovers into the harbor, the harbor into the
sea: subway into a transcontinental railroad, into a continent, into a
River; the River into the Gulf; the Indian princess into the Earth
Mother, and her dance into the tumult and traffic of the nation; ribald
South Street into a vision—while the Bridge brings the clippers that
bring China—of Atlantis. Now, the movement turns back toward
crystallization. “Cape Hatteras” at first invokes the geologic age that
lifted the Appalachians above the sea; the cosmic struggle sharpens into
the birth of the airplane—industrial America; the “red, eternal flesh of
Pocahontas” gives us, finally, Walt Whitman. “Years of the Modern!
Propulsions toward what capes?” The Saunterer on the Open Road takes the
hand of the poet. Parts Five and Six are interludes. Part Seven, “The
Tunnel,” carries the poem to its climax. The poet, in mid-air and at
midnight, leaves the Bridge; he “comes down to earth” and returns home
as he had left, by subway. This unreal collapse of bridge into subway
has meaning. The subway is the tunnel. The tunnel is America, and is a
kind of hell. But it has dynamic direction. In this plunging subway
darkness, appears Poe:

And why do I often meet your visage here,
Your eyes like agate lanterns...?

If the reader understand Poe, he will understand the apparition. Of all
the classic poets of the great tradition in America, Poe—perhaps the
least an artist—was the most advanced, the most prophetic, as thinker.
All, as we have noted, were content more or less with the merely
transplanted terms of an agrarian culture. Only Poe guessed the
transfiguring effect of the Machine upon the forms of human life, upon
the very concept of the person. The Tunnel gives us man in his
industrial hell which the machine—his hand and heart—has made; now let
the machine be his godlike hand to raise him! The plunging subway shall
merge with the vaulting bridge. Whitman gives the vision, Poe—however
vaguely—the method. The final part, “Atlantis,” is a transposed return
to the beginning. The Bridge, in time, has linked Atlantis with Cathay.
Now it becomes an absolute experience. Like any human event, _fully
known_, it links man instantaneously, “beyond time,” with the Truth.

The principle that Crane sought, to make him master of his sense of
immediate continuity with a world overwhelmingly chaotic, gave him “The
Bridge”; but in actual life it did not sustain him. The later poems,
despite their technical perfection (and with the exception of “The
Broken Tower”), mark a retreat to the mood of the last pages of “White
Buildings.” The Sea, symbol of the return to a unity of personal
abolition, had ebbed while the poet stood upon his mythic bridge; now
again it was rising. The periodicity of his excesses grew swifter; the
lucid intervening times when he could write were crowded out. Crane went
to Mexico, where individual extinction has for a thousand years inspired
a cult and a culture. On his return to New York, heart of the chaos in
his life, there was the Sea; and he could not resist it. As his boat was
bearing him from the warm waters which fifteen years before had given
him a symbol, he took off his coat, quietly, and joined the Sea forever.

The beauty of most of Crane’s lyrics, and of many passages of “The
Bridge,” seems to me to be inviolable. If I analyze this conviction, I
am brought first to the poetic texture. Its traditional base is complex.
Here is a music plainly related to the Elizabethan poets. And here,
also, is a sturdy lilt like the march of those equal children of the
Elizabethans—the pioneers. Although Crane describes a modern cabaret ...

Brazen hypnotics glitter here;
Glee shifts from foot to foot ...

always, there is the homely metronomic, linking him to his fathers.
Hence the organic soundness of his verse. Its _livingness_ it owes to
the dimension of variant emergence from the traditional music, like the
emergence of our industrial world from the base of old America. The
entire intellectual and spiritual content of Crane’s verse could be
derived from a study of his typical texture. And this is earnest of its
importance.

The structural pattern of “The Bridge” is superb: a man moves of a
morning from Brooklyn to Manhattan, returns at midnight, each stage of
his course adumbrating by the mystic law of continuity into American
figures with cosmic overtones, and all caught up in a mythic Bridge
whose functional span is a parabola, and an immediate act, of vision.
The poem’s flaw lies in the weakness of the personal crystallization
upon which the vision rests, as the Bridge is spanned upon its piers.
This flaw gets into the idiom and texture. Sometimes the image blurs,
the sequence breaks, the plethora of words is blinding. There is even,
in the development of certain figures, a tendency toward inflation which
one is tempted to connect with the febrile, false ebullience of the
American epoch (1924–1929) in which the poem was written. Yet the
concept is sound; the poet’s genius has on the whole equaled his
ambition. Even the failings in execution help to express the epoch, for
it is in the understanding and creating of _persons_ that our rapidly
collectivizing age is weakest.

Crane’s myth must, of course, not be confused with the myth as we find
it in Homer or the Bible or the Nibelungen. The Bridge is not a
particularized being to be popularly sung; it is a conceptual symbol to
be _used_. And the fact that this symbol begins as a man-constructed
thing is of the essence of its truth for our instrumental age. From a
machine-made entity, the poem makes the Bridge into a machine. But it
has beauty. This means that through the men who builded it, the life of
America has flowed into it—the life of our past _and our future_. A
cosmic content has given beauty to the Bridge, and must give it a poetic
function. From being a machine of matter, it becomes an instrument of
spirit. _The Bridge is matter made into human action._

We may confidently say that this message of “The Bridge” will be more
comprehensible in the future (not in the immediate future), when the
functionally limited materialism of our collectivist era has, through
success, grown inadequate to the deepened needs of a mankind released
from economic insecurity and prepared, by leisure, for regeneration. For
even as necessity, today and tomorrow, drives most men to think
collectively in order that they may survive; necessity, day after
tomorrow, will drive men to think personally (poetically, cosmically) in
order that their survival may have meaning. When the collectivist era
has done its work—the abolition of economic classes and of animal
want—men will turn, as only the privileged of the past could ever turn,
toward the discovery of Man. But when that time comes, the message of
“The Bridge” will be taken for granted; it will be too obvious, even as
today it is too obscure, for general interest. The revelation, in
Crane’s poems, however, of a man who through the immediate conduit of
his senses realized the organic unity between his self, the objective
world and the cosmos, will be accepted as a great human value. And the
poems whose very texture reveals and sings this man will be
remembered.[4]

_1933_

_II. AMERICAN TRAITS_

1. IN DEFENSE OF OUR VULGARITY

If refinement implies spiritual values, vulgarity might be called their
_aggressive_ absence. The values need not be individually acquired. They
may be traditional, unconscious. They are not necessarily linked to
personal traits like morality and learning. The Negro peasant in the
Alabama black belt is illiterate and often drunk. But in his native
state, he draws from the soil and sky in whose cycles he is seasoned, a
grace which is refinement even if it be unconscious like the grace of a
flower. Perhaps he is transplanted to some crude mining suburb of
Birmingham. Probably, then, he loses his refinement. But if the loss
remain passive, if it be not aggressive, he is not yet vulgar. Give him
now a shrewd head by means of which he pushes north and lands in Harlem.
Teach him that he is a free-born, American citizen on whom it is
incumbent to amuse himself in metropolitan fashion. Hand him a little
money and a good dose of our contemporary eighteenth-century notion of
Equality. Now, his absence of refinement will grow aggressive. He will
be vulgar.

We all came from Europe with a modicum of refinement. And the collateral
descendants of our forebears have it still in the mines and farms of
Britain, in the towns of Germany and Italy, in the ghettos of Galicia.
No natural peasant of Europe is quite without it. For this refinement is
almost as widespread as vegetation—as perishable, as passive.

Transplanted, we lost this leguminous bloom. But we were not vulgar
until we had grown conscious of being great. American vulgarity is the
sum of our spiritual loss and of our assertive energy. Were we less
lordly, our lack of spiritual values would not make us vulgar. And were
we spiritually full, our assertiveness might prove a virtue. Vulgar
people exist everywhere. We are perhaps the only nationally vulgar
people. And therein dwells not alone our predicament, but our hope.

Surely, this vulgarity is clear in all our words and acts, from Maine to
Texas! In my optimism, I would have it no less than universal. I would
not be cheated of finding it, wherever America and Americanism wave.
Politicians of other lands may be merely corrupt or dull: ours are
vulgar. There is naught vulgar about the servant of a European lord. But
there is naught more vulgar than an American lackey at post before the
barracks of Park Avenue—save the barracks themselves, and the
millionaires they house. Our newspapers are vulgar. But so are many of
our churches. Witness their aggressiveness, their display of results,
their want of the sanctity of silence. Our evangelists are vulgar, being
void of vision and full of advertising. But the Menckenites who rail
against them are no less vulgar—for the identical reason. Chicago is
doubtless vulgar: but so is Ben Hecht who hates Chicago. And the whole
land has turned the motorcar into vulgarity’s badge: since it has become
an instrument of display, a means of elocuting at so many miles per hour
the owner’s social status up and down the country.

Now, if you analyze this universal vulgarity of ours, you will discover
in it a constant element of _misplaced effort_. The European servant may
be quite as spiritually void as ours; but he is less vulgar because he
is less striving: what he lacks is precisely the unfounded aspiration
which makes our lackey vulgar. Our advertisements are vulgar because
they strive so commonly to be something beyond the nature of
advertisements—sermons or homilies, editorials or art. Our newspapers
are vulgar because they presume to be arbiters of taste and morals; and
our churches are vulgar because they labor for results of the spirit
with methods of factory and salesroom.

Run down the list, and it will bear me out. This vulgarity of ours means
no intrinsic lack of spiritual will and energy; it means the failure of
that good will and energy. We dwell in a confusion of impulses and
forms. The spirit is exiled from the deed. The deed hungers vainly for
justification by the spirit. That is why we are aggressive. And the
spirit lacks body. That is why we are wistful, credulous, neurotic. High
energy we have—energy of the kind known as religious. It vaporizes for
lack of a container; or it is misapplied in the pushing of old creeds no
longer fit to house it. Emptiness grows emphatic because it strives to
be full.

Now, all this is the due consequence of our past. For more than three
centuries, old forms of thought and life—for the most part hostile to
each other—were dumped upon our soil. Not until about 1860 had they all
rotted enough to begin to come together; rotted enough for the first
tender shoot of a true America to rise from the fecundity of decay. In
our outward life, we are still committed to forms of living which our
nascent spirit has rejected. We lug around the archaic body of
theological pioneers; and by means of it we attempt to stammer out the
rounded New World vision of a Whitman. The result, of course, is a
botch. The result, also, is a promise. This madness of ours, finding
symbols in motors, dramas in football games, art in advertisements,
morality in statutes, and sermons in tabloid papers, lacks only a
working method to become supremely sane. Deflect this misplaced will to
unity into some channel that will hold it; and we shall see how the
energy which mothers American vulgarity and American folly can father
greatness.

Nor must we forget that all these forms of life in which today we
express vulgarity, because they are not proper conduits for the
clamorous spirit with which we endeavor to infuse them, are not American
at all—are European. We may produce 90 per cent of the motors of the
world; we may measure our progress by our physical power: but the
machine and the gold-and-iron standard of value are fundamentally and
historically of Europe. Our contribution has been not in the form, but
in the spirit which _deforms_ it. We have not made the machine: we have
made of the machine the carrier of a Dream. Mr. Henry Ford may be more
vulgar than M. Citroën of Paris, because he is a tuppenny prophet: but
it is the prophet in him, not the mechanic, which is of our land.

The world wistfully senses this. Europe reads the book of Henry Ford and
studies the vulgarest of American expressions through a deep instinct
and a mastering hunger. It seeks new spiritual gold. It knows—although
it may not analyze the knowledge—that our vulgarity is an ore which
holds it.

_1926_

2. THE MOVIES AND THE MASSES

The American motion picture is a truly popular art. It has more than one
audience, of course: Broadway patronizes it, and Europe, and Africa and
Asia. But whereas it could get along without these more decorative
plaudits, it depends vitally on the American masses. A film that will
please only the capitals and languish in the locals, means little to
Hollywood’s master minds. It is the people who count: the workers.

It is, hence, fair to say that the sentiments, attitudes and dreams of
the American masses will find, if not flattery and full reflection, at
least some harmonious note on the American screen. The makers of our
movies are, of course, high middle class, with all the ideals and
prejudices of wealth. You may accuse them of “putting across” their
standards in their work. But you give them a heroism which they lack, if
you suggest that they would go to the length of imbuing their wares with
unpopular ideas, just because they believed them. Much as they love
success and armies, the makers of the movies would refrain, no doubt,
from confessing their weakness in public, if such confession weakened
their incomes. After all, these men have made money because they have
pleased the public. They will keep their money only so long as they hold
off from antagonizing their public. If you find in our motion pictures a
set of standards, a gamut of values, not only bourgeois, but actually
oligarchic, military, antiproletarian, the reason must be, not alone
that these suit the bourgeois fashioner of the films, but as well that
they do not too radically displease the proletarian patrons.

What the tastes and standards in the movies are, is plain enough. Films
devoted to the depiction of labor or rural life are extremely rare. High
life is the average film life. Or life in the rising provincial class
which begins with a Ford and attains a Packard. Alternate with this is
the romantic cowboy world of the West. But such tales are no more
proletarian than those of Wall Street. Here also is a realm of the
picaresque, sentimental, admittedly mythic, and aspiring to the one True
Value: the money and position of the middle class.

Run over in your mind the movies you have seen in a year. How many dealt
honestly with the life of a farmer, of a carpenter, of a factory hand?
If the hero began as a mechanic, was he not an automobile manufacturer
at the end? If he was a stableboy at the outset, did he not own the
stable or marry the girl who owned it, at the fade-out? If Reel One
found him a country bumpkin, was he not a magnate ere you left the
theatre?

Our movie world, like any theatre of its audience, is a confessional of
the masses. And what it seems to mirror very plainly, indeed, is that
the achievement of bourgeois status is the heart’s desire of the average
toiling man and woman in our country.

This is nothing new. But the obvious conclusion, that this is what the
masses really and positively value, is the conclusion we do not wish to
make. Worship of big guns, military, financial, social, on which the
American movie thrives, is indeed the tonal will of the moviemakers.
This is what really moves the businessmen and women who distribute,
produce, direct, compose and act our movies. But the true reason why the
masses—above all, the plastic sons and daughters of the masses—accept
such values is that they have not received a set of values of another
kind.

The people must love, must worship, something. What school and church
provide them, as substance for their dreaming, has gone so dim that it
disappears in the brash glamour of our jungle. The movie gives an
idealization of the powers and hungers of daily American life. Empty the
people go from church and schoolroom. But the press agent of the silver
screen needs only to give a twist to the actual presences of the busy
street in order to make the shopgirl a lady and the laborer a
millionaire.

The corruptly glamorous values of an exploiting class are absorbed by
the people, not because the people are corrupt, but because they lack
values and glamour of their own. They have no ethos, they have no myth,
they have no simplest story in which the elements of the laboring life
take on essential and intrinsic worth. Lincoln, let it not be
overlooked, became a corporation lawyer—like any movie hero. And Whitman
has not yet been translated into American speech. But when a poet does
arise, inspired to sing, as Burns did for his people, the values and
virtues of laboring men as men, rather than as aspirants to wealth, the
masses will follow him—even in the movies.

It is significant that no one has yet given the movie audience a set of
values other than the prevailing. Has anyone tried? We suspect that such
a poet would not languish in the anterooms of all the movie magnates.

And one reason for our confidence is the unique case of Charlie Chaplin.
The average moviegoer does not love Chaplin more than he does Doug
Fairbanks or Harold Lloyd or Lon Chaney because he thinks that Chaplin
is a greater artist. The average movie fan believes that the high art of
the screen is in such stars as Swanson or the Gishes. He is likely to be
a bit ashamed of his love for Charlie. There are a dozen more “admired”
actors. But the average American loves Chaplin most tenderly because
Chaplin on the screen is so often a poor cuss of the people who remains
one: and who “puts it over,” not by becoming a millionaire, but by
remaining a human being. Charlie as waiter, bricklayer, fireman, bank
sweeper, pawnbroker’s assistant, convict, is not at the tale’s end and
in accordance with film formula, the owner of the restaurant, the
contractor, the fire commissioner, the banker, the police lieutenant. He
remains, fragilely, wholly, triumphantly, of the people. (“The Gold
Rush,” in which Charlie strikes gold, is an exception.) He is the frail
and unutterably sweet beginning of a movie mythos in which the common
man may absorb poetic values not by changing his class, but _by becoming
himself_. And this is the true reason why the common man adores him.

Here is a first step in our American labor and farmer movement which
remains to be taken. It consists in the creating of living values within
the life of laborer and farmer. Only so will the extrinsic values of
“getting ahead” and of “getting into another class” be displaced. When
such living values exist, the radical movements organized to put labor
into power will have something to work with.

_1927_

3. THE COMEDY OF COMMERCE

Industrialism’s mood is tragic. In the early years, men’s wonder gave to
it the glamour of romance. Something of the delicious terror
memorialized in “The Castle of Otranto” went to men’s consideration of
these new giants fleshed of iron and belching steam. But the monsters’
bite was too hard; too dolorous was the displacement which they brought
to good men’s lives. These were no proper prodigies like the “Gothic,”
avenging merely wrongs and rescuing the noble. So the romantic mood grew
swiftly dark. With the early socialists and anarchists, it took on the
Doom note of prophecy. Zola made it tragic. In the muckraking days of
our magazines, the tales of factory and mill were grey and ominous. They
were, indeed, replicas of the infernos of our industrial towns.
Laughter, like the hero-workman’s little girl, languished and died in
those swart caves whose breath was a blast and whose light was a sear of
fire.

[Illustration: A busy, historical black and white photograph of a stock
exchange trading floor, with men in suits reading papers amidst
scattered ticker tape on the ground.]

But as industrialism became more the usual circumstance, we began to
react against it. And our reaction, having as its aim recovery, was
comedic. That particular response to the grim industrial glower, which
is the Comedy of Commerce, has found perfection in America. In England,
the monsters’ bite has been too cruel. There are no spirits left, there
is no energy, for the recovering laugh. In the Latin countries, the
monsters’ sway is not bitter enough as yet to have provoked a systematic
answer. (There are signs of it in France.) In Germany, as soon as
industrialism flourished, the Teuton genius turned not to a balance of
frolic or of smiles, but to an ideal compensation. The machine was
drafted by neo-Hegelian argument into the soldierly service of Kultur.
In America, we had no such metaphysical bent. The best we could do with
our industrial tragedy was to cover it up with a surface, coruscating
and comedic.

The symbol of this new comedy is the electric light on Broadway. It is,
of course, commercial and of industrial antecedents. It is bright,
dazzlingly. It displays power and wealth, yet it does not reveal.
Instead it covers, with its hard cold beams, the rather shoddy
buildings. It distracts the eye from the beholding of sources. It is a
light that blinds. Any artist will assure you that the electric light is
_false_—in the sense that it deforms.

But thanks to such enterprise, it will soon be inexact to speak of our
“industrial cities.” Industry must continue, of course, to have its
home. But industry will not continue to control the tone and nature of
our dwellings. It will be disguised or hidden. It will become as the
kitchen or the plumbing system of our social house, as the bowels of our
social body. And we will be outwardly bedecked and bedizened in an
obtrusive laughter the ingredients of which, indeed, will be the results
of industry, and the purpose of which will be to deny its parent.

Already, not alone New York among our splendid cities has cloaked this
tragic source of its greatness in the comedy of commerce. Forget the
blare of the Broadway lights, and think of the shop windows. How gaily
drugstores, hardware stores, delicatessens, shine with their myriad
cavorting forms and colors. Think of the newspapers whose columns of
dour news are plentifully (and profitably) balanced with the comedic
patter of the advertisements. In our popular magazines, the reaction is
complete. The mill town is disappearing from them; the honest workman’s
daughter languishes less in print. It is the doughty salesman, the
go-getter of commerce, with his steed a motor and his muse a flapper,
who commands the pages not already commandeered by “National
Advertisers.” Our more sophisticated books reveal the same aversion. Our
“first-line” critics must, above all, be comic—if not clowns. They must
provide the sedative of laughter. And the books they tout do likewise.
Tragedy is _nefas_. The tragic stuff about us has cowed our spirit from
the enterprise of making it a means for that joyous confrontation of
truth which is tragedy. We glance off into comedy—if not farce. And the
cleverism, the anecdote, the epigram, the swift cartoon—so close to the
heart of the salesman—clutter as well the minds of our intellectual
classes.

It is so with the theatre. In such a typical success as “The Show-Off”
(called our best comedy by many of the reviewers) a minor role fell to
Industry. Not the boy mechanic who actually _invents_ is the hero; but
the salesman, the show-off, the man who by empty bluff and in utter
ignorance of the product he is pushing, _puts over_ the invention. The
industrial source of wealth remains wistfully indulged and sedulously
hidden beneath the noisy comedy of commerce.

[Illustration: © _Ernst W. von Seckendorff_]

The comedy of commerce is a comedy of display. It is a denial of the
industrial gloom by a boast of brightness. And yet its materials and its
very rhythms are conditioned tragically by the tragic world it aims to
deny. It is only a disguise; often frenetic, often wistful, never more
than momently successful. Nowhere is this more plain than in the music
of the comedy of commerce—Jazz. I do not desire to discuss the music
roots of jazz: whether they lead you back to the Barbary Coast of San
Francisco or to the Argentine or to the Congo. The product we have
naturalized is the song of our reaction from the dull throb of the
machine. Jazz syncopates the lathe-lunge, jazz shatters the
piston-thrust, jazz shreds the hum of wheels, jazz is the spark and
sudden lilt centrifugal to their incessant pulse. Jazz is a moment’s
gaiety, after which the spirit droops, cheated and unnurtured. This song
is not an escape from the Machine to limpid depths of the soul. It is
the Machine itself! It is the music of a revolt that fails. Its voice is
the mimicry of our industrial havoc.

You will find this irony in all corners of our successful world.
Industry is the source of our power and of our sorrow. We are ashamed of
its ugliness, hurt by its cruelties. We will employ the power it gives
us to escape the sorrow. We seem so adept! We have ten thousand gay
contrivances, all born of industry, to hide it. But all of them are like
that paragon, the motor. Its chief purpose, of course, is to carry us
away from factory smoke: ourselves figuratively, and the laborers whose
Fords stand parked outside the mill, literally, when the day’s work is
done. But alas! the machine that carries us away from industrialism
carries its spirit along. The clever story in the _Satevepost_, the
bungalow, the radio, the song and dance—all the little acts of the
comedy of commerce—hold the bitter taste, essentialize the spirit and
the forms of the industrial discomfort they are supposed to combat.

The Comedy of Commerce is a failure. It is an antidote brewed of the
poison it would save from. We must go deeper for a healing laughter.
Laughter that heals must come from health, not from the disease. It must
spring from the whole vision and whole experience of life, not from a
mere shrewd juggling and twisting of any of life’s products.

_1925_

4. JAZZ AND FOLK ART

In “The Comedy of Commerce,” I referred to jazz, not in uncomplimentary
terms, but critically as an instance of the art of a commerce- and
industry-ridden people. Many readers gave protest. So far as I could
see, the chief point against me was that I had dared be critical of a
folk art. Jazz, went their sentimental plaint, was the expression of a
people. (I had not denied it.) Hence, hands off! Hence, down on
worshipful knees!

There has, indeed, been abroad for a full century the curious notion
that folk art—as once the king—can do no wrong: that folk art is
necessarily good art: that the critic who dares to question folk art
commits the unpardonable sin.

This is a point I would examine briefly, forgetting jazz as the mere
pretext for it. The notion, to begin with, seems to be quite modern.
Before Rousseau, folk art was known, of course; was appreciated; was,
indeed, taken for granted. It was neither idealized nor despised. It was
the art of the folk: the elite regarded it with the same relative eye
with which they looked upon the people. The people was the mass, the
soil, the loam, whence they had sprung; the body, if you will, for the
aristocratic spirit. It was indispensable and it was causally, if not
finally, good. No tyrant could think otherwise, without deleting the
very substance of his power. Molière, in the first act of “Le
Misanthrope,” expressed the common philosophic attitude toward folk art.
To excoriate the precious nonsense of Oronte, Alceste quotes a popular
Parisian ditty, and declares it vastly better than the sophisticate’s
sonnet. He shatters the courtier with a point which today would be
altogether lost. For he is uttering a paradox. Here, in our language, is
the gist of his attack: “This popular Parisian song—you know its
class—may not be much; but it _is_ sincere, sweet, lovely. And your
sonnet, M. Oronte, which should of course be an improvement on such
primitive traits, shows but their total loss.”

The crowning of folk art is a corollary from Rousseau who preached a
“return to Nature”—as if civilized man were somehow miraculously out of
nature; and “a return to infancy”—as if his own doctrines had not been
the dream of a weary adult. If you accept the Rousseauistic premise, the
modern notion follows about art. The best art, then, will be the least
cultured, the most primitive, the most childlike. And poor man, addicted
hopelessly to beauty, had best pursue his weakness in the art of folk
who, thinking least, are least attainted. If, however, you reject the
creed of Rousseau—which does not mean that you deny his value and his
genius; if it seems clear to you that civilized man belongs as much to
nature as a tree does, and that man’s need to live well, to know true,
to aim high, is as healthy and as natural a function as the tree’s to
grow good roots and blossom, then this indiscriminate adoring of folk
art, merely because it _is_ folk art, is nonsense.

Dante was once ten years old. He was a remarkable child. He babbled
sonnets and rondeaux which revealed his nature. Do you put the
prattlings he produced at ten before the “Divina Commedia” he composed
at fifty? If you are the usual folk-art worshiper, why not? Were those
lyric works of Dante’s youth not the pure Dante? the untrammeled sign
and substance of his soul? Were they not Dante’s folk art? And the
“Divina Commedia”! what alien and sophisticate and unoriginal matters
dulled the raptures of his early years to this! Aristotle, Aquinas,
Virgil, the apocalypses of Jerusalem, the pseudo epigraphia of
Alexandria—the whole theology and logic of the school-men had to
“debauch” the pure Dante, ere he was ready to write his intricate,
conscious poem. If you are a real lover of art, surely you will turn
with mild disgust from the “Commedia” to his childhood singing.

I do not think this caricature of the folk art fad is too unjust to
sharpen a just point. It is literally true that if greatness be ever in
a man or a race, it must potentially have been there at the outset.
Therefore the beginning expressions of that man or race will hold the
germ of their significance. Most men, moreover, fail (perhaps most races
also) to fulfill their spiritual promise. The promise universally
exists. No child, no child-race is without it. Only the mature
achievement is rare. And so it follows that the search for spiritual
values among children will be, by and large, more fruitful than among
men and women. But to say that the art expression of all children gives
more than the art expression of all adults, because children all have
the germ and adults seldom the flower—only this bad logic can lead us to
conclude that child art and folk art are best, or even always good. Folk
art is the seed of great art: seeds are more numerous than flowers. To
cultivate the seed at the expense of the flower is a defeatism and a
folly we are not quite cured of.

But folk art is not naïve in its elements, any more than are the
babblings of the “purest” child. It is, more often, the naïve mirroring
and mimicry of ideas caught from above. The emotions of folk art are
childish. Yet they are the result of unconsciously inherited ideas,
imposed by ruling classes. Take, for instance, the folk arts of medieval
Christian Europe, the spirituals of the American Negro slave. Did the
folk invent the intricate theology and philosophy on which they rested?
Rather, they vulgarized the product of intellectual minorities—Prophets,
Plato, Plotinus and the Patrists: made it a pabulum, at last, which
later intellectuals could re-employ for the creating of more cultivated
art. Another example: Russian folk music reveals traces of liturgical
and synagogical music. Now, a new group of cultivated artists—Rimsky,
Stravinsky, Ornstein—reforms this popularized pabulum of older
minorities into a fresh intellectualized music.

[Illustration: © _Fairchild Aerial Surveys_]

Or consider our jazz. Jazz is not so much a folk music—like the Negro
spirituals—as a folk accent in music. It expresses well a mass response
to our world of piston rods, cylinders and mechanized laws. The response
is of the folk and is passive. The nature of our world itself is due to
the work and temperament of minorities alien to the jazzmakers. Jazz
expresses a personal maladjustment to this world, righted by sheer and
shrewd compliance. And this, doubtless, is why the races at once most
flexible and most maladjusted—the Negro and the Jew—give the best jazz
masters. Since the rhythm of our age is not transfigured in jazz, as in
truly creative art, but is assimilated, the elements of the age itself
which we may disapprove will appear also in jazz. In other words, a folk
art—being so largely an art of reaction and of assimilation—will contain
the faults of the adult minorities that rule the folk, as well as the
pristine virtues of the people.

And we have other folk arts. “The Rosary”—jazzless, European
saccharine—is as truly a folk art as any of the Berlin or Gershwin
ditties. Harold Bell Wright’s books—messes of Victorian notions in
decay—are also an American folk art. The New York “Daily News” is the
daily art of a folk numbering several millions.

The adorers of folk art in its own divine right need but observe what
they adore. That will be enough to cure them. Nor should they forget
that in all culturally early epochs, dissatisfaction with folk art is
one of the incentives for the production of great art.

_1926_

5. STRAIGHT STREETS

What is the meaning of our cities of rectangular streets? What is their
effect on our souls? It is plain that Nature likes curves. You may find
rough angles in rocky mountain wastes, or in the sort of creature that a
microscope makes vaguely visible. But the Nature of man and near to man
is a sinuous, rounded being. Think of our bodies and of the bodies of
animals—not a Euclidean angle in the lot. Think of the shapes of
flowers, plants, trees; of the configuration of the hills and fields; of
the sweep of waters; of the globe. Now think of our interior worlds. Our
physical dynamo has not a straight line in it. And our mental digestion
is tortuous as our intestines. Logic may proceed theoretically like a
plummet; but there’s nothing natural in such logic. Draconian justice
might be called rectilinear, but it, too, does not exist in Nature.
Uprightness when it is not tempered by the curves of mercy is repellent.
Man’s mind moves in curves. His thoughts arch, vault, melt into reverie.
Dream and sense swerve into each other. His heart, too, is full of
arcuations. And the heart’s desires are parabolas. There is naught
angular within us. Nor above us. Space, we have learned from Riemann,
has a crimp and a curve. The “straight gravitational line” of Newton
proves to be the “Einstein shift.” From the detour of solar systems back
upon themselves within a spheroid Space, to the devexities of dream, man
has a universe full of everything but angles. And yet, the American
urbanite has elected to spend his days in a gridiron.

The towns of the Old World were and still are curved creatures. From
Iceland to the Cape of Good Hope you will not find an ancient city that
does not gyre like a heart or twist like the intestines. Indeed, the
European links angles with humanity only in his thought of death. Christ
was killed on a cross. St. Laurentius was roasted on a grid. When the
fanatical Felipe of Spain built a monastery to express his contempt for
life and his withdrawal to the grave, he patterned it after a
gridiron.[5]

Curves rest: angles tire. How often the American abroad lets his eye
float down the gentle swerve of a street and is soothed sensuously, and
is moved as by a freshet of pleasant impulse. It is the curve! The
jolliest street in Manhattan—the one that is most human, most laughing,
most restful—is Broadway, which has a curve or two; and even at its
straightest runs diagonally to the ruthless grid, thus giving the
delusion of a flex. No wonder it has become the avenue of shows, the
road for informal saunterings clear up to Harlem. No wonder the
automobile, our pathetic symbol of escape, has made Broadway its home.

If straight bobbed hair delights, the reason is that it sets off the
curves of our girl’s face. Her straight dress has value in so far as it
reveals the rondures of her body. American civilization has
revolutionized the shape of cities. It may yet appreciably alter the
shape of man.

For we seem to be angularized in almost everything else. Not alone our
streets are straight and stiff. Our houses are as rigid as if they were
made of the building blocks of Brobdingnagian babes. Where else is there
a spectacle like the recently grown splendor of Park Avenue—that parade
of pompous tombs, shutting in wealth and shutting out the sun? Is it
possible that the disfavor of Riverside Drive as a residence street
among our leaders is due to the swinging rise and fall of that untypical
parkway? Our laws, like our houses, become more rectangular and upright.
Our morals are strait like the gates of Ellis Island. Even our faces....
If there be in all the world a human countenance made of angles instead
of the immemorial curves, it must be that of Calvin Coolidge. So perhaps
biology will give way after all to the rectangular will of our American
world. Perhaps the flapper of tomorrow will have pyramidal breasts....

There is a reason for all this, and a good one. If you care to go to the
heart of the matter you entrain by the Santa Fé and alight in some New
Mexican pueblo.

The Indian’s culture is prophetic of what our culture must be. His
nature is a guide to the understanding and achievement of our own. This
does not mean that we are going to give up motors, and dress in paint
and feathers, nor that the skyscraper will dwindle to the wigwam, nor
even that our women at some distant date will be swinging their papooses
across their shoulders. But it does mean that there is something deeper
than these discrepancies between the Indian and ourselves. Something
deeper, which we share.

The Amerind was profoundly, beautifully adjusted to the land. If you
study him in his demeanor, his dance, his music, his pyramiding pueblos
or his simple tepees, in his flinted arrows, in his decorations, you
will find that the general symbol of his expression is a curve so sharp
and so severe that it barely escapes being an angle. The curve is the
way of acceptance: the angle is the way of resistance. America is a
feverish world. Its geological tempo is not like that of Europe. It is
far more terribly intense. I am certain that when the ancestors of the
Indian crossed to America from Mongolia (or Atlantis) they resisted this
atmospheric fury, as have we, with an angular restraint. That reaction
was not a culture, any more than our present reactions from Europe or
from mechanical civilization constitute a culture. The Indian culture
began when his innate spiritual and intellectual values formed a
solution with the world about him: his culture was achieved when the
responses between his soul and the world had rounded into a unified
_life_ which expressed both fully. After many ages, the Indian’s first
reactive restraint toned down, and became the subtle and fertile curve
of the Indian music, the symbolic gesture of his dance, the exquisite
reticence of his demeanor.

Recently Dr. Jung of Zurich was in this country and made a visit to the
pueblos in which he had been rightly advised that he would find
archetypical remains of classic Indian culture. Dr. Jung had
psychoanalyzed many Americans, and found in them all (whether their
ancestry was Nordic, Latin or Semitic) a unique alliance of _wildness
and restraint_ which did not exist in the European nature. Dr. Jung’s
intuition told him that he would find this combination, so hidden in our
souls, culturally expressed in the Indian pueblo. He was right. Despite
the ponderous luggage with which we came from Europe and which so
differs from what the Indian brought along, we must inevitably go the
Indian’s way in the spirit, since we have come his way in the flesh.

When Babbitt tells us that American towns are laid out “regular” because
it “pays,” he does not know how deeply he is right. Regularity and
angularity pay, indeed, because such is the beginning of our
self-assertion against a cosmic factor. In our straight streets, in our
jazz, in our dress, in our morals, in our lantern-jaw Puritans, in our
raillike girls, we manifest the first stage of resistance to the furious
fire which is the nature of our world. The rigid angles will smooth out,
will take on the curves of life—will become the forms of our American
culture.

_1925_

_III. IDEAS_

1. SERIOUSNESS AND DADA

(_An Exchange with Malcolm Cowley_)

It is possible in small space to touch but briefly, and upon one of its
phases, the complex and defunct Dada movement. Its immediate progenitors
were the Italian heirs of Athens and of Rome—they called themselves
futurists: a restless Jew whose ancestors had settled in Rumania brought
it to Paris. It had behind it, therefore, the ripe Mediterranean
littorals and the full growth of Europe. It was a salutary burst of
laughter in a world that felt itself too old. Europe was crystallized
and desired a solvent. It creaked in stratified forms and laws and
notions, and it yearned to explode.

The War was a violent but unsatisfactory excursion of a similar sort.
The ponderous machinations of diplomacy had prepared this laughter of
young millions rushing to a bright shambles from the straitened gloom of
ordered cities and inherited farms. But the war was too superficial.
Jaded Europe learned the inconsequent effect of such inebriety as death
and murder. The deep spirit of the land was unmoved by columns of men
miles long and by guns that raked cities. It was the esthetes of
France—the solemn romanticists, the shrill Parnassians, the symbolists,
the votaries of Bergson, it was the pragmatists of Germany and the
rhetoricians of Italy, who invited the release of Dada by their
formulations, hedgings-in and dogmas. There is no doubt that the face of
Europe yearned for the smashing of a few cathedrals. But also the heart
of Europe hungered after the battering of a few spiritual laws.

Dada was an emanation of this will of a too sober, too mature, too
sanctified rationalist church. Scampering in disarray against metrics
and the still more cloying bondages of “freedom,” imping against the
roll of such millstones as Truth, as Unity, as Beauty, Dada was as
logical as the most Freudian hallucination. It was an eruption, a
breakup, a shower: it was a jag and a reversion. And having cooled the
face of the old land and made Europe forget her uncomfortable age, it
disappeared.

Good jokers, the Dadaists were: wistful creators, against sour sense, of
sweet absurdity. But they did nothing more ridiculous than the
installation of the Dada mood in American letters. Europe called for
Dada by antithesis: America for analogous reasons calls for the
antithesis of Dada. For America _is_ Dada. The richest mess of these
bean-spillers of Italy, Germany and France is a flat accord beside the
American chaos. Dada spans Brooklyn Bridge; it spins round Columbus
Circle; it struts with the Ku-Klux Klan; it mixes with all brands of
bootleg whisky; it prances in our shows; it preaches in our churches; it
tremolos at our political conventions. Dada is in the typical Western
university that spends $50,000 on cows and $200 on books. It is in the
esthetics of Mr. Bryan, whose favorite work of art is any old Madonna.
It is in the commercial comedy of our advertisements. (DO YOUR DUTY:
CHEW MIXLETS GUM. BE AN AMERICAN: THROW YOUR RUBBISH HERE.) It is in the
counterpoint of callow Hollywood and the immemorial desiccation of the
California desert. It is in the medley of strutting chimneys and bowed
heads, of strutting precepts and low deeds that make America. We are a
hodgepodge, a boil. We are a maze of infernos and nirvanas. Our brew of
Nigger-strut, of wailing Jew, of cantankerous Celt, of nostalgic
Anglo-Saxon, is a brew of Dada. No wonder they imported our essential
chaos to lighten the regularities of France! But we are young, and what
we need is a bit of mature action. We are fantastic ourselves, and what
we need is integrating thought. We are the most fecund joke on earth—for
the overserious others. What we need, by way of rounding our lives into
livableness, is a bit of seriousness for ourselves.

Our complexities provoke strange paradox in our deeds. Ourselves a
spontaneous combustion of contrariety and antithesis, there grew up in
us a fear and a shame of the spontaneous. (This is, of course, a trait
of adolescence.) In order to become unspontaneous, we turned to Europe.
Our attention was caught by a lot of youths of age on a “bust” of
spontaneous laughter. In all solemnity, we artificed their spontaneity,
crowning thereby the best of the Dada jokes. But we did not create Dada
art. Dada art arose from the traditional maturity of Europe. The
intellectual stuff and stamina, in our own case, were lacking: and what
we got were weakling strains of the European pose muddled with American
incompetence and lost against the background of American bewilderment.

A healthy reaction to our world must, of course, be the contrary of
Dada: it must be ordered and serious and thorough. Dada worked well in
overmature Europe. We, by analogue, must be fundamental, formal. That,
indeed, is the proper mood of youth. The young cutup in the literature
of our land is the bromide. We need him doubtless, but humbly in the
rank and file. To be coruscant, smart and swift in the American language
is to be platitudinous and banal. Therefore it is that the literature
which poses as most advanced in the United States is for the most part
quite the contrary—is as undifferentiate, indeed, from the common
wallow, as the Mecca Mosque on Fifty-fourth Street, as the Hearst
headlines, or as were the jokes of Josh Billings. Our cosmopolites who
think that they are emulating Aragon and Cocteau and Firbank, our local
realists and shockers who think they are reforming us, are all in
reality but sweepings of the immense centrifugal action of the American
world. Our surface twists and scintillates and shrieks. They are caught
in it, they are slavish functions of the American mass which they
profess to lead. They are the reflections of a world that is Dada and
that is in danger of becoming narcissistic: of growing infatuated with
its own twitching image.

The first step in the absorption and control of our Dada Jungle is the
achievement of a serious, of a literally religious temper. The academies
are turned away from America: their earnestness is frivolous. The
neoclassicists are turned away from America: their nostalgia is anemic
and their grace is shallow. The realists are submerged by America. The
pragmatists are bluffed by America. The clever and decorative boys who
clutter our “serious” magazines are reflecting not even America’s
surface, but Europe’s thirsty reflection of our surface. None of this is
serious, although doubtless all of this has its place in the chemistry
of ferment....

If we can produce a handful of serious creators—men unafraid of
unpopular words like philosophy, profundity, saintliness, devotion—and
if we can keep them alive and at work a score of years, perhaps there’ll
be a start toward integration: and after several hundred years, we may
be mature enough to inspire a Dada of our own.

_Dear Mr. Frank_:

The progress of literature (and here progress does not imply a
betterment) is largely a series of reactions, a passage from one extreme
to the other: romanticism succeeding classicism, realism against
romance, estheticism against naturalism and Dada against the esthetes.
But given the fact that every national literature starts from a
different point and follows a different course, their reactions of a
given moment can hardly be the same. For American writers to revolt from
the tradition of Remy de Gourmont or Mallarmé is empty imitation, a
gesture with no more significance than could be given to a French
protest against anticigarette laws in the state of Kansas.

To this measure your attack, in the last issue of 1924, against a
hypothetical group of American Dadas was completely justified. It would
have been more valuable, however, less obviously biased, had you gone on
to consider that the progress of literature is also a discovery of new
principles, involving a rejection or reaffirmation of the old; and that
such principles are international.

To call Dada “a ‘bust’ of spontaneous laughter” was absurd. You were on
safer ground when you spoke of it as a reaction against European writers
whom you listed as “the solemn romanticists, the shrill Parnassians, the
symbolists, the votaries of Bergson ... the pragmatists of Germany and
the rhetoricians of Italy”; or when you added that since few of these
schools were represented in America, a similar American reaction would
be stupid.

But Dada was also a discovery: that nonsense may be the strongest form
of ridicule; that writing is often worst when it is most profound,
saintly or devoted and best when it is approached in a spirit of play;
that associational processes of thought often have more force than the
logical; that defiance carried to the extremes of bravado is more to be
admired than a passive mysticism.[6] Dada was the sense of exhilaration
which was born when our old shackles were tested and found to be rusted
away.

There was nothing geographical in these discoveries. But you prefer to
play geographer.

You have been to Paris and carry back the gossip of Monsieur X the poet
and Monsieur Y the novelist. Other American writers (I was one) have
been to Paris. Some met Paul Fort and wrote polyphonic prose in his
manner, some met Paul Valéry and became classicists, some met Soupault
or Tzara and wrote a Yankee Dada, some met Jules Romains and his little
group, studied his treatises, adopted his more solemn faults with some
of his virtues and are proud to be called the Unanimists of America.
There were a few Americans who met many writers of many schools, took
the best of each and retained enough personal force to write about their
own surroundings in their own manner, but you, Mr. Frank, are not
generally included in their number.

Neither am I. One tries to keep free of the ten schools and two
academies, but in this day of slogans we must all be ticketed, must
possess a little slip of red, white or yellow cardboard printed with a
name. I was in doubt which name to choose, but your article decides me.
Let me therefore be considered as your butt: the clever but not
coruscant, smart or swift young man who clutters our more serious
magazines, the American Dada.

MALCOLM COWLEY

_Dear Mr. Cowley_:

It was good of you to send me a copy of what you consider your answer to
my article “Seriousness and Dada,” with the invitation that I—as you
phrase it—“continue the debate.” I have read carefully what you say; and
I am forced to conclude that if there is to be a debate upon the
principles suggested in my little essay, it has yet to begin. Until it
does, I rest.

Many questions of fact rather than of theory are brought up, it is true,
by your letter: but they are irrelevant to the issue. I might point out
that your definition of the progress of letters is a good juvenile one,
defining nothing. I might suggest, after your linking of the term
“mysticism” with the adjective “passive” that you study a mystic, taking
your choice from Hosea, Plato, Paul, Plotinus, Gabirol, Abélard,
Aquinas, Bernard, Roger Bacon, Dante, Spinoza, Pascal, Teresa, Calvin,
Blake, Dostoevski, Whitman, or any other who may appeal to you, and
explain to us why and how this mysticism is passive. Finally, I might
refer to your allusion to myself as having “been in Paris and returned
with the gossip of M. X. and M. Y.” or to your veiled reference to my
American “unanimism,” as convicting you of an impertinence which in turn
is the result of an ignorance so essential as to disqualify you in your
present temper from true intelligent discussion.

However, all of this is aside the point of my paper which sought by no
means to destroy American Dada, but merely to put it snugly in its
little place. The one statement in your letter which has the force of
relevance is that in which you volunteer to be considered an American
Dada. Of course, one must accept you so, since you insist upon it. I
admit, however, that I for one could accept you in this guise with less
regret had not my acquaintance with your poetry convinced me that you
will be fit for better things when you achieve the moral courage to
confront the reality of our world, and the spiritual energy to take
issue with it; instead of permitting yourself to be flung off by its
centrifugal action, in the fond belief that because you fly off to
Nothing in a graceful pirouette and with a foreign oath upon your lips
you are being any the less booted and beshat by the very elements of
life which you profess to despise.

W. F.

_This exchange appeared in the December issue of 1924, a little
magazine edited and published by Edwin Seaver.... Of course, out of
Dada have come the surréalistes; and the best of their leaders
(Tristan Tzara, Louis Aragon, André Breton, etc.) combine their
romantic creed with communism. Malcolm Cowley has moved in a similar
direction. At least one of the important writers associated with Dada,
Pierre Drieu La Rochelle, has moved into fascism, like Marinetti and
other earlier Italian futurists._

2. MR. MENCKEN, KING OF THE PHILISTINES

America, which protects its deer and partridges, still has perpetual
open season for philosophy hunting. Dr. Durant turned “The Story of
Philosophy” into a best seller by the shrewd device of leaving
philosophy out and putting in its place anecdotal stories, whole
chapters on nonmetaphysical authors, and his own not too subtly diffused
contempt for the entire silly business of “ultimate problems.” John
Dewey, the most characteristic American mind of his generation, has
always been an antiphilosopher at heart (with unconscious vestiges of
the poor side of Hegel). And here is Mr. Mencken, tripping upon the
autumnal scene, all decked out in leather jerkin, hunting cap, cartridge
belt, and his usual supply of automatic popguns.

“If you want to find out,” says Mr. Mencken, “how a philosopher feels
when he is engaged in the practice of his profession, go to the nearest
zoo and watch a chimpanzee at the wearying and hopeless job of chasing
fleas. Both suffer damnably and neither can win.” The “fleas” in this
case, you realize, are truth, the absolute, any ultimate concept of the
real world, any distinction at all between reality and appearance.
Elsewhere, in the same lofty Menckenian column, the same matter is
called “bunk.” “For the absolute, of course,” he absolutely assures us,
“is a mere banshee. No such thing exists. Philosophy in the narrow
technical sense”—read, in the sense of the whole silly lineage from
Pythagoras to Whitehead—“is largely moonshine and wind music.”

At last I know, from Mr. Mencken’s rigorous definitions, what is his
secret desire: the unsated hunger which all his literary work has
struggled to fulfill. Since, to his mind, philosophy is bunk and wind
and moonshine, is it not clear that Mr. Mencken looks upon himself as a
writer of philosophy? And if he strives to sharpshoot all the other
philosophical fellows off the field, who can blame him, since he knows
that his own particular brand of brass fanfare is the best for us?

Let us therefore take him as a philosopher: take him seriously, I mean,
of course. And consider the matter of this “bunk” of metaphysics. A
moment’s inquiry should make clear that if the philosophical
“woolgathering” of man is to be judged merely by practical results—by
results in the way man has lived; in contrast with the metaphysicians,
the builders of temples were builders in sand, the makers of empires
were but furious blowers of bubbles.

Of course, the findings of metaphysics—the logic of reality, and of
epistemology—the logic of knowledge, are disputed, disputable, relative,
impermanent. What is not? Even the term “eternal” is a pitiful,
anthropomorphic thing, having no life and no sense save in the mouth of
the evanescent creature who knows himself for mortal. If you will have
nothing less than the eternal, what will you do with language, music,
economics? what with religions, empires, arts? Do these outlast
philosophy? On the contrary, they rest and have ever rested upon it.

Take the age of the Upanishads, nearly thirty centuries behind us. Do we
speak the language of that day? We speak its philosophical thought. Do
we live by its arts, its customs, its gods, its laws? Yet its
metaphysics is a cogent factor in modern psychology, in modern letters.
The era of the Upanishads is living for us, solely through its
professional philosophers—those “idle” _sitters-about_ who spent their
days spinning webs about Absolute and Will—webs so marvelously strong
that they have outlasted cities and cultures.

What exists now of the Greece and Magna Græcia of the sixth century
before Christ? Chiefly Pythagoras: and through him a good deal of
history, ancient and modern, of science, ancient and modern, of
mathematics, of physics, of religious doctrine. From his philosophy of
number came the science of numbers: came Euclid: came the whole forever
adumbrating realm of physics and mechanics, the modern mathematics of
analysis, the modern critical realism (via other philosophers, of
course, like Descartes and Leibnitz) which in men like Mach, Einstein,
Russell, Whitehead, is once again transfiguring the world. From the
abstractions of these technical philosophers of preclassic Greece came
Plato (even as Aeschylus and Tragedy came from the Eleusinians): came
Aristotle, came Plotinus: came at last such fairly practicable
structures as the whole civilization of Christian Europe. From the
moonshine of such men as Pythagoras, Protagoras, Plato, Heraclitus,
Democritus and Zeno, tough-minded men managed to build states, churches,
sciences, atomic theories, machines. Similarly, the prophets of Israel,
the wise men of India and North Africa—questers of that Absolute which,
in their ignorance they called God or Atman, whereas Mr. Mencken in his
more modern language calls it bunk or fleas—gave to man a concept so
very real that he has dwelt in it, builded from it his art, his ethics
and his state, for many thousand years.

Mr. Mencken probably forgets that Bacon’s preparation for modern science
was possible to him only because he rested wholly on a metaphysical
faith: the assumption of an absolute Order without which, as Hume points
out, there could be no science, because there could be no deduction from
particular to general, from appearance to Law, from passing effect to
eternal Cause. So Newton, also, rose from an intricate, profound,
world-satisfying structure of metaphysical faith which a whole lineage
of “professional flea-chasers” from Plato to Aquinas had molded at last
into the Christian Cosmos.

Perhaps Mr. Mencken does not know that Dante, Cervantes, Shakespeare,
Goethe, had their metaphysics—had, above all, their masters, technical
and abstruse, in metaphysics. Has not his careful study of the
philosophical classics, which he assures us he “rereads every year when
the weather is too hot for serious mental work,” revealed to him that
his favorites, Conrad and Nietzsche, are romantic versions of
Schopenhauer who, in turn, rests upon Kant and the philosophers of
India? If he has no use for Kant, his disgust with the post-Kantian
idealists (Hegel, for instance) is utterly beneath words. Yet, from
these sources come psychoanalysis, Marxism, the Nietzschean
anti-Marxism: come the non-Euclidean and _n_-dimensional geometers
(Gauss, Riemann, Lobachevski, Minkowski), who in their turn nourished
Lorentz, Einstein, the critical realists—makers of the modern world. And
straight from Hegel is derived the impressionistic style in criticism
which Mr. Mencken so adorns—since it is, indeed, his own.

It is one of the burdens of philosophy that lesser men turn its noble
doubts into dogmatic denials: chip from its high structure of critique
little stones to fling against it. In all ages, heedless people accept
what the great past bequeaths them, live by it, and betray it. The man
who is most proud of his Buick is most contemptuous of the thinker whose
intricate thought made his car possible. The man most at ease in his
Zion sneers most at the makers of the concepts which built his state and
his morals.

_1926_

3. PSEUDO LITERATURE

The term, I believe, is Schopenhauer’s. He declared that there are two
streams of writing, for the most part indistinguishably merged save for
a very few. One of these, the effect of creative thought and of creative
vision, he called literature; and all the rest, however pleasant and
respectable, he outlawed. To go back to any flourishing epoch is to be
convinced that Schopenhauer was right and that our present status is not
essentially unique. The modish ladies of Weimar forsook Goethe for the
“more modern” Kotzebue. Pradon and Quinault outbid Racine for favor.
Alexandria, Rome, Athens, Jerusalem, had swarms of writers who were so
close to the contemporary clamor that they have died with it into as
whole a silence. The printing press and the mock crowning of demos have
merely aggravated an immemorial condition. Where only a minority could
read, only a minority could be idle readers. Now that everyone is forced
to read, the flood of words without creative source is stintless, and
there are organized for it great armies of “distributing agents,” of
which an unconsciously servile group call themselves reviewers—even
critics! The swollen plethora of pseudo literature has perhaps lowered
the visibility of the real through its sheer mass. But if this be argued
an increased deterrent to the life and health of literature it is more
than overcome by the increasing of the potential public for what is
good. The more persons who can read at all, the more may read what is
authentic.

There is then no good ground for the friend and writer of literature to
complain. He has traditionally addressed a minority in a minority; and
it exists for him today. The new presence of hawkers and bawlers
purveying printed goods to the mob has not altered his position any more
than has the deformation of the democratic doctrine into the myth that
everybody is as good as everybody else. If the writer hungers after
enormous sales, he is the victim of confusion: unconsciously, he desires
to leave his true domain. If he feels that he is entitled to the
royalties of a Michael Arlen or to the popularity of a Fannie Hurst, the
urgence of his vision must be very weak. For it is the glorious
compensation of the wooers of beauty and of truth that all other of
life’s guerdons are by contrast dull. To have heard clear, even once,
the word of God is to hear it forever in all the calls of life.

More serious and more concerning is another phase of this mutual
attraction between the real with its rigorous solitude and the false
with its populous cordialities. The purveyors of pseudo literature are
so many that they fall into classes. They have their snobs, too, their
social climbers. And there is among their readers an ample group
sufficiently emerged from the rest to desire “culture” even at the cost
of thrills. These persons are aware of the term “literature” and want
their share in it. Their conception, of course, is derived from shallow
study of the past. Incapable of recognizing the essence of an art, they
dwell on its external traits and manners. And the contemporary writers
who most flatter them are the emulators of these imitable parts. Such
authors are competent in style, they are elegant, they reproduce in
terms of up-to-dateness the forms and virtues of previous pioneers. Most
of them will be novelists, dramatists, even poets. But they must have
their critics. And to them falls the dangerous task of establishing a
rationale for their kind; an aggressive apologia for all their sterile
wares.

The creative, the heroic, the religious spirit of true literature is by
such critics utterly ignored; and by repeated omission comes to be
regarded as nonexistent. The novel which flows well, the tale which is
pleasing, the construction which reflects current thought or current
passion is hailed as _good_, and the more reflective, hence passive, it
is, the higher is rated its importance. Unconsciously, it is assumed
that literature has no independent body: that its real substance is the
public taste. From this fallacy it follows that criticism becomes a
solemn discussion of secondary traits—timeliness, grace and color. The
primary creative stuff of literature without which these secondary
qualities can have no true existence is forgotten. The terms of what is
genuine are borrowed for what is false. And the confusion grows.

What hungry common reader could dream, from contemporary criticisms of
Mr. Hergesheimer, of Mr. Cabell, of Miss Cather—supply your own names
from the current columns—that these are makers of books with an
essential lack: a lack as crucial as that which parts organic death from
life? The books of such novelists are competent in so far as they are
elegant reflections of styles in form and thought and language. As
contributions to the creative life of the mind and of the spirit, they
are inept. Their source is neither a luminous vision nor an authentic
knowledge; but rather the shrewd perusal of past masters and present
moods. Neither their purpose nor their substance adds one iota to the
experience of man. To call them literature is to degrade the name.

And it is precisely urgent that the name “literature” be not degraded.
For there is much in a name: much directing of intelligence, much
shaping of powers. And we possess an age in which intelligence is not
small, but confused, in which powers are lavish, but debauched. A critic
of our day as aware as were Abélard and Anselm, would be as concerned as
they were with the pragmatic virtues of the Name. He would know, as they
did, that a confusion in words is the symbol of confusion in continents
and souls. Much of the dangerous condition of our time springs from the
fact that in the readjustment of social and spiritual forms, names have
become the prostituted playthings of any fool or knave who wishes to
mouth them.

Thus, the gigantic reaches of pseudo literature from the Hearst papers
to Harold Bell Wright, being allotted their proper place, do no great
harm. They touch only the senses they appeal to; they convince only
minds incapable of conviction; there is no formidable claque to name
them other than they are. Far more pernicious is the snob class of
pseudo literature; for it sails under false colors and of late it
proceeds almost unchallenged.

The challenge of other days was a competent tradition. Pseudo literature
has always thrived on pretension. But an audience to whom the classics,
holy or profane, were valid had an incessant standard to protect it. If
a French academician extolled Quinault, there was Euripides to answer.
If an Alexandrian put out a bad pseudepigraphia of Ezra, the Chronicles
could face him. Our situation is more arduous. In the general
liquidation of old forms, the esthetic tradition has dissolved. We must
build up a new critical standard not only within, but from the current
chaos.

_1925_

4. “UTILITARIAN ART”

It is revealing that the notion of “art for art’s sake,” of art sprung
from itself and for itself, arose with the utilitarianism of the
nineteenth century. If you will read the conversations of Goethe, the
prefaces of Racine, the notebooks of Leonardo, the prose works of Dante,
and finally trace back to Aristotle and to Plato, you may marvel (if you
are a “modern”) at the ethical bias in all our classic art. Not alone
Milton believed that he was writing “to justify the ways of God to men.”
It is safe to say that if a respectable goldsmith of the Renaissance had
been cornered for a “reason” for his work, he would have professed some
moral or some religious purpose not too remote from that which moved the
Alexandrians and the prophets. While theology was hale, esthetics was
its handmaid. Later, art went into the service of the God of Reason; and
later still, took on the harness of metaphysics when that logic had
assumed the imperatives of revealed religion. Only when modern man has
debauched the ideal of spiritual progress—old as the Hindus and the
Hebrews—to a bare functional or mechanistic pattern do we come upon art
so divinely considered that it may have no “purpose.”

The reason for this is not far to seek. While man’s fate was still
linked with gods or with godlike values, the arts could honorably serve.
When that fate was mechanized into some economic or utilitarian or
biological “design,” art rebelled and set up a church of its own. The
dogma of “pure poetry” and of “art for art’s sake” is a reaction from
the dogma of vulgar materialism and of “man for his belly’s sake.” Being
a reaction, it partakes of the nature of the source whence, however
obscurely, it has risen.

The doctrine of utilitarianism had two esthetic offspring. One is
obvious: it is the art which in devious ways aims to “get results” in
actual life. The debased condition of such art is coming to be suspected
even by the bourgeoisie. The other offspring is the art of the Ivory
Tower—the art of “esthetics”—the art of “purposelessness” and of
aloofness. And I wish to make clear that these two are radically one.
However they may differ in the intelligence that makes them, they are
both utilitarian: they are both debased from art’s full function.

The philosophy of utilitarian materialism defined life in terms of the
pursuit of specific material values. (I speak of it in the past, for it
still lingers only in the minds of tyros.) It committed the fallacy of
taking some “end” or process _within_ life—economic or sexual, personal
or biological—and setting it up as the Cause. Like all geneticisms, it
was illogical and was, indeed, refuted in the texts of the very
philosophers whose shallow disciples had invented it. Now, the same
point may, of course, be raised against the nugatory notion of
“utilitarian art.” Whereas art in its full sense is an organic event of
life, sensorily formed, autonomous and yet contingent, like any
individual, on its living context, utilitarian art disavows this
individual organism of art, and aims to reduce art’s essence to some
specific effect within the world of men.

Examples of this class of instrumental or utilitarian art are everywhere
about us. Such is the “art” of advertisement, of exhortation: such is
the play “with a thesis,” the fiction of reformers like Upton Sinclair
or H. G. Wells. Such, too, are the industrial “arts” whose purpose is to
turn out _salable_ machines, rather than _livable_ ones, as was the
purpose of the ancient craftsmen who worked for an intimate, spiritually
harmonious client. The arts of the popular magazines are no less
utilitarian. A story which strives simply to amuse is kin to the story
which endeavors to reform. The novel that “cleaned up” the Chicago
Packingtown may have been more laudable, it was not more utilitarian
than the tale that aims merely at killing a few hours’ boredom. In both
instances, you have that organic life process called art narrowed and
debased to meet some specific sensory demand. Whether the demand be for
clean meat or a vicarious amour, esthetically your books are of one
class.

And as “utilitarian art” must be grouped—and condemned also—the current
works of the esthetes. Mr. Cabell’s fancies may be more refined than Mr.
Sinclair’s: they are as remote from the whole province of art which can
“help” in life by no less fact than that it _is_ life. Mr. Cabell,
engineering an escape from life, is not in the lineage of the masters:
he is an epigone of the materialists who lowered the whole life process
into a “struggle” for comfort or for survival. I see no essential
esthetic difference between the schools of Mr. Cabell and Mr. Aldous
Huxley, and that of Pollyanna. In the latter case, you get sugar instead
of a whole experience of life; in the former, you get some acrid opiate.
If this is in any way the revelation of a superior taste, then the jaded
adult who adores rotted cheese is superior in taste to the child who
calls for candy.

The organism of art is, of course, constructed of physical materials
with sensory and ideological associations, even as is the individual
life made up of physical substances. In life, these materials—chemical,
mineral, vegetable—are mysteriously organized into the unitary,
indivisible _living organism_. And in true art, the same holds. The
sensory appeals—to eye, ear, appetite, memory, emotion—are the materials
which the artist has composed into the organic whole called art: which
differs from its elements, even as life from its ingredients. A
utilitarian philosophy of life might be called one in which some group
of these materials in life is made more causative than the whole. A
utilitarian art, by analogue, is one in which the main matter (instead
of the means) is some appeal to the senses.

Purposely, my definition lumps with the commercial, the pornographic,
the dully sensational artists, a whole school of haughty favorites: for
instance, Virginia Woolf. Analyze “Jacob’s Room,” and what do you
discover? A sensitive woman (the authoress) with deft hands picks to
pieces the banal story of an English boy. Upon her nerves, its fragments
register sensations. She is not, like James Joyce or D. H. Lawrence,
composing these sensations into organic life. _They_ are her end and she
is using them for a personal sensory delectation which her reader may
share. She is not creating at all: she is transposing.

You may apply, for yourself, the same criterion to our music or our
painting. Is the composer building the sensory ingredients of his music
into an organic life which transcends bare sense, as life transcends
inorganic matter? or is he _using_ his theme—transposing it perhaps from
a well-known tonal to a striking dissonance—in order to get a sensory
appeal? If this is his end, even though his name be thrice Russian, he
is as completely a utilitarian artist as the man who writes a Buick
advertisement.

_1927_

5. ART IN OUR JUNGLE

When you have done with the latest work on relativity or the theory of
quanta, and the once so solid universe has melted into a mere congeries
of spaceless, timeless, substanceless vibrations, go to some modern art
gallery and bask in the certainties of our painters. For the best of
these are men who hold to a reality or are resolved to re-establish it.

From Picasso to Weber, from Marin to Orozco, it is amazing how
harmonious most of these painters and sculptors are, in their formal
purpose, even in their formal use of color. They are builders of
_structure_. Not of architectures or machines: not even, for the most
part, of such designs as the fugue or the canon. The structure which
they seek to produce is the answer to the chaos which they find about
them. It is as if they were plunging through a liquidated world; and as
they fall they build—in order to cease falling.

The best of them are workers in a crisis. Confusion of fundamentals is
our atmosphere. Emergency in danger is their temper. Their response to
the carpers who expect them to be pretty and pleasant is: “We need
ground to stand on!” Would you criticize the manners of the man who
rescued you at sea? or judge by metropolitan standard the costume of the
fireman who led you from a blazing building? If not—and only then—are
you in the proper mood to appreciate the contemporary artist.

Let us hope that the modern gallery director has interspersed a number
of pretty or “academic” paintings among the works of the creators and of
the seekers of form. They establish a curious dissonance. Who shall
quarrel with dainty ladies flimsily attired and dancing to a rose? or
with excellent gentlemen silk-hatted and promenading with a spaniel? But
what if you find them at their peaceful antics on the walls of an
embattled city? In some such way are men like Charles W. Hawthorne,
Childe Hassam, Henri Martin, most of the British, out of place in a
serious exhibition.

The capacity of any generation for misunderstanding its art is not
mysterious: it is equal to, for it is the same thing as, each man’s
capacity for ignoring the essence of his soul. How long is it, since you
last heard the usual Wise Word about the whole esthetic movement since
Cézanne? “Oh, ho—a Saturnalia of decay! These wistful little artists, so
out of touch with the great world; reflecting their defeat, their
impotence, their despair. These inadequate anarchists glorifying their
own chaos! How lucky it is that we have Solid Science!” Well, your
too-solid scientific world has melted. Gone is the atom, gone is ether,
gone is the whole Mechanism in which, from Aristotle to Newton, man
dwelt irrelevant and complacent. The conclusions of our physicists hurl
us back, through three thousand years of certainties, to the “vagary” of
the Upanishad: our universe is but the Breath of Brahma.

Relation, Vibration, entity of Movement, conformity of impalpable
motions into a dream called substance—these are the lean relics of our
centuries of science. And these are the precise materials with which the
contemporary artist is creating truth and beauty!

The age which produces Picasso, Maillol, Brancusi, Derain, Braque,
Marin, Juan Gris, Rivera, Orozco, is not alone an age of art: it is an
age of classical and of religious creation. Only the labelmakers, the
“wordmen” are lacking, in order that we may know it. These artists are,
if anything, too somberly intent upon their basic purpose. Were the
saints more pure to their ideal? Man Ray extracts the essential line of
jazz, and has no time for dancing. Picasso establishes the formal
counterpoint in a woman’s body, and has no eye for the woman. Brancusi’s
Bird is the bird at its height: a sort of hero-bird which neither mates,
sleeps nor builds its nest—a bird, a bird which soars, which is sheer
soaring. One and all, these men make a demand on nature as heroic as
their own temper of salvation. One and all, they seem to say: “You,
bird; you, woman; you, farm; you, landscape—you are doomed: all of our
glamorous dream of earth, sky, men is doomed. Unless you are
transfigured—unless you will permit that our spirit of the god burn you
pure of your phenomenal dross—of your associations of sentiment, of
hierarchy—unless you go to your allotted place as parts of an essential
Whole, you are doomed. For we assure you, O bodies and sights of
nature—you do not exist save in that Whole. The old men who sought to
build up their Whole, by adding you together one by one, as you appeared
to yourselves, were wrong. You’ve crumbled and disappeared. The very
atoms of your bodies—the very words of your consciousness, have
vanished. All that remains is God. If we can reinterpret our tragic
memory of you—O bodies and colors of existence—in terms of God, perhaps
we can bring you back to life.”

Of course, I am saying this in words: the painters are creating this in
paint. Spaniards, Frenchmen, Rumanians, Americans, Orientals, all are
tending toward a single declaration. And it would be a shallow error to
believe that this symphonic kinship is due simply to the influence of
the schools or of certain men in Paris. Paris for fifty years has been
the focus of so much modern art, because men from all the world _were
looking in one direction_. Paris is not an influence, it is a
confluence. The reason why Cézanne rediscovered El Greco, and why French
Colonials brought African sculpture to their metropolis, is aside my
point. The significant is that the arabesque or body-language of
Picasso, the plastic lyres of Maillol and Brancusi, the mosaics of
Braque and of Marin, the rituals of O’Keeffe, the revelations of Julia
Codesido and Sonia Brown, the mass equations of Derain and Walt Kuhn,
and the instinct rhapsodies of Walkowitz and Epstein, are so many
personalized departures from a common experience and toward a common
purpose.

The common experience is that the old static formulas and bodies wherein
Western civilization dwelt are gone; that only relations and the
movements of relations are real and are immortal. The common purpose is,
to produce from these immediate experiences of relation new bodies
(unities) and new forms (faiths and ideas) wherein mankind may dwell and
thrive again. And the achievement is already of sufficient stature to
presage a modern classic art.

_1926_

6. THE ARTIST IN OUR JUNGLE

Gilbert Seldes has revived what might be called the classic debate of
American culture: Should an American artist stay at home? Mr. Seldes
holds that the artist is at home wherever he chooses to settle. And he
cites instances in favor of his contention. He is indirectly seconding
Edmund Wilson who reproached Van Wyck Brooks for writing an admirable
book about Henry James without more than a word about the novelist. Mr.
Brooks, of course, was writing about Henry James the exile; and employed
him as a symbol in his own thesis which is contrary to that of Mr.
Seldes. It seems to me that the considerations and examples presented by
both sides have suffered, because they were neither specific nor general
enough. Perhaps the exiles of Joyce, Stravinsky, Picasso, were
successful; perhaps the pilgrimage of Henry James meant failure. If a
law or a rule is to be sketched from these instances, the elements that
enter into them should be essentially understood. One might study the
basic idiom of the arabesque which Picasso brought with him from Málaga,
or the basic folk voice with which Stravinsky came away from Russia; and
plot the intellectual transfiguration of these primary materials by the
schools of Paris. Or one might attempt to correlate the chaste designs
which Henry James desired to produce, and the American chaos from which
he escaped in order to produce them. One might at the end decide that
James was a shrewd tactician, saving his art by retreat; or that Picasso
was a brilliant culturist, enhancing his art by transplantation. Yet the
general and haunting problem of the artist in America, which
unconsciously inspires all these arguments, would be as untouched as
ever.

This problem of the artist is, after all, not unrelated to the question
of his materials. In some manner, the successful creator organizes a
fusion between what we call his will, his vision or his experience, on
the one hand, and what we call life, on the other. Both the creative
will and the workable objective material must exist, else there will be
no art. Now with this simple idea to illumine us, let us venture into
the specific dilemma of the American artist and the American world.

The first thought to occur is that this material of ours is still
inchoate; it has not been digested by the conceptual activity of
previous generations of American artists and thinkers; and in this it is
abysmally apart from the native material of the European. The arabesque,
for instance, has been an essential form in Andalusian life for so many
ages that Picasso must have absorbed it as instinctively as he did his
language. Ages of cultural selection have simplified the expressional
background of European peoples; these simplifications beget traits and
provide tools for the European artist which he can take with him:
moreover, the relation between these concepts in different European
countries is so close that deeply a European artist remains at home,
wherever he is, in Europe.

A concept is an essence; and it can be transported. Or, to shift the
figure, if one belongs to a world which has culturally refined its gold,
one can leave that world yet take the gold along. But if one has had the
fortune—good or ill—to be born upon the scarce-scratched surface of an
unmined treasure, and if one indeed wants that treasure for his
own—then, it is necessary to get down and dig.

This, it seems to me, is the very human crux of our classic problem:
Should an American artist stay at home? The answer may be left to him.
He will seek the material fitted for his creative will. To the peculiar
will of Henry James, of Whistler, of Ezra Pound, it seems clear that the
right material was best available abroad. The point of vision of these
artists was static; they required a fixed focus wherefrom to trace in
leisured sureness the Apollonian intricacies of their designs.

The creator who yearns to weave ever more intricate glosses upon a given
fundamental statement of life is fortunate if he is born across the
water. France, for instance, will provide him with a completely
conceptualized experience which he can build on and variate forever. And
if such a man is born in America and yet feels drawn to the, after all,
not too-distant cultures of Europe, it is idle to begrudge his
departure.

But there is another kind of artist: he who rejects the fixed limits of
any established cultural status, and whose will it is to forge the
parabolas of chaos into unitary form. This creator might broadly be
termed the religious artist, in so far as his purpose is to bind
together what appears confusion, and to make whole what strikes the
sense as multiform and diverse.

If an artist of this kind is born in America, he is fortunate indeed.
For he inherits a world particularly apt for his purpose. The _life_ of
America is a stupendous symbol of the human chaos which such an artist
beholds in all life ere the transfiguring magic of his unitary vision
has been worked upon it. And yet the implicit _idea_ of America is
symbolic of just such a unitary will. America, in other words, is a
multiverse craving to become One; it both challenges and invites the
purpose of the religious artist.

This American will to be One is manifest in every noble chapter of our
history. More encouraging still, it is the very theme of our follies,
the essence of our most ignoble social acts. It is the ideology
shallowly applied, of our bar on immigration. It is the unconscious
factor in our sumptuary laws, in our pathetic efforts to legislate
uniformity of morals. We are not One; and we desire to be One. The whole
American scene is, hence, a symbol on a human plane of the sort of
activity which takes place in the mind of the religious artist. It
provides him with the challenging material; it energizes him toward
creation.

[Illustration: © _Robert Dudley Smith, R. I. Nesmith Associates_]

The Middle Ages in central Western Europe established a similar apt
symbol for the religious artist. Europe was a turbulent chaos in
material and fact. Yet it possessed in the ideal Body of the Catholic
Church a unitary will. It was this marvelous conjunction of material and
will in the objective world, with material experience and will within
the artist, that made possible the success of Dante, of Aquinas, of the
Gothic architects, of the polyphonists—a success not equaled in the
modern European epochs, whose art has been for the most a wistful echo
or a frustrate fragmentation of that last great Synthesis.

The American artist whose will is to join in the tristful litany over
the dissolving body of European culture does well, like T. S. Eliot, to
live abroad. The American artist who feels within himself the power to
add to the intricate glosses of that culture does well, like Ezra Pound
or Henry James, to live abroad. But the artist who is tempted to the
task of forging new organic life from chaos may bless his stars if
America is his home. For in all the world there is no symbol of this
chaos so potent and so pregnant as our American jungle.

Moreover, the failure of artists of this high aim heretofore in our land
need dishearten no one. It is true that the athletic will of Poe was not
supported by a consonant strength of nerves. It is true that Melville
broke down. It is true perhaps that Whitman sounded little more than a
summons. But failures of a kind so heroic—and all within a century—will,
we may be sure, discourage only those whose intimate desire it is, for
their own comfort’s sake, to be discouraged.

_1925_

7. THE MACHINE AND METAPHYSICS

At first thought there seems an insoluble difference between the machine
and the tool. The tool is passive in the hand of the workman, and by
that fact comes to express his will both intimately and directly. The
tool is, indeed, an extension of the hand. The crude laborer has a crude
tool and does crude work. The subtle craftsman becomes an artisan, an
artist: the tool holds close to his nature and works his will in ways so
immediate that the instinctive love attaching limb to mind goes over,
consciously, into the brush, the knife, the hammer.

With the machine, this alchemy inspiriting a thing of wood or stone is
gone. The machine is set in motion and achieves therewith a somewhat
autonomous life. Moreover, the nature of this life does not depend upon
the man who works it. Its qualities and its powers are fashioned for it
and are inevitably determined, at a source to which the machinist has no
access. An inventor, abstracted from his products, designs their future
acts. The machines go forth. And the mechanic by a series of rote
behavior sets them going, runs them, stops them without for an instant
coming into creative contact with the thing by which he lives. A crude
man may work at a delicate machine: a blind or illiterate man may print
a book: a man with no sense of texture or design may run a machine which
manufactures lace or turns out decorations. And conversely, the delicate
man—the creative man—can find no immediate channel for his will in
running a machine. Whatever creativeness or delicacy it possesses has
been ordained for it and is aloof. He cannot swerve it from its stubborn
independence. All he can do is care for it. Attendant, doctor,
nurse—however you look at it, he is the slave of a creation which in its
act and its idea remains beyond him.

Now all this is clear enough and from it philosophers deduce our woes,
rightly—and wrongly our despair. If this state of things were final, we
might forsee man’s downgoing in sterile servitude to a too-exterior,
too-permanent grandeur. For, indeed, much of our common misery has
sprung from man’s loss of tools which were his own and through which in
myriad ways he did express himself. With the tool came beauty, because
it was a subtly extended and yet obedient hand bringing between subject
and object that harmony which is beauty’s norm. With the tool came
contentment, because by means of it the humblest worker put his seal on
his craft; and came pride and those births of pride—morality and
value—since the work of the tool was the man himself, and so must be
good, and so must be regarded. Finally, with the tool came fullness: for
that man alone is unified and full who has spent himself in
self-expressive labor. And by contrast, the man is empty and disrupted
who has been spent in labor which excludes his deep co-operation. Thus
far the pessimists of the machine are right. But here their rightness
ends. Could they look back upon what must have been the experience of
man ere he mastered the tool, they might more sanguinely look forward.

The primitive man, wielding an artifact, paddling a dugout or making an
instrument of a horse, had to undergo a profound psychological
revolution ere this element in his hands, stone or wood or flesh, could
become an extension of his personal will. He had to grow. How far he had
to grow you can see symbolized for yourself by comparing your own hand
with the paw of a dog. The step was inscrutably vast: so vast that once
man made it, he dared not look back, and soon he forgot—and still he
fights to forget. Who shall say what tragic ages went to the transition?
to what insanities and despairs men plunged with the strange tool in
their bewildered hands, with a wild horse beneath them? Surely, those
unmastered weapons must have committed follies; must have broken the
measure of men’s life; must have inspired the wiseacres of that day to
gloomy forecasts. We do not know the names of the Rousseaus of these
desperate generations in which man’s brain had not yet instinctively
grasped the tool. But nothing is more certain than that they existed.

Now, with the machine, we are once more primitive. The tool is ours: we
have tamed it and made it part of our dominion by a step in
consciousness. Before the machine, we are still barbarian or savage even
like early man before a horse or a stone. Through a failure to make a
certain further step in consciousness, before the machine we are still
external.

Of course, there are differences. And it is precisely they which point
to a new departure in man’s life. If the machine were merely a more
complex tool, there would not be this new element to our exciting day.
The machine is a new part of nature: one which did not, like the stone
or the horse, exist before. There is in the machine a marriage of what
we call the old elements and what we call the human. The domestic
animal, in this sense, was a tool: its elements were outside of human
nature. In dominating it, as with any other tool, we mastered a part of
external nature. And this was comparatively simple, since in our use of
the tool we did not come in conflict with any human will. But if we
dominate the machine—make it part of ourselves—we shall have won control
over a realm of nature which includes mankind; for man’s will, other
men’s wills, are constant and determining factors of the machine. We
shall have won a victory of consciousness not merely over the nature of
the external world—but over our own nature.

The problem was one of consciousness in the days of the stone artifact;
and it is again of consciousness today. It is a problem profound as
human destiny, inscrutably complex. Yet I think the heart of it can be
thus simply stated. The animal, so far as we can see, is incapable of
the idea of any part of nature becoming part of itself. Man, with the
tool, achieved this: fused unto himself the animal and the stone. Call
the process what you may, this attitude of his toward portions of the
physical world was metaphysical. And no savage could paddle a canoe
without this metaphysical inheritance, made instinct.

We flounder before the machine, we are features more or less groveling
of its external life, because we lack an instinctive metaphysical
consciousness to make us master and absorb it—to fuse the machine with
all its elements of will and act into our own expression. Such
consciousness, of course, must be evolved vastly beyond the childish
metaphysics beneath the use of a tool. In the machine are adumbrated the
will of the inventor, the will of the owner, the will of many workers,
the will, indeed, of an age and of a world. Only when the individual
worker experiences that these wills are not alien to him; that these
elements of life contained in the machine fuse, in a higher synthesis,
together with his own, into a unitary act—only then will his spirit in
participation be able to go out through the machine, so that it and the
whole mechanized world may once again, in his joy, in his beauty, in his
human pride, express him.

But such a mechanic would possess the consciousness of a Spinoza? No
less! No less is needed, in order that the human world may not go down
before this new Nature—the free-spawning mechanical invention. The
modern machine converges with the wisdom of the ages to force man ahead.
From India, from Judea, from Greece, from Germany, has come the single
canon: that life is unitary, that experience is One, and that the human
consciousness in one form or another must know and be this One. The
machine will compel us, at this human crisis, to experience what
heretofore merely great men have known. The machine again makes
metaphysics man’s most practical engagement.

_1925_

THREE: BOOKS

I. POE AT LAST

Perhaps the classic figures of American literature should be regarded
chiefly as actors in the epos of the American birth. With one or two
exceptions, they did not produce great books. Yet all of them were
heroes; were characters who in their defeats as in their victories
fleshed and fixed features of our nascent world. Their lives—like the
careers of the patriarchs of Genesis—may prove more current in our
future mind than any of their works.

This certainly will be the case with Poe. Despite his influence abroad,
despite the range of his activity, he wrote neither verse nor prose
intrinsically great. His significance is not to be extracted from his
situation. And the construction of the creative Poe—the _true_ Poe—has
lagged, precisely because this situation was misunderstood. Poe paid
bitterly for his youthful Byronism. From his neighbors and the
Bostonians, it shrouded him in sentimental horror; from us, it has
quarantined the man in an equally blinding sentimental glamour. His
first biographer, Griswold, was incompetent. And Professor Woodberry
inherited this incompetence for all his scholarly good will since
crucial features of Poe’s life were hidden and since without them Poe’s
work, unlike organic great art, lacked an entire dimension.

There has now been published a sheaf of letters[7] which will mark the
true birth of Poe as an authentic, working figure in our cultural world.
For the most part, they are notes written by Poe to his foster father,
with brief notations or replies by Mr. Allan. They give us at last the
young Poe, the crucial Poe, and the world which he went forth to live in
and to conquer. The first of them dates from the University of Virginia
which the poet entered at seventeen; the last reveals him, seven years
later, abandoned for the final time by Mr. Allan who has remarried and
is soon to die. The years—from seventeen to twenty-four—are the years of
Poe’s confrontation with America. Prior to them, he was a child—what
manner of child, nurtured and spoiled in the Richmond mansion of the
Allans, his words reveal. And after them, there come the open pages of
his books, of his trafficking with editors, of his relations with Mrs.
Clemm and with his wife, Virginia. These letters form the link that
makes the whole. Their appearance is a major event in American letters.

The career of Poe becomes a scene in a symbolic drama. He is creative
will, nakedly let loose upon the American world. Who shall say America
did not summon him? He rises like an impulse from this land which cannot
act him out. Between America and Poe, as between Poe and his foster
father, are the chains of a need unrecognized. Without his adopted son
whom he bred to hyperesthesia and left to starve, whom he set high and
then cast down, John Allan would be a clod. And without John Allan, Poe
would have been altogether disembodied. In the tortuous recriminations
of these letters, there is the plea for love as well as bread. Transpose
the family quarrel into general terms, and you have the full years of
Poe: Poe, the most highly potential intellect of a land whose hour of
realization had not struck.

In this failure there is no object lesson, no call for a morality. It is
too inevitable and too right. It is true that, with the intellectual
range of a Goethe, Poe gave forth but a few shriveled and glittering
pages. And yet, in his hour and for his hour, he gave the ultimate,
since he gave a Symbol. An imagined Poe, petted to old age in the rich
library of an adoring foster father, would have been less—far less—than
the frail, fierce, frustrate Poe we have.

Unarmed, unguided, he went forth to create in the American desert. His
masterful will found no immediate object upon which to work. He had
absorbed haphazard the philosophers, the metaphysical poets, the
occultists and seers of the Kabala, the chroniclers of exotic journeys.
But he did not stay in _their_ world. His constant effort was to refocus
and apply this chaos of ideas to some absolute experience of life.
Witness his treatment of the values of poetry and music: his making
metaphysics out of the relation of facts or out of the forecast of
facts: his use of the machine, or airships, of mesmerism, of physiology
and mechanical contrivance, to express the widening consciousness of the
human soul. Even the wanderings of Arthur Gordon Pym end in a
revelation. Of course, Poe failed. Grub Street in Baltimore and New
York—this remained the stage for his apocalypse. And the hazard crumbs
from the intellectual banquets of Asia and of Europe were but manna, in
no wise transfiguring the Wilderness which for forty years he wandered.

Yet the lofty impulse of his work is lodged, forever. Poe’s theory of
pure poetry holds the intuition of a great esthetic. His “Eureka” gives
the glimpse of a vision deep as that which is imagined in the Kalpa and
the Brahma of the Hindus. A half dozen of his tales, “Eleonora,”
“Ligeia,” “Morella,” “The Fall of the House of Usher,” etc., are
variants of a single theme which envisions the mystery of the Person as
close as any prophecy of Blake. Hard, shut, shrunken work it is: and yet
it holds a vaster sense of life than do the amplitudes of Whitman or of
Emerson. Holds it, however, as a seed the tree. In Whitman and Melville
there is life’s blossoming. Poe belongs less with the creators of art
than with its prophets.

His creative impulse, first to last, was metaphysical and religious.
Behind these horrid trips to Ulalume and Usher, these dogmatic
repetitions of telltale hearts and reincarnate lovers, is the man’s will
for a world timeless and absolute. That his materials were the shoddy
“seconds” of the romantic Gothic, we may leave to the pedants to assure
us. Poe’s impulse was no more romantic than was Goethe’s. He had a flair
for the Real: he lacked the power to establish this reality from the
world about him. Hence his defeated flights to other realms. But in his
Poetics and in “Eureka,” it stands proved that the glancings-off which
constitute his “works” were but his trial flights: that Poe was resolved
to found his revelation within the visible, audible, beating world.
Unlike the Bostonians, Poe was no transcendentalist by choice or reason.
The confrontation of experience and then the act of alchemy upon it, by
virtue of his vision, was beyond his powers. And was beyond him not, as
seemed manifest, because of his harried and brief life: was beyond him
symbolically, inevitably, since it was beyond the America of which he
was so high, so near, so unachieved an impulse.

Let us make _this_ Poe ours. Let us not twang semi-sentimental plaints
about his failures. Let us not fool ourselves as to his triumphs. Let us
not blame the symbolical Mr. Allan for acting so well his ungrateful
role in a Scene so vastly without his canny ken. Let us, above all, not
split Poe—as is the fashion of the day—into pseudo-scientific fragments
of psychologic and sociologic terms. Let us take him whole—the man and
his work: Poe the embodied impulse of an Organism which holds not only
him, but us; Poe the impulse of America to transfigure the worlds within
it into a world more real. And let us proceed to the Adventure.

_1925_

2. FRANCE AND THOREAU

Since Bernardin de Saint-Pierre, French literature has come variously to
America for materials and forms wherewith to re-create itself. The
greatest instance is still perhaps that of Chateaubriand whose
impossible Indians may outlast the too-possible Frenchmen of Flaubert.
The sustenance which Stendhal won from contemplation of our scene for
the esthetic of his novel of the modern will is less widely recognized.
We are aware, however, of how the symbolists transfigured Poe; and more
recently of the enthusiastic creation by the Dadaists of a romantic
America of cowboys, skyscrapers and jazz. Romantic movements in
classicist France are ever forages for nurture rather than voyages of
discovery. Like Greece, France is omnivorous and egocentric. In every
period of influences her writers are like a family consuming beefsteak.
That beefsteak will become, let us say, part of a lanky father, a fat
mother, a bad pagan boy, and a noble Christian sister. At this moment,
we may behold America turn into Louis Aragon, Valéry Larbaud, and
Bazalgette....

Bazalgette’s translation and biography of Whitman had a dynamic share in
the slow stirring of French letters, away from the Narcissus mood which
led to the masterworks of Claudel, Valéry, Proust, toward a new gesture
of spiritual excursion whence a good range of fresh romantic stuffs will
accrue for the young classicists to work on. His Whitman was a biography
that held fairly close to the narrative form, save that a lyrism
illumined it and made it speak with emphasis and fervor to the
imagination of the French. In “Henry Thoreau,” however, Bazalgette
stands revealed more clearly: a poet himself, and a prophet, he employs
a certain spiritual experience made manifest in America because less
assimilated here than the experience of Rousseau and of Tolstoi in their
lands; and he makes of it his own spiritual Word for France. This
technical analogy between Bazalgette in sophisticated Paris writing of
Thoreau, and Chateaubriand in rationalist Paris dreaming of our virgin
forests must not be strained too far. Bazalgette is less a poet than
Napoleon’s noble hater, but he is more historian and critic. His book
has the lilt and passage and effect of a packed personal paean; and yet
it is perhaps the best of all pictures of our great New England. There
is no phenomenal relation between Chateaubriand’s America—or that of the
Dadaists—and ourselves. Their work is, therefore, not negotiable beyond
their immediate needs. But clad in the fine English of Van Wyck Brooks,
Bazalgette’s “Thoreau” responds to our experience. It becomes an
American classic as surely as it is a French one.

The method is not narrative: it is a composite of allusiveness,
colloquy, lyrical projection and dramatic scening. A hard method to
follow unflagging through three hundred pages; and at first the frail
figure of Thoreau seems insufficient for it. The author has sustained
his tone with ruthless logic that at times may pall. One would
occasionally welcome passages in a more direct, conventional prose. But
the consequence of the author’s lack of mercy is an esthetic form the
more remarkable when one considers the, after all, comparative
slightness of Thoreau’s stuff and the frustrate colors of his milieu. At
the end, one realizes that this unsparing method was the inevitable
right one for the subject. Thoreau’s greatness did not loom like
Whitman’s. It was the consequence of impacts on a small living nucleus,
of the organic yet reactive growth of that nucleus within an inchoate
social envelope. When he created his Whitman, Bazalgette had but to
follow Whitman. Hence his use of narrative was correct. Even the Civil
War fell into place as a sort of objective scene for the hero’s
progress. Creating Thoreau, Bazalgette creates primarily the New England
town, and the woods and the rivers and the birds, creates the astringent
air of Emerson and Alcott, creates Mr. Greeley and his _Tribune_, John
Brown and his raiders, lyceum audiences and village ne’er-do-wells. A
superb massivity of America bounding Thoreau gives him his dimensions by
indirection and by the dynamism of the man’s responses. It was a subtle
task, and Bazalgette has done it. It required a complete mastery of the
American scene; and the extent to which this Frenchman who has never
visited our land knows it—its past, its present, _and_ its future—is
uncanny. Where did he learn what a New England village feels like, what
winter is in a Canadian wood? How did he catch this scent of the
Emersonian family, this shuttling rhythm of Broadway, this dark deluvial
stain in the Judge’s house in Staten Island? No mere thorough
scholarship can explain it. Chateaubriand’s Indians, Baudelaire’s Poe,
are alien and exotic. Bazalgette possesses a true intuition of America.
Strange as it may seem, he loves us—loves our promise, our struggle to
evolve it. But his love is clairvoyant: his mind has stratified his
vision of us with analytic understanding. He knows the heartbreaking
husk of social and psychic life in which our promise stifles. Bazalgette
is a Roussinean romanticist in that he chooses to bring to Paris our
Thoreau as a reality _for it_, from the New England town. But he is no
romanticizer of the town. Nor of Thoreau who emerges from the book as a
true hero almost by a process of survival. Thoreau is a hero of his age,
we gather, because his age was otherwise unheroic.

The book is a new type of novel, if you please, rather than biography in
the strict French sense. There is a new novel form—the Proustian—in
which the hero is literally “I.” An example of it in our language is
Sherwood Anderson’s “Story Teller’s Story.” Here is another kind of
novel—a sort of Crocean history—in which a real personage is drawn
ruthlessly as regards the facts and yet with Dionysian freedom in
spiritual emphasis and in esthetic.

A work like this dares to contain anything: and there is to be found
here a bit of literary criticism so original in form that it must be
mentioned. Thoreau and Whitman meet. Their talk is a failure. Walt is
distrustful of this highbrow Yankee who has so consciously turned away
from Harvard. Bazalgette records the futile dialogue and adds to it, by
way of antistrophe, an imagined dialogue consisting of responses gleaned
from the two men’s work. The effect is powerful and convincing: a
contrapuntal fugue that does more to prove the nuclear energy of the
American mind and its unity, in variety, of direction, than a score of
essays.

Mr. Brooks’s translation has a tendency toward “toning down.” The
original title, as an instance, reads “Henry Thoreau, Sauvage.” This
might be faithfully Englished as Henry Thoreau, the Untamed. Mr. Brooks
has preferred to substitute Emerson’s “bachelor of Nature.” Perhaps he
shares somewhat Emerson’s Apollonian attitude toward this nature-drunk,
nature-sweet, neoprimitive neighbor. But the translation is very far,
indeed, from a betrayal. It is the process whereby Bazalgette’s book
becomes indigenous and takes its place in our American literature
between the old and the new. Thoreau stands with Whitman and with
Melville for the creative transitional gesture between that new America,
inheritor of Old World forms, and our old America, creator of a new
world. Of this hazardous long birth-hour in whose travail we persist,
there is no lovelier expression than the prose of Van Wyck Brooks.

_1927_

3. FAIRY TALES FOR THE OLD

Our country was not young from the beginning. It had to achieve youth.
From the Old World came old shoots: the transplantation as often as not
aggravated their antiquity. Ere we could be young, our elements had to
rot and to be remingled. This took time. And it may broadly be said that
only with the opening of the West and the demise, in civil war, of our
old sectional cultures, did America become at last a single sprawling
infant.

Even then, the sectional elderships persisted. They took many forms.
None more pleasant than the glowing second childhood of New England
which stands expressed in the stories of Sarah Orne Jewett. These are
tales mostly of Maine in the later decades of the nineteenth century.
And rightly enough the best of them are about old women. The occasional
story of a child is sicklied over with an aged cast: for instance,
Sylvia of “A White Heron” is an old woman’s child, and lives with an old
woman. And when there is a wooing in “The Country of the Pointed Firs”
the maid has grown grey in service of her mother; the man—son of the
almost centenarian Mrs. Blackett—is a simpleton past fifty. But whether
the scene be the Poor Farm or a spruce island home or the tiny palace of
Queen Victoria’s Twin, there is ever a single glamorous illusion making
the substance and life of these sweet tales. And it is the manner of
illusion that dwells in the hearts of folks who have grown sweetly
childish, rather than sour, in their senility.

It is not necessary to insist that the farms painted by Miss Jewett are
about as “realistic” as the England of “Alice in Wonderland” or of
Tennyson’s “Idylls.” Yet these uniformly charming people, so pure of
thought, so innocuous in action, so redolent of lavender and lace, are
true, although the theatre of their verity is the poetic fancy of Miss
Jewett. We may all snatch from our coming decrepit days the nodding wish
to turn from the rot of our world into a sweet-scented realm of senile
wishes, in order to enjoy Miss Jewett.

The Maine of a mature mind, contemporary with these stories, must have
revealed men and women more like the persons of Robert Frost, more like
those one feels, rather by reaction than by direct creation, in the
works of Thoreau, Hawthorne, Margaret Fuller, Melville. And yet these
kind and well-groomed vagaries of Miss Jewett’s are no less a result of
the crass facts—no less respectable. The spirit of them is a sort of
iridescent mist rising from the shut pools of that life.

Of course, stories with substance so wistful and so misty cannot rank
high as art: and we must not permit the present mood of American
reminiscence to which are due so many biographies, so many re-editions,
so many reconstructions, to blind us to their frail value. The fairy
tales of youth have greater destiny, because they have harder substance.
The child transcends his world: his ebullient vaulting energy despises a
mere unmastered round of fact and with parabolic power brings Mystery to
earth. But with second childhood, reality is too much and is avoided by
a sharp reduction. Energy, exhausted, draws back in catatonic gesture;
re-creates smallnesses to dwell in as a comfortable offset to the no
longer challengeable world.

Willa Cather, a feeble daughter of Miss Jewett, has had the fondness to
compare her tales with “Huckleberry Finn” (a fairy tale of youth) and
“The Scarlet Letter”—one of the maturest dreams of American romance. But
these perfumed pictures of the land of pointed firs are a gross
reduction of the truth. All the primary lines, colors, forms, are
missing. Indeed, all life-welling passion, all organic substance, have
been mulcted out by the desire for Peace: and what remains is a
predigested brew of natural descriptions and carefully balanced
converse—a true diet, indeed, for old and toothless gums.

Yet, although their stuff be small, these tales have loveliness. And one
rereads them, after all these years, marveling at the grace with which
their frailties have aged. The scenes of nature are good lyrics.
Although Miss Jewett’s sea has become strangely gentle, like a parlor
pet, it is still living: it is captured somewhat as life is captured in
certain two-dimensional prints from old Japan. The dialect has the mark
of absolute perfection; and yet is musically mannered so that none of
the conscious stress on veracity is there to irk one. But above
all—those women, those adorable, impossible old ladies, brewing tea,
gossiping, sewing! They are there, not like our grandmothers, but like
our childish vision of them—like what our grandmothers would have liked
to be, to our rapt young love. Even this sentimental splendor is reduced
to a kind of loophole glimpse. And yet the lens is never blurred and the
effect has all the negotiability of art.

There was a strength in old New England which passed maturity without
losing all its power. There are wild flowers still in these rock-bound
fields that go to seed hardily: they do not scatter or fall with the
first turning away of the summer sun; but wraithlike they stand aloft
upon their stems and let the autumn air run through them. Something of
this prowess is in Miss Jewett’s stories. For all their simplification,
for all their romantic refusal of the true stuff of tragedy—finally,
hence, for all their subtle denigration of New England which deserves
greater and more athletic art, these tales bear well. They may be tales
of senescence—of a soul’s twilight: but this is a soul not impotent even
in decay.

Most of them appeared in magazines well over forty years ago. As one
measures them with what has followed, one is dismayed. For hidden in
their glamour is a sinister seed. True enough are tales which spring
from a felt illusion. But it is only the lie which has brought forth
progeny. The hallucination of Miss Jewett, making her see such paragons
of peace and sweetness in the New England farms, causing her in all
solemnity to compare the “Bowdoin reunion” with “a company of Greeks
going to celebrate a victory, or to worship the god of harvest”—this
peculiar magic of old age could not be copied and has not been
transmitted. Only the trick of reduction, only the simplification, only
the falsehood. And the consequence, patented and standard, swarms within
our fiction magazines and in our novels.

The fairy tale turned formula—the fairy tale without the motive of youth
or of old age—becomes the harsh, cold, mechanical, nugatory art which
makes up most of our current “competence” in fiction. It marks the
extension into literature of the processes of mass production which
belong to an industrial age. It is responsible for the factories and
sweatshops whence reading matter is turned out for the million. How it
came to be born you can trace in the soft, warm, gradually shallowing
and self-repeating art of Sarah Orne Jewett.

_1925_

4. DUSK AND DAWN

The basis for any criticism of a book by Lewis Mumford must be respect
for the author and thankfulness that he is at work in our country. Rare,
indeed, are American critics who, like him, venture into the realm of
general ideas; and rarer are the men who, with his good will, possess
his rounded equipment. For Mr. Mumford tries to be no specialist save in
the task of seeing and interpreting life whole. No less than all the
works of men shall be his laboratory; no less than the search of values
for “the good life” his aim. He can write of archaic Utopias and future
city plannings, of modern books and ancient pictures and medieval
guilds; he is at home in all subjects since he has gained awareness that
all of them are one.

Mr. Mumford’s “The Golden Day” sustains this sense of him. It is in many
ways a beautiful book. It flows easy, brilliant, poetical, from the
store of its maker. It has style, it has form. There is no reason to
doubt that it will take its place in the sparse critical literature of
our uncertain era.

Mr. Mumford has written an essay in interpretation of the American past.
With this purpose, he has utilized an analysis of our customs, of our
ideals, principally through the medium of our writers. But the
standpoint of his study is the present. He has not written history; he
has established, as his focus, not alone our day, but as well our need.
His retrospect receives its dynamic rhythm, one might almost say its
_life_, from the author’s mastering interest in “What next?”

The general theme, viewed as a series of facts, is plain enough and has
been proposed in similar terms, before. Europe’s state since the Middle
Ages is regarded as a disintegration. Of this profound breakup America
is a conspicuous symptom and expression. America was colonized by forces
of Europe’s decomposition; and America itself, determining such states
of mind as pioneering, hastened the deliquescence of that spiritual
world which man raised up in Europe and whose tearing down had no deeper
symbol than the emigrations. Howsoever, before the final breakup of
Europe in the American West, new shoots of the transplanted European
culture rose on our Eastern seaboard. In the Golden Day of Emerson,
Thoreau, Whitman, they reached a splendor fresh and unparalleled in the
contemporary hour of a Europe less swiftly, but as essentially decadent.
Thereafter, the American West, in which the disintegrated force of the
Old World and the barbarizing condition of the New came to a climax,
gradually prevailed. Already, with Hawthorne, Melville, Poe, the Golden
Day was waning: the good elements of old Europe were rotted by
unconscious “new” American factors. The “pragmatic acquiescence” marks
America’s rationalized slump into the barbaric mood of the industrial
pioneer. William James, John Dewey, are good men ennobling the sterile
cause. The descent, now, is swift. The muckrakers are social critics
themselves submerged in the muck, failing of any principle to catapult
them free. Novelists socially and spiritually submerged are Mark Twain,
Jack London, Theodore Dreiser—scavengers whose true function is to pick
to pieces what still remains of a once noble structure. And not deeply
otherwise are the wistful “pillagers of the past” of whom the finest are
Henry James and George Santayana; their retreat into Europe or to
“philosophy” is motived by as forceless an acceptance of the barbaric
day as the rationalization of the pragmatists. Finally, Mr. Mumford
brings us to ourselves. After this ebb, we are sunk so low that naught
could remain but a new rising. Mr. Mumford is hopeful, one feels, for
sheerly tidal reasons.

Of course, to state in a paragraph what the author himself has
athletically stripped to but three hundred pages is to leave out much
and to denature more. This book, it seems to me, is chiefly a personal
essay—a confession by a significant man. You will find, here, excellent
pages on the “romanticism” of the pioneer, on the genius of Emerson, on
the limitations of Dewey and Santayana. You will find other pages less
adequate: as the discussions of Whitman, Melville, Poe and Dreiser. What
interests me most in “The Golden Day” is not its assemblage of
interpretations, but its focus.

This focus is external. Mr. Mumford is outside his own book. He depicts
superbly the Platonic, pagan and mystical glories which in America’s
Golden Day were called Emerson, Thoreau, Whitman. But they are
experientially remote from Mr. Mumford: as remote as Dante and Aquinas.
Ideally, of course, we share all greatness and find its recognition in
our souls. Yet those medieval worlds were not actually ours: their
source, their form and their behavior differ. Mr. Mumford depicts, also,
and with no less eloquence, the horrors of the American scene: the
barbaric frontier, the Protestant decadence, the tyranny of the machine
and of the job, the fallacies of materialism, utilitarianism,
experimentalism, pragmatism. But he is outside the experience of these
also. When he praises the age of Emerson, there is an aloofness of
elegy. When he exhorts the young men, his contemporaries: “Allons. The
road is before us!” there is an aloofness of rhetoric. What is the
matter with Mr. Mumford?

The matter is that he has considered us, rather than experienced us. He
has gone deep to behold our past greatness, our present miseries; but
not deep enough to establish the vital connection between them, and
between them and himself. America is an organic subject. Mr. Mumford,
for all his studies in causation, treats as a series of isolate
manifestations, “good” or “bad,” “tasteful” or “disgusting,” what are
really acts of a single spiritual Organism, yet immature, yet basally
“in the making.” The Golden Day whereof the author so wistfully sings
was not a day at all: it was not even a dawn: it was, if you insist on
solar terms, _a_ dusk of Europe. But only in its ideologies and cultural
forms! More accurately, it was a moment in the American childhood when
the spirit spoke lyrically, before the whelming demands of body—of
nutrition and of growth—plunged America more fully into chaos. The fact
that this age was not a Day is plain in its shimmering, surface passage
over the American mind: and in the sequence when America transformed the
idealism of its transcendentalists and poets into immediate adolescent
matters of expansion and of self-indulgence. Mr. Mumford makes Emerson
the hero of this “day.” Yet if ever a man was a congeries of lovely
echoes, of wistful longings, of fleeting and unfleshed intuitions,
Emerson was he! His intimations of immortality were almost literally
those which the great Wordsworth beheld on the visage of a babe! Emerson
_was_ such an intimation on America’s huge child face. He was our first,
unfleshed, undifferentiate glimpse of manhood—of a manhood still very
far ahead.

In Whitman this intimation is no longer the tremorous glimpse so well
symbolized in Emerson’s frail and evanescent prose. It is a roar of
adolescence: a true hunger call: no more. Now, note Mr. Mumford’s basic
misunderstanding of Poe and Melville. These men were the first to try to
_flesh_ what we might style the Emersonian intuition in American life.
Mr. Mumford calls them figures of the twilight. And yet, from the
standpoint of a study of the American Organism, they are more advanced
than such more successful artists as Whitman and Thoreau. Poe’s mystical
attitude toward the mechanism and applied science, his marvelous attempt
to add a dimensional sense to the inherited experience of life; and
Melville’s tragic effort to wed God and whaling—these are the first
organic _acts_ after the childhood intimations of the men whom Mr.
Mumford esteems as makers of our Noon.[8] And the author fails to
recognize them, because he has no organic experience in America to guide
him. He is in love with the gesture, the dream, the childhood faëry of
our past: yet he rejects the _body_—our present interim of the Machine
and of the romanticisms of the Machine—whereby alone this promise from
our past may be organized into a living future.

Therefore, finally, his book brings the flavor of a plaint: his envoi is
wistful and vague, his call to future action has no ring. For American
future spiritual action must rise organically from the facts of our
hideous present, since these facts are an insuperable sequence from our
past ideals. Mr. Mumford, in this book, is a man sincerely,
prophetically in love with the sweet spirit of childhood; yet turning
from the physical, often bestial process whereby alone the child can
grow in order to express that spirit. When the child America lisps
purities half understood, Mr. Mumford blesses. But when the child
America gulps food, wallows in mud, slugs and robs comrades, adventures,
bullies, cheats—Mr. Mumford merely scolds.

_1926_

5. ELEGY FOR ANARCHISM

I hoped to glean from the autobiography of Emma Goldman four
experiences, each of them worth while: the intimate life story of a
remarkable woman, the history of her ideals and thoughts as an
anarchist, a portrait of toiling America during the past four decades,
and an account of the years of military communism in the U.S.S.R. I got
what I wanted, although in each case the net gain in light is different
from what I had supposed it would be—different, I feel certain, from
what Emma Goldman herself believes her book has given.

The most enlightening point, for me, in the first volume where the
author describes her girlhood, her marriage, her entrance into the
anarchist ranks after the Chicago executions, her love affairs, her
friendships with Johann Most and Alexander Berkman, is that her
narrative is almost bare of experience and ideas. The pages fly with
gusto, Emma Goldman holds back nothing. But she has, rather amazingly,
almost nothing inward to give! Intimately, for all her good will, she
appears to remember little of her own sensations; and if there was a
period of doubt and inquiry before she accepted Kropotkin and Bakunin,
she takes her own thoughts for granted, giving us the bare conclusion. I
had a sense of Emma Goldman writing these pages of her youth; but it was
a sense of the mature woman the author, not of the young woman the
subject. And this very fact: that Emma Goldman describing her loves, her
factories and sweatshops, her cities, her encounters with magnates and
policemen, gives no direct experience of her feelings and thoughts,
helps to reveal the nature of the woman. One must make one’s own
deductions, as one might if one were actually speaking with the author.
For Emma Goldman is a presence in her book—a deep, hearty presence. She
is never the analyst or integrator of her story.

Her chief traits are goodness and energy. There is something abstract in
her élan vital, since she is unaware of causes. The Freudians would
doubtless call her career a flight from a cruel father (who became
symbolized as authority and the state). More obviously, her life was a
simple escape from the intolerable pain of inhibitions (personal and
social) and a blind rush toward that freedom which the word “anarchism”
convincingly evoked. In a life so purely dynamic, there is no pause for
thought, hence her book’s total lack of ideology; there is no room for
emotional contemplation, hence its author’s want of vivid memory. Emma
Goldman cannot be said to remember her girlhood, and its record,
pictorial or sensory, is absent from her pages. Which is to say, that
her first thirty or forty years were lived not on an intellectual, not
even on an emotional, plane; but were instinctive. Instinctive action
(if I may use this obsolete term) is automatic, and leaves no memory.

But Miss Goldman’s instinctivism must not be confused with that of
others. It is paradoxical, being extremely good and brave. Most women
who live on this level are self-indulgent, cowardly, shallow. Miss
Goldman, although she seems never to have thought, has a nature both
good and profound. At any moment of her youth, it is clear that she was
ready to give herself to her Cause. Even her sex life, one feels, was
the response of a motherly heart rather than of a lusting body. And if
she followed the dictates of her body, the wonder is that even selfish
impulse moved her to constant sacrifice and the acceptance of suffering.

This paradox convinces me that there are really persons in the world
like the “free souls” on whose actual existence Rousseau, Proudhon and
the other romantic anarchists based their theories. No wonder Emma
Goldman was an anarchist—and without having to think about it. Her
innocent nature predicates and incarnates the anarchist creed. Even in
her appetites, she is a woman instinctively good and pure: a woman whose
blithe spirit only the alien contacts of official law could poison.

The pages are, of course, full of references to anarchist comrades.
Directly, she analyzes them no more than herself; but her own vitality
imbues with life her portraits of men like Berkman, Reitman, Brady and
Most. Like the author, these figures belong to the romantic movement.
They are an issue of the same social forces which gave the Atalas,
Renés, Adolphes and Werthers. The key to these characters is a
deliberate return to “self”—a return which is a reaction from a system,
social and intellectual, that was losing its vitality: so that the
romantic return to “self” was literally the escape of “life” from the
old Western order. In the profounder romantics (Rousseau, Blake,
Beethoven, Stendhal, Balzac, Whitman, Nietzsche, etc.), this return to
“self” was sufficiently thorough to reveal the self’s cosmic
implications and therewith the nucleus of a whole new social fabric.
Intellectually weaker romantics did not go so far. They discovered their
own yearning ego, and loved it, and regarded the world as a mere bar to
its divine trajectory. Their ideas of social justice were
rationalizations of their lyric need of freedom. They were the
anarchists. They knew nothing of the objective world, save that it got
in their way. They knew nothing even of each other, since in the last
analysis they knew nothing of themselves. They were “pure being,” and
since “pure being” is a rationalized fantasy, their own lives have an
abstract air, a lack of body and of reason.

This _unreality_ of the anarchists is perfectly revealed by Emma
Goldman. It is epitomized in the _attentat_ on Frick by her lifelong
comrade Berkman. Young Berkman (a very different man from the mature
Berkman of later years) is as good as his girl friend. He _knows_
nothing, either: not how to make a bomb, not how to speak English, not
the crucial differences between an American magnate and the lords of
Tsarist Russia; not (at the end) how to aim a pistol. His act is a “pure
act” in a cruel, complex world that has thrown him off, so that he wills
to destroy it. The anarchist is a tangential force from the social
center, but in his naïve egoism he conceives himself as the center.
Thus, by immediate logic, the legalized social world becomes the
centrifugal tangent—and he erects a philosophy or builds a bomb, to wipe
it out.

Volume One of Emma Goldman’s story might, then, be called the premise of
anarchism: there are really born in the world persons instinctively
good, whom the complex tissue of laws tortures and maims. Volume Two is
the conclusion of anarchism: the fate of such persons in the real world
that persists. In her record of the past ten or fifteen years, the
author is closer to the subject. We no longer have a woman of sixty
trying to re-create a girl. We know what the young Miss Goldman was, by
what she failed to record: we have the contemporary in a more positive
record. For this other woman has been forced, by her frustrations, from
the instinctive rush of her élan vital to the emotional plane. The
natural mother blindly fighting for her children becomes the
contemplative mother who can no longer wield arms, who can only suffer.
The bud of the young woman’s goodness blooms into a dark flower of pain.
Now Emma Goldman has memory. Her last pages, in which she gives us a War
America and a Russia of her own, are suffused with tragic light.

I do not wish to appear to minimize the intellectual contribution of the
great anarchist writers. They established a theory of the state which
Marx accepted. Indeed, the bitter war between anarchism and communism is
one of methods toward a common goal—the classless and stateless society.
As anarchism evolved, however, it became an unrealistic fixation on the
end, whereas the Marxists assumed the task of establishing the
ideological and technical means that might bring the end into existence.
The anarchists (in the contemporary jargon) became a dissociation from
the context of life: they represented that extreme of social suffering
which touches madness in so far as madness is a dislocation from the
whole. And against them, Marx brought his organic rationale to the cause
of revolution. He counteracted the instinctive anarchist flight from an
unjust world by making reasonable the relation between the rebellious
impulse and the capitalist system, and by integrating social revolution
as an organic (dialectic) issue of our social order. In this effort, it
is natural that all the leading Marxists—Engels, Plekhanov, Lenin,
etc.—should have made conscious war against the anarchists. But it is a
beautiful stroke of fortune which led a leading anarchist, like Emma
Goldman, into articulate contact with the first Marxist nation.

Her bitter rejection of bolshevism is well known. She went to Russia in
1920, ready to defend and to collaborate. A year and a half later, she
and Berkman left, heartbroken by what she names the betrayal of the
Cause for which she has given her life. Her record is full, and is—for
reasons unknown to herself—the most significant part of her book. It is
the final revelation of the utter unreality of her own kind of
revolution. Emma Goldman found in Russia a ruthless state employing
repression of all kinds—censorship, imprisonment, execution—in the
effort to survive both the inherited chaos of the Tsarist regime and the
seventeen White armies that were attacking it. This was enough for Miss
Goldman: the old hated state at its old methods. She had never stopped,
in her assaults on bourgeois society, to understand it; why, now, should
she stop to understand the real problems of the proletarian dictatorship
in Russia? Contexts are beyond Emma Goldman, whether they be White or
Red. The whole activity of relations is beyond her.

Her book, in its finality, becomes the tragedy of good will and a good
heart unguided by a sense of the Whole. The impulse that had made her a
rebel was generous; her methods of rebellion were brave and pure. But
rebellion became the automatic habit of her life; her one positive
response to the objective world of men and of values. If she had
_understood_ the evils of bourgeois society, she would have understood
the inevitability of their survival in the transition period which she
witnessed in Russia. Her descriptions of what she saw are factual
enough: Emma Goldman is incapable of deliberate falsehood. But she is
also incapable of truth, which is the placing of facts in their vital
context.

Her failure to understand Russia is the anarchist failure to understand
and hence to work upon the world. Her story of a great anarchist (there
is something about this woman that is great) becomes the most eloquent
defense of communism. If the revolutionary impulse can go so far astray
through blind emotion, become so hysterical, so impotent, so unjust, and
finally so destructive, the Marxian method is imperative.

But if the lesson of this book went no further, it would scarcely
deserve the space that I have given it. Anarchism as a system and method
of revolution is dead: communism has killed it. What remains in the
revolutionary world is the menace of a fixation, different but as deadly
as that which in a hundred years turned the fertile beginnings of Godwin
and Proudhon into so pitiful an end. Anarchism has died of intellectual
dry rot induced by its eccentric emotionalism. There are signs that
orthodox communism is threatened by a dogmatic rationalistic creed (by
no means discoverable in Marx) whose inadequate depth and breadth would
ultimately exclude the creative energies of mankind.

The intelligent communist will not gloat over the tragic story of Emma
Goldman. He will bear in mind that a revolutionary cause must be
constantly Creative, and that to this end it must be vigilant against
mental or emotional habits that exclude the right of fresh discoveries.
To bring a new mankind into the world is a long act of birth menaced at
every instant by the nearness of death.

_1931_

6. THE BOOK OF LEO STEIN

The man whose conversations about art have gone into the nurture of most
of the important artists of our day in Paris has written a book. For one
who knows the author, it will be hard to dissociate these printed pages
from the voice of the man who wrote them. To have had acquaintance with
this tireless seeker, watched the beautiful curves of his mind moving
for hours of uninterrupted discourse upon a mental action, and to have
relished his piquant admixture of spiritual humbleness, intellectual
passion and ascetic distrust of all passions, is not the sort of
experience to be overlooked, just because one of the best talkers of our
day has turned to writing. Mr. Stein’s work is, moreover, in the best
sense, conversation. From beginning to end, his curt and quiet tone is a
manner of speaking. The color of the man stands in his most abstracted
thought. He has written a volume in which all thinking and all topics
are so securely focused to a personal rhythm, that—whatever else—his
essay is a work of art.

Mr. Stein has a poor opinion of philosophy, and of what esthetics, at
its hand, has suffered. Mr. Stein, moreover, has loved art. He has, in
consequence, attempted what might be called a “rescue.” The sentimental
mists of philosophic thought must be cut away from his beloved; the
basis of the esthetic act must be presented in simple, matter-of-fact,
assumptionless terms. This is the program. Actually, what Mr. Stein has
achieved is a statement as subjective as Amiel’s journal: a
self-portrayal which is both beautiful and significant, since its hero
is so archetypical of his time.

With the purely technical part of his examination of esthetics, there
can be no quarrel. It is superb. Mr. Stein has studied the _picture_
with a combined sensitivity and intelligence of which I, at least, can
name no even approximate equal. To read his discussion of focus,
interval, the physiology and analogies of rhythm, distortion, tension,
composition, is to be aware of mastery and to know what sentimental
perfume most literary art appreciation—from Goethe to Elie
Faure—consists of. Mr. Stein’s technique for the practical taste of art
seems to me to be perfect. His chapter, for example, on “Pictorial
Seeing,” in which he makes clear how the eyes can turn a dish into a
picture, how this ideal act is the basis of esthetics and must
inevitably determine the distorting, flattening and focalizing, is a
masterpiece; and the man who understands it is ready to see pictures.
Moreover, the book is filled with apophthegmatic observations on life,
the ego, civilization (which, to Mr. Stein, is yet far from dawning),
that should make his volume precious to all lovers of delicious talk.
Indeed, the work is so complete in its foreground—the physiology of the
esthetic object—that its utter lack of background—the matrix, causality
and dynamics of art—becomes the clearer. Mr. Stein makes plain how in a
picture it is upon the depth dimension that esthetic success hinges:
how, indeed, much European art has failed because of the failure to
throw the focus organically back and to make alive the planes which
support and enact the forward action. And in this criticism he has given
the measure of himself.

If, having so amply learned from Leo Stein how to transform the dish
before our eyes into a picture, one were to ask him: (a) why one should
do this; (b) why anyone has ever done this; (c) why and how this act is
universally linked with the entire history of man’s spirit; (d) why
feeling and value accrue from this act, and (e) what is the nature of
this process whereby the self is enhanced, one would receive no answer.
As I have said, Mr. Stein is “against” all philosophy and metaphysics.
He takes furious pride in telling us that he has never been able to
understand the writers on these subjects: and he makes clear that, if
you think you have understood them, you are suffering from a delusion.
“Philosophy,” he tells us, “is a pseudo-knowledge which attempts to add
a dimension to human capacity.” “Mysticism,” he adds, “is sentimentality
taken seriously.” The entire effort to establish truth from facts, or
the real from our complex of thought and sense and act, being
“philosophical” or “mystic,” is inadequate and acrimoniously barred from
his discussion of esthetics. “Esthetics gives us fact, not truth,” he
tells us. The work of art is a cognitive object, an object by means of
which men may know but which they must “stay outside of.”

Mr. Stein sticks about as heroically to his backgroundless thesis as he
could, without becoming inarticulate altogether. What value exists in
that rhythmic synthesis of ingredients intercepted by self, and called
art, unless the unity achieved conveys an experience beyond the matters
abstracted? Why should we care to know a Cezanne landscape, if this
especial focusing of hills and houses is a mere unification of
themselves? Mr. Stein, in refusing to ask such questions or to place his
facts in a context that inherently transcends them, dislocates every
fact, every question he discusses; as assuredly as he would dislocate a
dish (in a picture) if he essayed to represent its planes without the
planes that intersect them.

To render art intelligible by isolating it from those causes and
associations which invade the philosophic realm is just about as wise as
it would be to employ a language after abstracting the meaning of the
words. (This, by the way, is not far from the method of Mr. Stein’s
illustrious and ridiculous sister, Gertrude.) In his fear of unproved
assumptions, Leo Stein has made a two-dimensional picture of esthetics.
For the expert, his study of the traits of art in analytical cross
section is instructive. But for the reader who is really seeking an
alphabet of esthetics, the result is arid.

Leo Stein represents, in his attitude, the philosophical defeatism of
our day. Because so many little boys have burned their fingers, he will
eschew fire and live cold. There is something positively heroic in this
spectacle of a man aborting the creative process of his mind, because so
many births in the past (as he sees it) have been abortions. Even worse,
Leo Stein, having no sympathy with the birth pangs of the world, decides
there shall be no more birth at all. To this end, the work of art is
reduced to a mere rationally cognitive object, with self as a static
co-ordinate of the cognition; and that entire process of dynamic osmosis
between self and not-self, _which is the history of culture_, is put
away as sentimental nonsense.

His subject has its revenge upon him. You cannot trace more than a
diagram of the means of esthetics, unless you know that the
configuration of facts in any work of art establishes for both artist
and observer an experienced entity called truth, which as radically
differs from these facts as water does from H_{2} and O, or as a human
body differs from the sum of inorganic chemicals within it.
And—unfortunately for Mr. Stein—you cannot talk about anything with
perseverance, without having to choose between a philosophy of your own
(which is at least alive and yours) and a philosophy that is unconscious
and not yours and uncontrolled.

This is the fate of the antiphilosophic Leo Stein. He says, for
instance: “Some believe there are quite a lot of emotions. Some believe
there are only three. I doubt very much that there is more than one,
which is just emotion.” This sounds like a brave refusal to “assume.” It
is really an assumption based on an atomistic philosophy whose tenet was
that you must split up psychic states just as physicists split up matter
into atoms. I might respond that there are no emotions—only organic
contexts from which the mind may abstract analytic elements which
partake solely of the mind process and which it has called emotions. I
don’t say my organic philosophy would be truer. The point is that Mr.
Stein, in disagreeing with me, is as philosophical as I am.

Throughout his book, such unconscious philosophical assumptions are
present: and they are inadmissible because _he_ does not admit them. He
says, for instance:

Esthetics gives us fact, not truth. But fact to be interesting to
adults in the long run must be true. Only science and practice can
judge validity beyond the mere aspect. The world as it is
scientifically known is not a whole world, but the nature of that
world is such that it can find in science a partial reflection that is
true enough to work. Our esthetic perception of the world must not
contradict this knowledge.

If this is not philosophy—philosophy of a very classic mold—then
Aristotle was a landscape painter.

I have here no space to isolate the assumptions which color the esthetic
of Leo Stein; nor to work out the inadequacy of his definition of art as
a cognitive object. The task would be the more difficult, in that he
forbears from the method of statement of his first principles—a method
which makes it so easy to attack the systematic thinkers. I detect,
under Mr. Stein’s abnegation of first principles about the “real” and
the “true” and the “good,” the cowardice of our epoch. Every man who
lives should know that his _life_ is an assumed, rationally unproved
first principle. The real and the true are categories of our existence
and enter as functions into all our acts. Our sole choice is between a
creative and a passive attitude toward the first principles thus
_given_. So far as I know, the one honest, if vain, effort to reject
first principles is suicide. Much of the brilliant intellectual activity
of our day is a comfortable surrogate for self-destruction.

_1927_

7. REFLECTIONS ON SPENGLER

Oswald Spengler’s “The Decline of the West,” from 1918 to 1926, sold in
Germany almost a hundred thousand copies. It would be inspiriting to
believe that a profound historical and philosophical work could have so
large a sale in any modern land. But the originality of Spengler does
not reside in his erudition; it is poetic. The book’s metaphysics is
eclectic rather than sound; its historical research is vast rather than
uniformly deep. “Der Untergang des Abendlandes” is an epos, a myth. So,
if Germany has not bought a hundred thousand copies of a great
philosophic work, it has at least welcomed a personal mythos of deep
interest: one whose elements are philosophy, history, esthetics: one
whose comprehension requires of the reader a great familiarity with
comparative history and comparative religion.

I think at once of “The Outline of History” of H. G. Wells, which had an
analogous popular appeal in America and England. Wells, like Spengler,
under the guise of writing history, offered a thesis and a myth. Here
the analogy stops. The story in Wells is a vulgar, obvious narrative of
“events”: his thesis is the most illiterate notion of “human progress”
and his myth is a mere flatulent, optimistic dream. Spengler’s work is
formally beautiful. He builds, not by storytelling, but by the
presentation and analysis of analogies. And he concludes on a note as
darkly glamorous as it is pessimistic. The Winter is upon us, he
declares in doom words that are closer to the note of the prophets than
he would care to admit. Our salvation is to perform, nobly and
perfectly, the work of Winter: to understand ourselves, to set down as
the Seal of our glorious dying life a ruthless scrutiny of what we were.

I shall criticize Spengler harshly enough. Let it be, however, always
clear that Spengler has written a work of heroic poetic power. The land
that dared to welcome such a volume still possesses culture.

The book’s main thesis seems to be disguised in the title. “The Decline
of the West”—is it not a misnomer? Has not Spengler really written a
history and a morphology of Cultures? But no. Though the title may
mislead—may, indeed, have misled its author and its readers, it is a
true self-confession of the poet’s veritable purpose. Spengler has
composed this erudite, overpoweringly brilliant thesis on the anatomy
and physiology of cultures, in order to prove that _his_ Culture (the
Culture of the West) is dying. This is where his heart lies. He has
written a swan song. And since he is a citizen of the world whose most
valid mythic material is no longer the personal legend, the hero, the
war, the romance; is, on the other hand, metaphysics, history,
epistemology and science, Spengler has employed these elements to make
his tragic tale.

And the value of the book lies not in its thesis and its proof. This
decline of the West is obvious enough. Spengler shares his conviction of
it with a great measure of good Europeans. For several generations the
disaster has been in the air. The Great War was but an episode. Rousseau
had some ideas on the subject. No sooner had the Germans after Kant
invented the notions of Culture, Progress, Spirit, than the critics rose
to prove that their culture was moribund and their spirit sleeping.
Since Schopenhauer and Nietzsche, Europe’s religious decline has been
taken for granted. Tolstoi and Nordau from contrary directions met in
calling modern art the herald of the fall. Rimbaud, Blake, Dostoevski,
Whitman, were the sort of prophets who declared the death of Western
Europe, although it was to predict a new spiritual rise. Long past its
zenith is the myth that the “modern age” is a height rather than a
decline from the medieval. The notion that the Middle Ages were “Dark
Ages” is relegated to Chautauqua.

Spengler’s value (and it is very real) lies in his attitude toward this
decline of the West and in the method whereby he establishes it. His
attitude is poetic. He despises the Superman construction whereby
Nietzsche cheated his despair of tomorrow: he is closer to the marvelous
poet Rimbaud who accepted the complete negation of all values, without
hope of heavens or nirvanas, and who, yet, made of his acceptance a last
song. Spengler is in love with winter. So bitter-passionate is his
embrace of the death he feels in his own soul that he has written a vast
book to prove the inevitability of his love. The romantic “proves” the
perfection of his lady by showing how the birds and the trees and the
winds sing her praises. Thus has Spengler bent the art and mathematics
of the Greeks, the religion of the Jews and Arabs, the cultures of
Egypt, India and China to his one loved purpose: he has made them over
into ineluctable signs of the winter upon Europe.

Before such thorough passion one must be respectful. This is a song—a
death song the Prussian is singing. The work of art is a matter of
focus. Here a man with the whole world’s learning in his hand has
_focused_ it to make refrain for a great downgoing. He has seen mankind
whole, in order to make that whole the accomplice of his own particular
end. He has warped history, maimed philosophy, chain-ganged science,
perverted art. But he is an artist himself. He has written a book which
is poor history, worse anthropology, perhaps. So was Dante’s “Divina
Commedia.”

Spengler, I have said, is a poet, his metaphysics eclectic rather than
sound, his historical research vast rather than uniformly deep.
Spengler’s masters, as regards the material with which he works out his
conception, are almost legion, nor has he always done them justice. The
notion of a culture-organism, independent, impenetrable, yet somehow
mirroring the universe within its autonomous self, and moved only by God
in the mysterious shape of Destiny, is very close to Leibnitz with his
Monads. Spengler, indeed, is an instance, with Whitehead and Bertrand
Russell, of the revival of Leibnitz, whose realistic, pluralistic
universe was for a time submerged under the idealistic waves of Kant and
Hegel. To this Leibnitzian base, Spengler adds a good measure of Hegel.
His treatment of mathematics, science, history, all the attributes of
culture from geometry to esthetics, as expressions of Spirit and as
subjective, is Hegelian or Kantian idealism. On the other hand, his
radical differentiation of mathematical time (which is reversible) from
the irreversible Time which he calls Destiny brings to mind Bergson who
opposed creative Time, the signature of Life, to the false, spatial,
materialistic time which he condemns as a constructed figment of the
intellect. Spengler’s anti-intellectualism, whereas it is as logical as
Hegel, springs from Bergson, as does, likewise, his hostility to the
geneticisms of Darwin and of Marx. His treatment, however, of the
art-phenomena of any age as physiognomic traits of its people is a
brilliant evolution of what Taine and Renan themselves derived from
Hegel.

Spengler avows Goethe as his master. He is forever quoting Goethe,
appealing to him as the scientific and philosophic source of his
conception. And he is right, in so far as both these men are poets.
Spengler is very far from the ideas of Goethe; but in his use of ideas
toward an absolute, mythmaking end, he is allied to the creator of
Faust.

Goethe’s philosophic master was Spinoza. This manifest fact would be
inadmissible to Spengler who regards Goethe as the last master of the
Faustian soul and Spinoza as an anomalous survival, out of time and out
of place, from the alien Magian or Arabian culture. Spengler’s thesis of
intact, autonomous culture-organisms does not allow that a master from
one culture can do more than impede the evolution of another. Spinoza,
he declares, shows his strangeness from Western (Faustian) Culture in
that he lacks the _force-element_ which is that culture’s primary trait.
Faust denotes force tending toward the infinite. But why cannot the same
be said of the personal nature of any of the Hebrew prophets or of
Prometheus? In Spinoza, it is true that this trait of personal force is
assimilated—or, rather, it is equated—in that balance of individual
wills whose sum is God. The point is that whereas Goethe as artist
depicted personal force in Faust, he transcended it as a philosopher
precisely in his acceptance of the Spinozistic synthesis of forces.
Goethe, maturing as a thinker, transcended the concept of personal will
as ultimate. Spengler has taken Goethe’s esthetic creation of the
individual, _willing_ Faust, and made of it a philosophic symbol for an
entire culture.

Let us take Spengler for a while, as he demands to be taken, critically.
My notes of specific disagreements with the Spenglerian presentation of
facts and of conclusions would cover many pages. This is no place to
print them. Yet I cannot avoid some minimum of analytical discussion.

The major thesis is the critical issue. Spengler considers the culture
as an organism. He discerns in history a number of such cultures. He
examines the Chinese, the Egyptian, the Indian (Hindu), the Classical
(Greek and Roman), the Magian (Jewish-Persian—early Christian-Arab), and
the Western or Faustian (roughly Western Europe since 900 C.E.). He
discovers in each of these cultures a regular life span of four seasons:
spring, summer, autumn, winter. They sum to about one thousand years.
The form and length of this course never varies. Each culture has a
_soul_: this it expresses through a chief spiritual attitude, through an
individual vision of life and through a specific symbol. The
mathematics, science, art, religion, political, financial and economic
forms of every culture express its soul, its vision—are symbols of its
attitude toward life. These expressions go, with the culture itself,
through the seasons to decrepitude from youth. Each epoch in any culture
is strictly homogeneous with the “contemporary” epoch of any other
culture. In the spring, that is, of Classical culture, you will find
manifestations in every activity of man which are analogous to those of
the spring of Western or of Chinese culture. Each culture lives out its
own destiny, dies its own death. No other culture can do more than
impede it, even as one tree may impede another’s sunlight. There is no
interpenetration. There is no mutual understanding. It is an illusion on
the part of the Western soul to believe it understands the Chinese, the
Arabian, the Greek. The inherent growth of each culture is a matter not
of geneticisms and material evolutions, but of Destiny. There is no
cause and effect; there are monadlike cultural units, mapped through
irreversible Time from birth to death.

Now, the trouble with these organisms is that they are placed _in
vacuo_. They are described as evolving their destiny sheerly out of
themselves, without relational struggle, drama, reaction, interference.
And yet they are also described as having the nature of biologic
organisms: i. e., they have youth, maturity, old age; they have a
specific lifespan. But no organisms known to man exist in this utter
isolation. One and all, they arise from other organisms like them, they
live in a continuum of interaction with other organisms like them, they
give birth before death or in death to other organisms like them. The
culture-organisms of Spengler do not seem to be really alive: they are
mere synthetic constructions of the author. In order to prove them
alive, Spengler has been forced to a progressive and virtuosic deforming
of the facts.

When I say that the Spenglerian culture-organism, absolute, monadlike,
impenetrable, does not exist, I do not mean that there is no valid view
of cultures as organic within their rise and fall. Before I can come to
this, I must examine in at least one detail the Spenglerian proof.

Each culture, Spengler undertakes to show, has a soul unique and
radically different from that of any other culture. (If this is so, why
is there such strict analogy in the forms, seasons and lifespan of all
cultures?) This soul’s Weltanschauung is its own. And its prime symbol
is its idea of space or of extension. From this symbol each culture-soul
constructs its mathematics, its sciences, its religion, its
architecture, etc. They are all expressions of the prime symbol.
Therefore every mathematics, science system, religion, etc., differs
radically from every other. Moreover, there is no one mathematics, no
one system of physics, etc. There are as many as there are cultures.
Each is true, and true uniquely for _its_ culture.

To prove his thesis of the individual prime symbol of each culture,
Spengler bravely ventures to establish that Greek “number” and “space”
and “mathematics” differ radically from the Western. The Classical prime
symbol is the finite unit, the entity, the _here and now_. It denies
infinitude, past, future. It considers space as the mere emptiness
between objects. Therefore it looks on number (Pythagoras) as the
essence of all things: and by all things it means literally things
perceptible to the senses. From this prime symbol has come the Classical
esthetic unit—the human body: the Greek tragedy of episode and exterior
fate: the political unit, a small city (polis): the coin, etc. But the
Western (Faustian) soul has infinity as its prime symbol. Space for it
is infinite and comes prior to the objects which have their being
_within_ it. Western mathematics is, therefore, one of function,
analysis, relation. Its geometry is non-Euclidean. Its State is a cosmic
empire. Its money is credit, not the coin. Its signal art is not
sculpture but atmospheric painting and contrapuntal music. Its
architecture is not the interiorless Greek temple, but the infinitely
soaring Gothic church.

To make his thesis absolute instead of merely suggestive, Spengler is
forced to explain away the Dionysian (anti-Apollonian) element in Greek
culture and the Renaissance in Western Europe: to ignore the mystical in
Pythagoras and Plato, together with the Aristotelian elements of
medieval thought and modern science. The idea of the infinite and of
aspiration toward it existed, indeed, in Greece. It came over,
organically, from Egypt. Classic Greece did not lose it, but formed it,
rather; and transformed it. Moreover, the modern mathematics is
different from the classic and the Newtonian only in so far as it is a
growth. Infinity was a problem evaded by the classical geometers:
admitted as insoluble by the Cartesians: and _eliminated as solved_ by
the non-Euclidean mathematicians of the nineteenth century. The
Classical attitude toward ultimate problems was a status of childhood.
It admitted only the object and the material. So it evolved
materialistic systems like those of Thales, Democritus, Heraclitus; or
turned the abstractions of ideas into quasi materials called essences,
as in Plato. The Faustian attitude was one of adolescence. It stressed
the unsolved and aspirational: the concept of infinite space, the
autonomy of the personal will. Faust is a growth from Œdipus; even as
the Cathedral is a growth from the Temple. To differentiate the prime
symbols of cultures which so obviously were interpenetrated, not alone
one by the other, but each by still other cultures (such as the Egyptian
and the Hebrew), is to do them violence. It is an unnecessary
abstraction. Why Spengler wanted to make this abstraction we shall see
in the sequel.

Here is a book packed with intricate allusions. To criticize it in
detail would take almost page for page. I must confine myself to one
more example. One of the cultures discussed by Spengler is the
Arabian—the culture of the Magian soul. Its prime space-symbol is the
_world-cave_. It lacks the force element of the Faustian, and the
unit-object notion of the Greek. The individual, here, is a mere passive
emanation within God, as within an aloof yet immanent and defining Cave.
The Arab arch, the mosque-dome, the mosaic painting, are alike
expressions of this symbol. As are also algebra (the arithmetic of
indefinite number), the arguments of Talmudry, the fatalism of the
Moslem. The Magian culture-soul was born about the first year of our
era. Precultural to it was the whole pre-Christian history of Judea,
Persia, Arabia. Now, as “springtime scriptures,” come the Gospels, come
the philosophies of Origen, Philo, Plotinus, Iamblichus, Mani. With
Augustine and the Nestorians we are at the summer. Mohammed marks the
decline into the autumnal dryness whose strawlike flowers are the Arab
and Judaic thinkers of Babylon and Spain.

Perhaps this amazing violence done to such various spirits as ancient
Hebrew prophet, Berber mystic, Alexandrian pseudepigraphist, Arab Moslem
and Granadan Moor, in the attempt to enclose them all within one organic
cultural conception, born at the birth of Christ, reaching summer about
400, drooping in 800 and dead with the _rigor mortis_ of “civilization”
at the year 1,000, will most briefly prove the dangers of the
Spenglerian method.

Of course, there are analogies between St. Augustine and Ibn Gabirol.
Are there, then, none between Faust and Job? between the writers of the
Upanishads and Whitman? between the sculptors of Egypt and the painters
of Spain? If Maimonides is a “Magian Winter man,” why is Aquinas a
“Faustian Spring man”? If kinship of “prime symbol” bring Philo,
Plotinus, Mohammed, Rabbi Akiba and Jehuda Halevi together as seasonal
expressions of a single culture, why not prove for the entire world one
spiritual Body, one organic culture—with its systoles and diastoles, of
course, its tides, its shifts, and yet as well with its deep unity of
purpose, its continuity of form and of method of creation?

Death is a breaking up; a lapse from unity into multiplicity. When a
human being dies, only his unity is gone. Disease means _dis-wholeness_.
Spengler breaks up the world into these absolute cultures which are
really fragments, because there is the tendency toward death—toward
disunity—in his own high Prussian soul. _He_ is breaking and so is his
particular portion of the world. Let him, therefore, make conscription
of all the wisdom of his world to prove that his experience is the Law.

Nowhere is the man’s will to see crooked plainer than in his virtual
ignoring of the Jews. The whole Scriptural era before the Gospels is set
aside as “inorganic”—not cultural at all. Now, Spengler’s thesis is that
the pure mystical religious ethos is the trait of the birth of a
culture. Legalism, materialism, socialism, communism, the various
systems of utilitarianism, mark that culture’s end and herald the “state
of suspended death” which he calls civilization and which, with all its
wintry signs, he declares now to be upon the European and American
worlds. But if, hypothetically, he had deigned to consider the Hebrews
and Jews as a culture, what would he have found? Mosaism (read:
materialism, legalism, utilitarianism) came first! “Civilization” or
death came before culture or birth. And from this winter a gradual
unfolding toward the spring of the prophets. He would have found matter
even more disquieting than that. For this “organism” of the Jews is
hopelessly irregular: its seasons and states recur and are intermingled.
Nor does Spengler’s millennial limit for the entire story tell one-half
of its creative tale. He would have found, moreover, that this
hypothetic culture interpenetrated with others: revived and created
others, was revived by others.

And, looking from the Jews back to his Greeks and Faustians, he would
have found a similar intricate story. He would have found, in other
words, hope in lieu of his dear despair. Wherefore he looked elsewhere,
reasoned otherwise.

The culture-organism is a notion abstracted from human life. It _is_ an
abstraction. And abstractions are needed for intellectual work. They are
right when they are fruitful. To regard the life of Greece as a strict
cultural whole is wrong: yet pragmatically it may be correct to do so,
since it enables us to get the results which observation in isolated
status alone brings. The danger rises when we forget that abstractions
are of use qua abstractions. Take them for real and they turn monsters.

Indeed, the idea of the periodic rise and fall of man is probably a
similar abstraction. Yet it is justified so long as we employ it either
to criticize the past or to envisage a greater future. Both of these
acts require the analytic method: and analysis _is_ abstraction. And now
we are at the root of what ails Spengler. His “cultures” are counters of
the analyst. And these he has turned into a poet’s bodies. This is why
his book, although its impulse is poetic, cannot rank as great poetic
art. He tells us a good deal about the cultures which have filled the
world. And much of what he says is true and is profound. Nowhere, for
instance, have I encountered better comment on German music, on the deep
significances of Classic and Gothic architecture. Yet the cultures
themselves, whereof he speaks as breathing entities, do not become
plastically real. We learn much in detail about their traits. _They_
neither breathe for us nor move. They cannot. For they are not persons
of a drama: they are tools of an argument.

Human spirit takes forms, of course, and all forms die. But the
_constant_ is the human spirit. And it is poor philosophy to take its
forms as really abstracted from each other. Even the painter of a group
of persons must relate them, one and all, upon his canvas if he aims to
achieve esthetic truth.

Among the forms of human spirit are the arts which rise and fall; are
social entities like state and city, which are builded and broken. But
the Spenglerian assumption that the human spirit has no other life than
in the splendor of great buildings, great realms, great arts, is a
profanation. To prove that the abstraction called Rome was “decadent” in
the year 400 is not to prove that Man, then, was less great than in the
days when Caesar strutted. It may require a peculiar conjunction of
poetic genius and social readiness to produce a Vergil. But there are
other ways to the light. And some of them are always open.

Spengler feels death in his own soul. Wherefore he marshals a whole
retrospect of life to funeral him in true Prussian glory. But human
history is subtler. Man is a variable constant. He can achieve greatness
with the ruins of a world as his sole instruments, as well as with the
aid of outward fortune. Here, too, the evidence of the Jew might have
saved Spengler—from the writing of his book! Variant circumstance has
infinitely varied the expressions of this people. They have been warlike
and humble; unphilosophical and, later, abstruse beyond the Greeks and
Hindus. They have had no drama and flooded the stage: no worldly arts at
all, and later supplied such arts for all the world. They have been
pastoral, and adverse from the soil. They have been creators,
politically, of Greek polis, of Oriental empires, and of invisible,
Platonic Zions.

Only in so far as Man remained alive among the Jews was Jewish culture a
constant. And this is true of any culture. The undying kernel is
humanity: this is the locus of organic growth and of organic permanence
which Spengler should have studied. For cultures are never isolate. Cut
them off from their immersion in other cultures—in Life, they will die
uprooted. They move upon and within each other: they fall to rise, fade
to be transfigured.

Above all, the human spirit, in any cultural body, is capable of
_unprecedented transformation_, provided an unprecedented new element of
life comes fertilely upon it. This is the destiny of evolution. And
evolution is true, however discarded the mechanistic form of it may be
which Darwin degraded from Lamarck. _And this crucial fact—that the
culture, if to be regarded as an organism at all, must be taken as a
transforming organism; an organism related to the genus, not to the
individual, to the possibly infinite genus, not to the sharply delimited
and mortal person—is entirely ignored by Spengler._

Look on cultures, not as biologic bodies with their youth and age, but
as indefinite series like those in mathematics, and you have a fertile
abstraction in lieu of a dead one. These series have, each, their inner
laws, perhaps, but they are intertwined and any figure belonging in one
place to one series may differently occupy other series. Paul, then, who
in the Spenglerian sense was a “winter man” for the Jews, could be a
“spring man” for Western Europe. And Jesus, his strict contemporary in
time and race, could have in him all seasons.

Or take America. Spengler would rightly say that America was born of the
dying of European culture. So he condemns us to the _rigor mortis_ of
civilization; to a noisier Egyptian fellahdom. But what of the new
mythmakers, the springtime men, those creatures of pure ethos—Whitman,
Lincoln, Melville, Thoreau? In an organic body, shut by Destiny, they
have no place, and Spengler doubtless would deny them. In a life series,
self-contained yet indefinitely progressing, they are in place. For with
such a series each integer is at once the conclusion of what came before
and the outset of an infinity beyond....

_1926_

8. THE MODERN DISTEMPER

(_A diagnosis through Joseph Wood Krutch and Bertrand Russell_)

In the days when all men of a nation shared a view of life—worshiping
Jehovah and obeying Torah, dwelling within the cosmos of the Catholic
Church, accepting the divine right of their king or of their reason—it
was possible for the author and critic to make his individual
contribution without explicitly stating the philosophic ground on which
he rested. The base of his point of view was common, and was commonly
understood. The personal variation was what mattered. This, of course,
is the contrary of our modern state. It is precisely the foundations of
human vision—hence of human thought and of language—that have shifted.
In place of essential harmony in the premises of intellectual action,
there is chaos. But the American writer, despite this obvious fact,
seldom honors his public with a clear-cut statement of what his
philosophy and his religion are. He may even go so far as to deny that
he possesses any, and make of his lack a virtue.

Yet, however negative and confused, each human being must possess an
attitude toward life. Every thought is a judgment, every act is a
judgment, the interpretation of every word is a judgment: and judgment
implies a standard. If that standard is not stated, it may function
contrary to the conscious will of its possessor. But it functions
nevertheless. Current literary work is for the most part the expression
of a philosophy and a religion that are not stated at all. The essential
implications never come to light. The student could, of course, go to
the complete works of each writer and discover the traits of his
_Weltanschauung_; but most readers possess neither time nor power for
such research. They are therefore constantly taking in, under cover of a
stream of articles, biographies, poems, novels, plays, an attitude
toward life of which they never become aware. And this hidden attitude
works in them; shapes and nourishes, or corrupts them.

Joseph Wood Krutch is a well-known American critic. He is neither more
able, nor less so, than a dozen others who write in our liberal
magazines. But he has done what all of his fellows should have realized
the need of doing; and what most of them have shamefully neglected to
do. He has written a book, entitled “The Modern Temper,” in which, with
all the clarity and honesty at his command, he has set forth the
philosophy behind his judgments—the _measure_ of life that determines
his specific critical responses. How far he is justified in calling his
mood _the_ modern temper, we shall see. Certainly, his is _a_ modern
temper, widespread and hence significant. His book therefore offers an
occasion, exceptionally concise, to study the philosophy and spirit of
some of the men who write our books and who review them.

In order to take fair advantage of this occasion, I must begin by
setting forth in some detail what Mr. Krutch has said. In my summary I
shall, without criticism, follow the line of the book in its exact
progression, using wherever possible the words of the author.

_Chapter 1._ (a) Freud says that the unborn babe is the happiest of
creatures; into his consciousness has entered no conflict, nor is
there any limitation upon his desires, (b) As the babe grows up and
experience and knowledge make life miserable, he invents myths of all
sorts to recapture or protect his infant bliss. The realm of poetry,
mythology, religion, represents the world as a man would like to have
it, while science represents the world as it is. (c) Connections
between parts of life, explanations of life, reasons for
life—relations between the parts—are supplied by the imagination.
Which means, they are illusions, (d) Only man has rationality; the
universe is not rational, (e) Therefore man is an alien in the
universe. His rationality, being “unnatural,” is hence an illusion,
(f) Our morality and emotional lives are adjusted to a world which no
longer exists—because it has been destroyed by reason (science being
the reasoning from facts).

_Chapter 2._ (a) The social virtues of the humanists—serving one’s
children and posterity, living for society, etc.—are really animal
traits, (b) Don Juan is the real type of human, (c) An individualism
that is antagonistic to and destructive of the social virtues is the
highest human value, (d) Human individualism, the real human value, is
perfect separatism of each soul, (e) Nature reveals no ends only means
for its own self-perpetuation, (f) Man in civilization strives for
ends, and turns means (sex, thought, etc.) into ends. Therefore man is
unnatural, (g) Apotheosis of the ant, as the ideal of nature; since
the ant has no individualistic ends, living entirely for the anthill,
(h) The antithesis between natural means and human ends is
irreconcilable, for when man makes his own thought or sensation or
life an end, he neglects the procreation of the species, (i)
Therefore, all cultures no sooner ripen than they rot. (j) The
alternatives for man are an antlike stable group, or recurrent death
at the top. (k) Humanism is riddled with mutually destructive
contradictions.

_Chapter 3._ (a) The generation of Huxley, Tennyson, etc., was sure
that science was going to disclose a world in which man is perfectly
and regally at home, (b) But science has revealed only a vast
emptiness, in which, lost like Milton’s Satan, we wing our way. (c)
Scientific mastery of the inner life, the soul, leads likewise to no
real mastery of it, but only to more confusion. (d) There is no ethics
or morals. Anthropology and psychology reveal merely a variety of
ethics and morals. (e) Yet man persists in being an ethical, moral
creature. (f) There is no royal reason. (g) The reason in which
Aristotle, Shakespeare, Spinoza, believed is revealed by science to be
mere rationalization. (h) Science itself is doubtful. 2,000 years of
epistemology have made it dubious if man can know any reality outside
himself. (i) Science gives us one table—consisting of nothing but
electrons. Our senses give us another table. The former we know as
truth; but the second only can be of use to us in our experience. (j)
Science gives us the real universe. (k) Huxley, etc., were deluded,
thinking we could make this universe ours. (l) There is no relation
between the outer world of science and the inner world of man’s needs
and emotions.

_Chapter 4._ (a) Love is defined as the sexuality of the individual
separate ego. It is a discontinuous, physical phenomenon with no
implications in reality beyond its naked self. (b) Since science and
modern freedom have freed love of the old taboos and of the religious
and poetic myths, love, as more than naked sexuality, turns out to be
illusion. (c) Sex is a mere physical need, and hence has no values
whatsoever. Man is simply cursed with this need and must make his
peace with it, as he can. (d) We shall have to get used to a loveless
as well as to a godless world.

_Chapter 5._ (a) Tragedy is based on noble action, and noble action is
based on the belief (as Sophocles and Shakespeare had it) in the
dignity of man’s soul. (b) This dignity is an illusion; for it derives
from the notion that man is the center of the universe, or at least
that he belongs to the universe, and that his deeds have some
universal import. (c) With the going of this illusion has gone man’s
dignity, his possibility of noble action—and Tragedy. (d) The art of
the present can only distrust its own thoughts, despise its own
passions, realize man’s impotent unimportance in the universe, and
tell no story except such as makes it more acutely aware of its
trivial miseries. (e) Yet with the passing of Tragedy, our need of
Tragedy (i.e., of dignity, noble actions, etc.) has not passed.

_Chapter 6._ (a) To medievalism, life was an exact science. The laws,
rules, etc., of that science have broken. (b) Life regarded as a
science is now and forevermore intellectually indefensible. (c) The
modern mind, realizing that there is no Peace unless each life is made
into some self-sufficient pattern or order or whole of its own,
strives to achieve this. Strives, that is, to make life an art. (d)
For in science, there is only one Truth; but in art, there may be many
truths. Many men have striven to make their lives an art: e.g.,
Cellini, St. Francis, the heroes of Henry James’s novels, Anatole
France. (e) In art, there is no standard except the artistic
perfection of the individual work, according to its own rules. As an
artistic creation, Othello is no better than Iago. (f) In art, there
is no ethics. (g) To conceive of life as a group of works of art
means, therefore, anarchy. (h) No society can five by such a scheme.
Life lived as an art is pragmatically impossible, from the standpoint
of mankind.

_Chapter 7._ (a) What progress did philosophy or religion ever make?
None. It was only when the thinker discovered how small are the things
he can do, that he did anything at all: only when he renounced looking
for the key to heaven, that he was able to keep chimneys from smoking.
(b) The world grows more comfortable, as man ceases to strive for
anything beyond comfort. (c) But now, despite this progress, behold
metaphysics is reborn! (d) It is typified by the neo-Catholicism of
France, and the neo-Anglicanism of England. (e) Its essence is
expressed by T. E. Hulme, who wrote: “One of the main achievements of
the nineteenth century was ... the principle of _continuity_. The
destruction of this conception is, on the contrary, an urgent
necessity of the present.” The premise of the new metaphysicians is
therefore _dualism_, or discontinuity. It says: “There are two worlds:
one, the empty spaces of materialism and science, and two, the world
of man—spirit, faith, ethic, value, emotion, God. And there is
discontinuity between them.” (f) But there is nothing of which we are
so sure as of the _continuity_ taught by science. To earlier, naïve
men, the important thing about _living matter_ was that it _lived_:
but science can only be sure that it is _matter_. (g) We believe in
matter, accepting _its_ continuity, wiping out the merely hypothetic
world of spirit, value, etc.—the world of the modern metaphysicians.
(h) Metaphysics is but another petty effort to make life an art: it is
a confession of its own despair and failure.

_Chapter 8._ (a) It is not by thought that men live. The less they
think, the better they live. The more they think, the more willing
they are to die. (b) The very need of thought proves that man’s
vitality is ebbing. An animal, a barbarian, has no such need. (c)
Civilizations, constructed on thought, reach death; then the naïve
barbarians rush in, the man begins anew. (d) The fresh hordes of
barbarians destined to renew us are perhaps the Russians. (e)
Communism, despite its sophisticated phraseology, is a new barbarism.
In communism the individual does not count, only the anthill counts.
No religious speculation is allowed. Life is perpetuated,
unquestioningly, for its own blind sake. (f) But the inevitable
despair of the modern man who, having learned to think, has learned
the hopeless abyss between himself and nature, is not so bad after
all: since he has physical comfort. Philosophical pessimism is not so
hard to bear as cold or hunger. Ours is a lost cause, but we should
rather die (in comfort) as men, than live as animals.

Our next step is to examine the various elements of Mr. Krutch’s
philosophy of life: to test their quality, their typicality, and to
compare them; to measure their cogency as the cause of such desperate
conclusions. The references are to the divisions of his argument, as
catalogued, omitting repetitions and minor points.

_Chapter 1._ (a) states with apparent sympathy that a prenatal,
vegetable life, bereft of struggle or aspiration, is a possible
desideratum. (b) asserts that there is a dualistic conflict between art,
which is an illusory world, and science, which is the real world. Here
is the author’s doctrine: the relation between the unborn babe and the
womb in which it lives is real; but the relation between the born man
and the world in which he lives is illusion. Therefore, since life in
any individual consists of the relation between it and its environment,
and since no man could live an instant without some relation with the
air and the world, what Mr. Krutch is really saying is: the life of the
unborn babe is real; the life of the born man is an illusion. (c)
implies that relations and connections between man and the universe,
such as imagination supplies, are necessary for his welfare. But they
are illusory, since the imagination is delusion. Yet Mr. Krutch has not
even attempted to prove that imagination is delusion. This is his
premise, so that, of course, this must be his conclusion. (d) and (e)
invalidate man’s reason, since the universe has no reason. Yet the
author employs his reason to prove his alienness in the universe.
Virtually, he says: “My reason is invalid, since the universe is not
rational. Yet my reason is, miraculously, valid enough to _prove_ that
no relation between me and the universe exists.” What he should have
said, logically, from the premises, is this: “I declare my reason to be
exclusively mine. Therefore it is not a cogent measure to determine any
relation outside myself. To discover if I belong in the universe, I must
employ some measure common to both me and it: some measure that I can
move from myself to the universe.” Of course, if he had relied on some
such measure—a measure of mass, for instance, or of causation—he would
have found _continuity_ between man and the universe. Conclusion: the
chapter assumes that continuity between man and the universe is
desirable, but that absolute discontinuity exists. The assumptions are
sustained by means of indefensible logic.

_Chapter 2._ (a) states that since man’s social virtues are found also
in animals, they cannot be human. This is tantamount to asserting
absolute discontinuity between animal and man. Darwin, evolution, modern
biology, are therefore flouted. The author unconsciously assumes an
attitude more close to the early ascetic Christian and neo-Platonic
concept of an abyss between man and brute. (b) and (c) lift up an old
Spanish myth as the real human type. Don Juan was a “man” who could make
love to countless women without ever becoming tired, without ever
becoming attached, without ever changing, without ever feeling.
Psychologists class him as the archetype of “fixated adolescent” and
agree that he never existed, outside the realms of pathology. This
insulate human “atom,” the “perfect individualist,” with no social
relations or connections, this abstract fiction of infantile will, is
the human ideal of our author. (e) and (f) carry on the thesis of
discontinuity. Nature has no ends and is not moral: man has ends and is
persistently a moral creature. The traits of nature are determined by
studying the ant, etc.: they are by no means to be determined by
studying man. For the ant, by some inscrutable right, belongs to nature,
whereas man does not. This is really the premise of the argument: Mr.
Krutch makes it the conclusion. His syllogism in its pure form is this:
“Man is not part of nature: man has certain traits: hence these traits
are not part of nature. Therefore man, possessing these (unnatural)
traits, is not part of nature.” However, let us grant the premises that
the ant is in nature, man is not. The conclusion must be that man is
different from the ant. From this, our author is inspired to conclude
that man, to _succeed as man_, must behave like an ant! Man, to succeed
like a man, must build anthills and—nothing else. Conclusion: the
chapter declares, in the face of anthropology, biology, sociology,
psychology, that man is utterly apart from nature and from animals, and
that (even as the old ascetics and transcendentalists insisted) he is a
separate creation. Here is the syllogism, transposed for clarity: “A
tree is made of wood. Apples are not wood. Therefore, apples cannot
belong on trees.” But despite the organic difference between man and
“natural creatures,” he must behave—if he would succeed—just like the
creatures whom he in no way resembles! (Here, the ascetics were more
logical. Having posited man as different from the brute, they mapped out
for him a totally separate course.) Assuming the organic difference, our
author insists that the two relationless entities must go the same way.
He builds up the definitions of his humanism upon illogical
contradictions; and then dismisses “humanism” as full of the
contradictions of his own bad thinking.

_Chapter 3._ (a) and (b) are repetitions. (c) looks for science to
“master” the soul—and looks in vain. Pure science attempts merely to
measure, from the outside. For instance, it weighs the sun and names its
elements. It has no mastery of the sun, in the sense of controlling the
sun. To a slight degree, science has similarly tried to “measure” the
soul: i.e., to analyze its components. Pure science has never attempted
more, leaving the application of its discoveries to education and
religion. The modern effort in these fields is unknown to our author.
(d) comes down to this: science has found that _noses_ are not alike, in
any two parts of the world. Negro, Eskimo, Malay, Nordic, have decidedly
different noses. Ergo, science has discovered that _noses do not
exist_!... To prove that morals and ethics do not exist, it would be
necessary to prove that the sense of right does not exist or is at least
very rare. But anthropology shows that this sense is universal. Its
diversity of ethical and moral forms, of course, is due to the fact that
morals are a product of the interplay between men and their environment.
To say that morals vary is simply to say that men vary. To say that
morals do not exist, because they do not agree, is to say that men do
not exist because men do not agree. Chapter 1 revealed the genesis of
the author’s mood as the result of an exorbitant faith in reason. Now
(f) and (g) call reason a bad name, and dismiss it. Chapter 1
illogically employed human reason to establish the preponderance of an
external, irrational universe over man. Now the evidence of the mind is
declared to be poor: the universe itself may be but the projection of
that poor human’s reason which (in another part) has no existence within
the universe. Mr. Krutch has said: the table of science is real. The
table of his senses, like the neo-Platonist dwelling in Tyre or Batanaea
in the year 300, he rejects as unreal. But the old Tyrian was logical.
He lived where his faith was: he utterly declined to follow his senses.
This is too athletic for our modern. With one breath, he gives credence
to the table of electrons; with the next, he confesses that the false
table is the only one he ever hopes to live with! But the lack here is
greater than merely one of logic. Mr. Krutch has the most childish
notion of what science _means_, when it states that the table is a
congeries of electrons.... The language of science is mathematics; and
mathematics is a logic of _forms_. Everything that cannot be expressed
in symbols of mass and motion is nonexistent within the realm of
mathematics. Now, pictured in so far as it exists within the domain of
science, i.e., in so far as it is a congeries of mass in motion, a
table, of course, can be nothing but a congeries of mass in motion: a
chart of electrons. In the precise same way a living body, pictured in
terms of anatomy, can be nothing but an anatomical structure. But there
are other domains; for instance, human behavior, which has qualities
that the language of mathematics does not cover. In this domain, the
description of the chair as a group of electrons will not work: but the
notion of the child who has never heard of electrons, but who wants to
sit down in the chair, works very well, indeed. To say that science is
the _whole_ truth, because it prophesies an event like an eclipse, is
just as reasonable as to say that the ideas of the child are the _whole_
truth, because the child prophesies that it is going to sit in that
chair, and straightway does so. The eclipse takes place in a realm where
human quality is largely extracted: so we are right to deal with
eclipses in the logic of science. But man’s experience of beauty, for
instance, before that eclipse is largely in the realm of human value.
Here, the language of poetry is more adequate than that of mathematics.
To deny one of these measures in absolute favor of the other is as
reasonable as it would be to say that the architect’s blueprint is more
real than the house. Mathematicians of high order, of course, are aware
of the limitations of their language and therefore of the realm which
their language expresses. It is only the weakling, desperately in need
of an absolute Word, who speaks like Mr. Krutch, of the “certitudes of
science.” Not Poincaré, not Einstein. Not the typical Eddington who
says: “There is a constant unknowable in science.... Scientific laws are
merely truistic measurements of a single physical condition.... So long
as the electron is not reacting with the rest of the universe, we cannot
be aware of it.... A particle may have position or it may have velocity,
but it cannot in any exact sense have both. An association of exact
position with exact momentum can never be discovered by us, because
there is no such thing in nature.”... All of which is tantamount to
saying, that the mathematical electron is an abstraction, that it is a
mere plausible symbol; and that certitude can never exist in a field
which is built up on the assumption of discrete, separate parts; since
these parts do not exist—cannot exist in a continuum; and could not be
observed by man, even if they existed.

_Chapter 4._ A display of the same dualism and an assumption of the same
discontinuity between the various functions of man, and between man and
his world. The author’s attitude toward sex is worthy of the hermit in
the Egyptian desert. Sex, as an energy expressing the whole man and
woman, linking them in a full human relation, mobilizing their creative
as well as their possessive nature, is unreal for the author. But unlike
the antique gymnosophist whose rejection of sex he shares (while
ignoring his science of self-control and despising his God), Mr. Krutch
has not the courage or the will to carry out his own convictions. He
considers himself superior to his sex; but he is quite willing to
capitulate before it.

_Chapter 5._ The finest writing of the book is here. Mr. Krutch
discourses on Tragedy “as it once was” with discernment and fervor. It
is plain that he is attached to Tragedy, “dead child of fallacy and
illusion”; he can write with loving observation about the body of a
“fraud.” (a) and (b) assume discontinuity, once more. (c) and (d)
misread the modern status of literary art. Human dignity still exists,
noble action and noble lives still persevere. The disappearance of the
anthropocentric cosmos and of the personal heaven have enhanced man’s
sense of dignity within himself. He is responsible now, not as the child
of a mythic Father, but as the father of himself. Yet more is needed
than dignity and noble action for the production of Tragedy. Tragedy is
a social form. It must enact man’s dignity in communicable, common
terms. These terms are wanting. The modern conscience of the world has
not yet bridged from private into public symbols. There is nothing
discouraging in this. There were ages of social preparation, also,
before Sophocles and before Shakespeare: ages in which individual men
had dignity, in which men lived nobly, and yet in which no great Tragedy
was written.

_Chapter 6._ (a) begins with a dubious statement. The medieval science
of life was inexact; it was, indeed, founded upon self-contradictory
laws, and the dualism of these laws, which were supposed to conform to
life but did not, eventually disrupted medieval science. In “The
Re-Discovery of America,” I have gone into this question at some length.
Here it is not centrally cogent, so we let it pass. (d) and (e) again
imply discontinuity and discreteness not alone between man and the
universe, but between man and man. Men, says the author, have so little
relation among themselves that (f) if each man lived his truth according
to his essence, these multiple truths would sum to anarchy! If men are
essentially related, if the reality or truth of each is a focus of the
interplay of the whole (as philosophy, psychology and social sciences
agree), then their living by the light of their individual reality and
truth would bring them into active relation with one another, and would
result in harmony. These premises are denied by Mr. Krutch. The rest of
the chapter is less essential. It is interesting to note, however, that
it implies the impossibility of man’s ever achieving any inner principle
of order or control, whereby he might integrate his life within the
vicissitudes of the world. The chapter is the final admission of man’s
impotence. The artist is the creator of a kind of order. Man can be an
artist, says the author, when he deals with words or pigment or marble.
When he deals with life, man can be only an amoeba.

But the reader has had enough of this dissection of a dreary argument.
Let him give one final backward glance to Chapter 7, and I shall insist
no more. There he will discover that Mr. Krutch, after desperately
building upon the premise of _discontinuity_ (of absolute separation
between man and nature, between man and man, between certain traits in
man and certain others), refutes the “new metaphysicians” on the ground
that _they are the discontinuists_; while he falls back on the
continuity of science! The reader will agree that Mr. Krutch has now
sufficiently revealed himself as a befuddled man. If he were a thorough
pessimist like Schopenhauer or Gautama, if he were a thorough
transcendentalist like St. Paul, if he were a thorough materialist like
Haeckel, if he were a thorough individualist like Rousseau, we could
disagree with him and yet respect him. But he is thoroughly nothing,
except confused. His thinking quavers between contradictory extremes of
which he is not even aware; his values are a crazy-quilt of fragments
pieced together from the worn creeds of Manichaeism, Puritanism,
Rousseauism, Nietzscheanism, Haeckelian monism, etc., etc. His emotions
are infantile. His spirit is an aggressive fear that would deny to
others the dignity it lacks. He has nonetheless been worth our scrutiny.
For his argument contains most of the clichés and most of the
implications of our current “culture.” It shows the distemper of the
modern mind, unable to bear the chaos of three centuries of ideological
destruction, and unschooled to reform that chaos. If the average pundit
in “The Nation,” “The New Republic,” “Harper’s,” “The Atlantic Monthly,”
“The Dial,” were to put down, with a like candor, his philosophy of
life, it would turn out a no less pitiful confusion. If our current
literary arts were analyzed, they, too, would reveal a message as
ill-founded. Behind the stubborn bewilderment of Theodore Dreiser,
behind the lyric bewilderment of Sherwood Anderson, behind the bravado
of Hemingway, behind the dandified despairs of Cabell and the earlier T.
S. Eliot, behind the dainty froth of Thornton Wilder and of Carl Van
Vechten—behind the materialism, the cynicism, the indifferentism, the
impertinence, the impotence of most of our popular writing[9]—exists a
failure to think straight from the facts, and to feel straight, not
identical with the failure of Mr. Krutch, but essentially related.

The key to the situation—perhaps the basic cause of the “modern
temper”—is suggested in Chapter 7 of Mr. Krutch’s book. What the author
calls the “new metaphysic” is merely the old transcendentalism. These
men whom he attacks—neo-Catholics, sentimental mysticalists,
spiritualists, deniers of the “flesh” in one way or another—answer the
“certitudes of science” by declaring that there is _another world_—their
world of value, spirit and religion. Here, you have transcendentalism
defined. And Mr. Krutch rejects it on the proper ground of
discontinuity. But he does not see that his own argument—the
separateness of parts and traits of man from other parts, and of man
from men, and of men from nature—is discontinuity no less. And he does
not see that he has blinded himself to the discontinuity of his own
thought by the naïve method of calling _his favorite part of reality the
Whole_.

Like the two ladies in Kipling’s jingle, transcendentalist and
materialist are “sisters under the skin.” The transcendentalist
(Platonist, Christian, Christian Scientist, etc.) starts by dividing the
world into (1) spirit-value-quality-soul and into (2) matter-body-evil.
Having begun this dualistically, he cannot go on. Unknown to himself,
_he must reduce this duality into a whole_. This he does by denying the
part he does not like—by denying matter. (He may be subtle about it,
like the followers of Henri Massis, or crude, like the disciples of Mrs.
Eddy.) Now, he has his Whole, which is all life, all good—which is All.
But this All will not bear the buffets of the world: for it is really a
fragment. And the transcendentalist begins his endless labor of
corrupting reality, in order to make it fit his figment.... The
materialist starts likewise. He, too, divides the world into (1)
measurable matter and (2) the unmeasurable qualities of certain kinds of
matter—good, value, love, spirit, color, poetry, dream, etc., etc. He,
too, cannot abide this dualism, and must somehow manage to resolve it
into a One. He simply rejects what the transcendentalist exalts, and
takes what the other refuses. He sacrifices everything that is not
measurable matter. Whatever cannot be measured, he says, does not exist.
But the part of the Whole which he has legislated into nullity still
“functions” in him. He wears himself out, denying the domains of emotion
and thought which his petty “whole” has no room for. He becomes the
tired cynic, like Mr. Krutch; or the arrogant pseudo-scientific clown,
like Dr. Watson.

(Of these two sisters, it must be avowed that the transcendentalist is
less foolish. Both find “living matter.” The one rejects matter and
retains the abstract living: the other accepts matter and denies life.
But it is plain that we are more sure of the undifferentiate quality of
_living_ than we are of matter. Living without form does not exist, of
course: living-matter cannot be divided. But there is a difference of
degree in the folly of the camps.)

Between dogmatic transcendentalist and dogmatic materialist—each
hoisting his “part” into a Whole—stands the agnostic, of whom Bertrand
Russell is an illustrious instance. Mr. Russell understands the
limitations of the language of mathematics, and how they must limit the
scientific universe which mathematics symbolizes. He says that there are
two general logics: the logic of quantity and the logic of quality or
feeling. He says that both are right.[10] But since the logic of
quantity (measurement and science) is within the mind of the observer
who personally must follow the logic of feeling, Mr. Russell concludes
that there is no way of measuring the _measure_ value. So he decides
that it is all no use: man can never know anything since in order to do
so he would have to “get out of himself.” And of this agnosticism he
makes a dogmatic virtue.

The agnostic is not so different, after all, from the other two. He also
has begun wrong: he has arbitrarily divided the world into two parts, of
which one theoretically is “the truth,” and its expression into two
languages or logics. Having made this dualism, he also irresistibly is
driven to seek his Whole: and this he does, not by the sacrifice of one
part _to_ the other, but—since he cannot separate them—by the sacrifice
of both! For the Zero of the agnostic is a kind of Whole: nescience is
an assumed omniscience. The man who _knows_ that we cannot know is
dogmatic also. Again, in this agnosticism,[11] there is the same false
premise: the dividing of reality into two parts. Wherever this is done,
there must ineluctably follow confusion and falsehood, agnosticism or
despair....

The voices of confusion, agnosticism, despair, are the popular voices of
today. The average American reader of the so-called educated classes has
been brought up on literature and science that were crassly dualistic.
He probably left a dualistic church when he was young. He has fallen at
once into the camp of Rousseau (the individual as a separate, perfect
atom), or into the camp of dogmatic science (only measurable matter
exists), or into some allied camp like that of vulgar collectivism
(society is real, but its individual integers are not). These
statements, of course, are caricatures: that is why they express the
distorting effect of modern doctrine on the average mind.

The consequence has been that the common reader of books (the kind that
calls himself an intellectual) is helplessly lost and helplessly
confused. For his doctrine and the world will not go together. “Feeling”
draws him imperiously one way; “knowing” another. He is miserable. And
misery loves company. The literary art which makes that misery
respectable by “proof” that there is no other course, and by decking out
impotence in gracious gestures, becomes the popular art. Books have
engendered the modern distemper. The least they can do, now, is to
justify it.

The curative, recreative task is very hard. It is the work of the ages
before us. And those of us who choose it for our own will have to labor
in the cold of an unfrequented dawn. Yet, although it is the task of
generations—of armies of artists, of corps of truly scientific
thinkers—the essence of it can be stated very simply.

We have seen how even the dualist and discontinuist is irresistibly
drawn to believe in a Whole, and to create a Whole (out of his favorite
fragment). The concept of wholeness, the experience of wholeness, the
living of wholeness are the unavoidable aspiration of human life.[12]
This is so inevitable that even the intellectual denier of wholeness in
the effort of his thought and deed belies his rejection. The right
beginning, therefore, of our task must be to conceive a Whole _that will
be the Whole_. Let us passionately refuse all dualism, all denials, at
the outset. If science is so foolish as to say: “There is no color in
the colored thing,” let us challenge that science. If religion is so
foolish as to say: “Man’s soul is separate from his body,” let us
challenge that religion. If mathematics is so foolish as to say: “_x_
and _y_, although they are in the universe, are not joined, but are
discrete and separate,” let us challenge that mathematics. Let us say:

“There is one and only one irrefutable truth: _the universe exists_. Men
differ about what it is, men differ about where it is. Some say it is
all ‘matter,’ and outside; some say it is all ‘thought,’ and within. All
must agree that it _is_.

“There is, to this one truth, one corollary that is irrefutable also:
_the universe, for each of us, is focused from the self_. Self—whatever
it is—looks out, or looks in, on the universe. Men differ about that.
Yet must agree that self _is_ that focus of the universe which knows the
universe exists. Self, therefore, is _of_ the universe (it may be the
whole of it, of course) which self asserts.

“All my words, all my thought, all my action, shall be determined by
this single common truth—this single common premise of existence. My
words will be such that when they point to a ‘thing’ or a ‘state’ (as
all words do) they will imply the tentative existence of the thing or
state, within the certain Whole. For the thing is vague and fleeting:
only the universe is certain.... My thought will be such, that when it
represents a ‘thing’ or a ‘state’ or an ‘action,’ as all thought must,
it will imply its tentative existence within the certain Whole; and its
valuation of the ‘thing’ or the ‘state’ will be the relating of it with
the universe which alone is certain.... And my action will be such, that
it expresses this relationship of self and of all things involved,
within the Whole that is the premise of all thought and all behavior.”

If these few words, necessarily insufficient, suggest the revolutionary
task that challenges human life—the re-creating of language, of society
and of man in the image of the Whole which is God—they will have served
their purpose. But the task is not impossible. The ant is born with the
capacity to fulfill his function. Savage man was born with the capacity
to fulfill his. Why should historic man alone, of all creatures in the
world, be born without the capacity to realize himself? All history
attests that man’s nature is a striving toward the divine achievement:
the focusing of the Whole in his thought, the enacting of the Whole
(this is called holiness) in his deed. But whereas all art, all science,
all religion, are the striving toward this consummation, they have
always been too weak: so they have broken. Dualism, with its rejections,
its denials, its corruptions, is the symbol of this breakdown. Dualism,
in its twin forms of transcendentalism and materialism, has always
brought a temporary death to man’s immortal effort. History is a short
tale. It has been just long enough to tell us what, as men, we have to
do.

But let us Americans not delude ourselves. Only the Remnant lives. And
this is so, because the way of death is easier than life. Mr. Krutch has
stated well the inevitable end to which the dualist—whether he calls
himself materialist or transcendentalist or agnostic—is ineluctably
brought. “Ours is a lost cause,” he closes, “and there is no place for
us in the natural universe.” So he elects to die. This is the death,
indeed, of the race of men who look upon themselves as alien from the
remotest star, and who put their loyalty in life upon one jot less than
the Whole which is God. Let them die.... And for the race, still at its
dawn, let Spinoza speak:

_A free man thinks of nothing less than of death, and his wisdom is
not a meditation upon death, but upon life._

_1929_

9. THE “UNIVERSE” OF T. S. ELIOT

The collected essays of Mr. Eliot provide a portrait of a mind that for
the past twelve years has prominently played on the American literary
scene. The volume contains theoretical chapters from “The Sacred Wood,”
eleven papers on the Elizabethan dramatists, the entire brochure on
Dante, essays on the Metaphysical Poets and on Dryden, Blake,
Baudelaire, Swinburne. It represents Mr. Eliot’s social and theological
position in the studies of Lancelot Andrewes, in “Thoughts after
Lambeth,” and in the two essays on Babbitt et al., which did so much
more to discomfit the new humanists than the lunges of their foes. And
finally, it reveals the more casual man—delightfully—on topics like
poetry in drama, Wilkie Collins, Dickens and Marie Lloyd. The book
portrays a sensitive, finely endowed person. Itself an accumulation of
comments on many matters, it suggests a review of like nature: one is
tempted to pass from page to page detailing, comparing, dissenting. But
the place of Mr. Eliot as a literary influence in our time, and the
cultural crisis of our time, make this method inadvisable. It is
important to employ the book as a means for seeing the man whole; and,
having done so, to deduce a measure of his values as a leader and
thereby a measure of the time which took him as a leader.

The first revelation is of a man with an exquisite, almost infallible,
taste for the stuffs of literary art. Whether he touches a line of Dante
or of Swinburne, a melodrama of Cyril Tourneur or of Wilkie Collins, the
prosody of Baudelaire or of Blake, Mr. Eliot evinces an esthetic delight
which implies true contact with his subject. This first trait is
particularly distinguished in an age in which the field of literary
discussion has been almost monopolized by writers who may know something
of baseball or economics but who ignore the nature of literary art. The
second trait of Mr. Eliot, not less pervasive but more subtly entextured
in his book, is his moral sense; and this, coupled with his first, is
even more rare. We have had plenty of moralists—More, Mencken, Lewisohn,
are examples—writing on literature and totally insensitive to literary
esthetics; we have had a few “estheticians” disclaiming the moral sense
(as if esthetic form were some kind of insubstantial absolute and not an
organic configuration of ordinary human experience and motive), and
therefore writing with even worse futility on books. When Mr. Eliot
compares lines in Massinger and Shakespeare, contrasts tropes in Dryden
and Milton, draws a prosodic sequence from Donne to Shelley, he reveals,
in his taste and judgment, the moral integer: he knows the _human
nature_ of esthetics. This moral sense is organic in the man; it is no
mere acceptance of rules, it is not moralistic. Being the permeation,
within his specific literary experience, of his general view of life,
the moral quality in Mr. Eliot is religious. Everywhere, although he may
be discussing merely a choice of verbs in Middleton, he reveals a
general and definite attitude toward existence taken as a whole: and
this attitude, when logically formed, becomes religion.

T. S. Eliot, then, is portrayed by this book as a man with a sense of
the whole, with a conviction of his place in the whole, as a man engaged
in an activity (literature) for which he is fitted and to which he gives
his entire equipment. Such a crystallization comes close to what
Nietzsche meant by a cultural act; and in an epoch whose literary
critics have been insensitive and incompetent men, it makes Mr. Eliot an
exceedingly welcome figure. If, however, we turn from those
contemporaries in contrast with whose nullity he looms, and measure him
rather by his own subjects and by the literary exigencies of our epoch,
Mr. Eliot dwindles. No single major essay in this book, for instance,
can be said to be organic either as a presentation of its subject or as
a literary essay. Consider the “Dante” in whose study he is at his best:
every observation is exact, many a phrase stands forth a luminous gem;
but the observations merely mount arithmetically into so many pages of
running comment. Dante and his work are never objectified, never
dimensionally re-created either in the world of Dante or in the world of
T. S. Eliot. Or consider the justly admired pages on the Elizabethans:
they contain glimpses both precise and profound into the art of the
theatre, into the poets and their world. But none of the plays, none of
the dramatists, is made to stand whole, either in the epoch, in the
drama, or in some total conception of the critic.

If, then, as I have stated, there is wholeness in Mr. Eliot, we are led
to question what kind of wholeness it must be that can focus so superbly
on details in a dozen poets and a dozen epochs, and yet fail to envelop
any one of them. It is true that this failure is not always complete. In
the “Baudelaire,” for instance, or the “Swinburne,” we obtain a kind of
two-dimensional cross section, built from the prosodic study, which we
can place for ourselves in the organic milieu of the nineteenth century.
But in the essays on the more cosmic men there are no dimensions beyond
mere points of light. And in the studies of dynamic but little-discussed
figures, the failure is disastrous. The pages on Bradley, for example,
proceed without the faintest evocation of the two ideological
worlds—Hegelianism and English individualism—which Bradley sought to
synthesize. The chapter on Lancelot Andrewes is a mere ringing of
personal responses to the old priest’s music, which become sentimental
and pretentious, since there is no effort to place this music in the
symphony of Roman Catholic, Jewish and Arabic exegesis, from which it
was never truly independent.

T. S. Eliot, it becomes plain, is a man of integrity in the real sense
of the word; but his vision is such that it can never hold more than
details; and his energy is too weak to give organic form either to his
subjects or to his essays. Unlike most of his fellows, who suffer in a
chaos, he lives in a “universe.” But this “universe” of Mr. Eliot’s is
evidently small and minor. It is achieved by huge and deliberate
exclusions. It scarcely contacts with the modern world—the world whose
radical transformations in physics, psychology and economics have
dissolved all the old formal values. Nor does it really embrace the past
worlds with which Mr. Eliot is so sympathetic: Dantean Europe or
Jacobean England. This failure of mastery even on Mr. Eliot’s chosen
ground is revealing. No one can understand a living past who is not
actively engaged in the living present. For any past age is an integer
in the creating of today, and only by conscious sharing of this creation
can the past, as part of it, be understood. Fundamentally, Mr. Eliot’s
subjective love of the Anglo-Catholic tradition leaves him as remote
from what England really was as his distaste for modern problems leaves
him remote from us—and for the same reason.

That reason brings us to the heart of our portrait. Any living world,
whether it be Seneca’s or Shakespeare’s or our own, in so far as it
lives, is dynamic; and Mr. Eliot’s world is static. Wherefore, in
confrontation with a chaos of dynamic forces like our modern era, a
chaos which our dynamic will must meet, grapple with, and mold, Mr.
Eliot can only ignore; and in confrontation with dynamic worlds of the
past, he can only rather sentimentally adore. His own static vision
picks out details, reflects them and variates them into a kind of
series, like the stills of a cinema, whose total effect may be sensitive
and delightful, but cannot be organic.

This same static quality explains Mr. Eliot’s loyalty to a class and a
class creed. A static universe does not evolve, cannot believe in
evolving. It does, however, accumulate, and its “additions” make a
quantitative change—the one kind of change and of cultural contribution
which Mr. Eliot admits (see his essays on “Tradition,” “Individual
Talent” and “The Function of Criticism”). In a static universe,
transfiguration and revelation, and the capacity for these, are all
stratified in the past. And this is another way of saying that Mr.
Eliot’s spiritual experiences, from which issue his moral and esthetic
taste, although they are real, have the form not of life, but of an
inherited convention. Thus Mr. Eliot, with a religious sense, conceives
of no religion except the orthodox Christian; with a tragic sense,
conceives of man’s struggle exclusively in the cant meanings of Original
Sin; with a sense of the spirit’s need of discipline and order—both in
society and in the person—dreams of no method but that of a moneyed
class ruling through church and state.

Are such views valid, in the sense of having a relationship with
reality? Is there a position from which the universe is static; in which
transfiguration and revelation are past; in which Good, Evil, and the
given political and economic forms are absolute? The answer is Yes, in
the sense that death, being real, is valid. The living world of the mind
is as dynamic as the material world (they are one); there, too, the
individual life must partake of the dynamism of the whole, and when it
is severed from that dynamism we call it dead. The only difference is,
that in the world of the mind we do not commonly employ the term
“death”; we prefer to say conventional, dogmatic, static. Mr. Eliot’s
position is that of a man who has withdrawn from growth—in our meaning,
withdrawn from life. _He_ is static, his soul’s transfiguration is past,
whatever progress he conceives must be a mere consolidation of himself
into forms already uttered. His intellectual, spiritual and poetic
“life” is a rationalization of this death deep within him.

We hold now, I believe, the key to T. S. Eliot. He is a man who has
abdicated; but since he has been deeply sensitized to life, the
articulation of his experience remains an exquisite, lingering echo.
Such abdicated men have always existed, and have never been vital: even
in periods of cultural stability (like that of Dante, for example), the
cultural whole had constantly to be re-created by dynamic men. But in
our age, where stability has foundered into chaos, and where the need
for spiritual growth has become absolutely identified with the bare
struggle for survival, the discrepancy between a man like Mr. Eliot and
adequate leadership becomes enormous.

What we have really defined in our portrait of T. S. Eliot is a type of
minor poet. He is in the tradition, neither of our major poets—Poe,
Whitman, Melville—nor of the great Victorians. He is close to a
cultivated and popular figure like Thomas Gray; and his “Waste Land” is
a poem as good, and of the same nature, as the “Elegy.” Gray also was a
technical innovator with an immense appeal because he foreshadowed,
unconsciously, what was to become the dominant appetite of Europe:
closeness to nature. From the energy of this appetite, Titans were to
evolve the method for absorbing and controlling nature. But in Gray, the
motion took a reactionary form: a sentimental harking back to the values
of Puritanism (and to the language of Milton). The analogy with “The
Waste Land” is complete. Here, too, is technical innovation together
with a vague foreshadowing of what is _now_ the dominant need of the
world: the need of an organic, a livable Whole in which all men and all
man may function. This foreshadowed need gives to the poem its pathos,
its unity and its importance. But, as in Gray, it is negatively stated
by an evocation of a sentimental memory and by the use of old
materials—in Mr. Eliot’s case, more diffused and catholic, since no
strong Milton stands immediately behind him.

The questions remain: why has Mr. Eliot been a leader and what does his
leadership reveal about our literary generation? The questions are
swiftly answered. Even in an age of confused standards, there is
recognition of literary merit. Mr. Eliot’s clarity, it is true, is
achieved not by integrating the chaos that has bewildered us, but by
withdrawal. Yet to the men whom the cultural dissolution has frightened
and weakened (the majority of men), these limitations make him only more
acceptable. A long time ago, I wrote of what I called “the comfort of
the limit,” and explained its appeal to many types of mind lost in our
modern chaos. Only athletic souls can face a world that has become,
perhaps more than any other era, an overwhelmingly open and darkened
future. The temptation to limit this world, either by rationalistically
charting its future (a disguised reactionism) or by merely advocating
its reform in an image of the past, is great and manifold.

All the dogmatisms of our day are really such “limits”—such
simplifications of the real. There is the dogmatism of science (the
comfort of limiting reality and its mastery to problems of mechanics and
addition); there is the dogmatism of cynical despair (the comfort of
giving up hope and therefore struggle); there is the dogmatism of a
pseudo-Marxian dialectic (the comfort of explaining the human tragedy in
terms solely of a simple, solvable class struggle). And, for the weakly
poetic, there is the haven of an elegiac past, like Mr. Eliot’s, in
which great poets still sing and sure priests thunder.

The one way of life that has no limit and affords no comfort is the way
ahead—into the bitter and dark and bloody dawn of a new world, wherein
mankind shall integrate without loss the stormy elements that make the
chaos of our day, and its promise.

_1932_

FOUR: SOME PRACTICAL CONCLUSIONS FOR THE SURVIVAL OF MAN

[Illustration: © _F. Allan Morgan, A.R.P.S._]

1. SOLIDARITY IS NOT ENOUGH

(_Notes written in the Great Textile Strike of 1934_)

At dawn, they are all outside the mills: men, girls, mothers with
children. The huge structure, submerged in mist, leaps suddenly with
lights; the gates swing open; nobody goes in. The men talk in lively
groups, the mothers smile, the girls have put on their glad rags and
there is song in their throats. At the doors stand a few guards, glumly.
In half an hour, they swing the gates shut and the lights snap out. The
crowd of strikers, sure of its strength, strolls up the long flank of
the mill, stretches in the morning sun; idles down to the next mill
where stands another crowd before shut doors.

The strike has begun gaily. Men and women have joy of themselves in
their common purpose, like a young animal discovering the health of its
body.

Over on the North Side, before the open gates of a mill stands the crowd
of strikers. Half a dozen girls pass forward, their heads low, their
shoulders hunched. They are going to work. As the guards let them in,
women call after them: “Ain’t you ashamed!”; men mutter angry and then
ugly words. The thousand strikers understand the six disloyal girls; a
sharp doubt stirs in them all, particularly the women. “We need the
money too ... maybe they’re right. Maybe we’ll lose and only the girls
will win.... Rent ... milk ... coal ... winter coats for the children.”
The strikers are murmuring against their own fears ... the faithful
presence of poverty and cold ... which they see personified in the six
girls. The girls are at work now. The mill has become the form of their
betrayal, and of the fear of the strikers. Already the holiday mood is
gone.

Fall River molders in the ruins of an industrial era. Small mills, built
like castles with Colonial windows and with ivy on the brick, have been
abandoned to the sweatshop rats. And the wood houses of the workers have
died into festering shanties, the streets rank as rotten teeth. A man
climbs the outside stair of one of these dead houses and enters a room
at dawn. A mother stands at the stove; three men bend over a mimeograph
machine in the far corner; and from two cots four children eagerly look
up at the comrade.

He takes a leaflet, reads it, and nods. “Here’s another we need at
once.” The children hear the words: “... the independent unions ...
because they hate the U.T.W. they won’t come out. We got to show ’em
that they must come out. We got to make ’em see, even if the A.F.L. did
doublecross ’em, we must stick together....”

The men huddle again over the mimeograph machine. One of them is
Portuguese, the first shaft of sun lights his fine hard mouth; another
is a French Canadian, lumberly, musical, a Northern spruce walking the
world. The man who has come in with the text of the new leaflet is a
Yankee with the lantern jaw and gangling limbs of his Puritan
forefathers.

“Here, you drink coffee first,” sings the mother.

“No time——”

“You drink coffee first,” she insists.

Back in the South Side of New Bedford, five thousand strikers gather
round the bandstand in a park to hear their leaders. Near by the harbor
waters dance in the morning sun, dance up to the silent shadow of the
mills. But a little along there is a line of mills athrob with labor:
the great tire-fabric plants called the Fisk and the Devon, which
recognize no union and worked clear through the six months’ strike of
1928.

William Batty, chairman of the strike committee of the U.T.W., gets to
his feet. He is a burly fellow with a sharp nose and piercing eyes in
his red face. He praises the strikers, he praises the President, he
hurls his contempt and hate at the “Reds who are trying to make
trouble.” One gets the impression, as he talks, that the strike belongs
to him and to the other leaders: the workers are accessories and
servants. “Leave it all to us,” is the burden of his message.
“Washington”—sacrosanct word; “Strike headquarters in the Carpenters
Building”—a Temple which only U.T.W. leaders are good enough to enter.
The man has power, and has shrewdness. No doubt of that. Look at the
heavy shoulders, the thin-lipped mouth. But where does he belong? He is
standing on the bandstand a bit above the workers, he is talking a good
deal down to them: one hears, in the rumble of his hatred for communists
and shop committees, the echo of other voices, more shrewd, more potent:
voices of politics and Money.

After Batty comes Ferdinand Sylvia, U.T.W. organizer and local favorite,
who is running for State Representative on the Democratic ticket. A
little, passionate Portuguese he is, and clever; the hard black eyes are
nobody’s fool. How he praises the workers! “I’m proud of you. You’re
making history today. We got a great friend in the White House who will
help us against the bosses.... All you got to do is stick together.
We’ll go back to Washington and do the rest.” There is no personal
enthusiasm in the crowd for these leaders. But there is devotion to the
cause which these men lead; and above all, there is the will, tense and
a little wistful, to believe that they are truly leaders.

Sylvia speaks of the tire-fabric mills that are still working and
holding New Bedford from a 100 per cent tie-up. “Go down and picket,” he
cries. “Get ’em all out!” The mass, five thousand strong, moves quiet
down the harbor.

A youth with the high forehead of a poet, the Socialist Minister Glen
Trimble, starts the picket line before the Fisk and Devon plants. Batty
waves the crowd on the opposite side of the street to join; a couple of
hundred men, women, girls, are soon patrolling. They are having a good
time. They sing “Who’s Afraid of the Big, Bad Wolf” and, in lesser
number, the old I.W.W. “Solidarity” song. Down from the windows peer the
workers who refuse to strike. In the eyes of some is a defensive
disdain: “If I can despise the strikers. I’ll not feel the need to join
them.” Others are torn in conflict. Some of the boys and girls look down
in veritable terror: not terror at the pickets, but at something in
themselves that holds them back ... that makes them fear to join their
sisters and their brothers. _Fear of their own fear_—the beginning of
wisdom.

I slip into the office and ask for the manager. He says he’ll talk to
me, provided I do not disclose his name for publication (I do not blame
him). The same stale line about his “happy family of workers,” and the
conscientious refusal to let “outside and alien organizers interfere in
our affairs.” “We figure,” he says, “we can run our plant best with our
own men. We give better minimum wages than NRA has asked for.”

“But,” I ask, “aside from the issue of wages, don’t you recognize a
democratic, an American, a human issue? Labor is struggling to organize,
like the bosses and business. Aren’t you working against the American
spirit by discouraging your men from getting together? You admit
conditions are bad in other mills. Why don’t you encourage these workers
to help their brothers by joining the same union?”

The managerial eye grows cold and blank; the hands twitch. Then,
obliquely: “I don’t get you. What good would it do if these men struck
with the others? If one is starving, is it better that two starve?”

I realize the hopelessness of making a class-bound man hear the theme of
loyalty and dignity in another class—in the class which he must exploit
and degrade in order to survive. I expected no better. But as I return
to the town center (while the pickets march) for a bite to eat, I find
that the waitress is on the side of the strikers; the barkeep across
from the best hotel, mixing me an excellent Tom Collins, says: “Sure,
the tire-fabric mills should strike!” and the garage mechanic who fills
my tank is warmly and openly with the strikers. This was not the case
four years ago at the last great strike. Even a cop on the corner
confidentially leans to me and says: “I guess the boys’ve got it!”

Up in the Labor Temple sits a little Scot, Abraham Binns, and runs the
works. Dispatches pickets to hesitant outlying mills; phones Washington,
puffs his pipe, and wonders, if Federal Relief backs down, where the
funds will come from to feed the strikers. A sincere old-timer, he is,
with a good eye for the detail of the battle and no vaguest notion of
what, _really_, the battle is about. A thirty-hour week, a minimum wage?
Sure! But that a world is breaking and has to be replaced by another
lest the heart of mankind perish?...

I ask him about the National Textile Workers Union.

“They’re communists,” he burrs, as if to say: “They’ve got the
smallpox.”

The workers think they can force the bosses to abolish the stretch-out.
Binns sees that, and he’ll fight for it, too. But he does not guess that
what the workers really want is to live, and _that they must create a
new world to live in_. What chance has such a leader against Capital,
the shrewdly conscious foe that knows, indeed, it is fighting _to live_
and for its world to live in?

Yonder in Hazelwood Park, a young woman is talking: she knows what Binns
and Batty have never dreamed of.

It is dusk of the first day. Seventeen thousand of the twenty thousand
textile workers of New Bedford have come out; the exceptions being the
tire-fabric mills. The talker is Ann Burlak, organizer of the N.T.W.,
herself a weaver and the child of Ukrainian workers of Northern
Pennsylvania. The Boston and local papers have put the spotlight on Ann.
She is the “red flame”; she is reputed to be “in hiding in the tenements
of the South Side,” and the police announce they will run her in “on the
slightest provocation.”

Ann is a tall blond girl in her early twenties. Her body bespeaks
tenderness and grace; you feel that, were it not for a stronger love,
she’d spend a lot of her time dancing. The firm jaw, the clear eye, the
intelligent brow, make you understand why there’s so little time for
dancing. On the bandstand, all around her, is a bunch of kids. They
frolic about, none too silent, in the way of children; and I wonder how
she manages to keep her mind, and her hearers’ minds, on her subject.
The local N.T.W. organizer, Walter Burke, has the same concern; and he
tries to shoo away the kids. But he is far too gentle about it; the kids
refuse to go; and when Burke observes that they are not troubling Ann he
gives up. Then it comes to me, that far from disturbing this reputed
“fireeater,” the gathered children give Ann Burlak the appropriate
setting. Truly, she is speaking for them; of the gay young world they
can inherit, if their parent-workers know what they want, and fight for
it, and know how to fight.

How different her tone from the U.T.W. leaders who harangued their crowd
from the same stand! Ann Burlak appears to have faith in the workers and
to be pleading with them to take hold of their own battle. She has to go
easy. If she tells them straight what their leaders are up to, dickering
with politicians and capitalists, they will scare. If she tells them
straight what her motherly heart is full of: that the bosses cannot lose
under capitalism, that the workers under capitalism cannot win, they
will turn pale, and glance about them and cease to listen. It is a
subtle task, this leading of the ignorant American workers to the
realization of their own needs, of their own powers, of their own
nature. And Ann Burlak does it well. Gradually, unobtrusively, she draws
her hearers to the facts about “arbitration,” to the shortcomings of the
U.T.W., to the single devotedness of the slandered “Reds.” The men and
women listen. They have come, many of them, to have a look at the “red
flame”; a good show for nothing. “They say she’s hot stuff,” explain the
boys in the bench before me. Curiosity and frivolity fade, as the tall
young woman gives her sensible heart and her motherly mind to her
hearers. Mothers find themselves face to face with the truth: the bare
cupboards of their homes, the bare bodies, the bare futures, of their
children. Men see with their eyes what for long their hearts, despite
the palaver of journal and politics, have known: that they, the workers,
live in an enemy country! Latin, Slav or Yankee, they live in a land
possessed and ruled by foes who are sworn to exploit and to degrade
them.

At the close of her pleading to the workers to know themselves, to
respect themselves, to be themselves, Ann Burlak tries to lead them in
song. The men and women pitifully follow. And I am minded of the singing
at a camp meeting which I recently attended. How the words rang for
Christ’s second coming! Surely, had Christ been in his heaven, he must
have answered these splendid ringing voices. And the thought came: When
the workers of America learn to sing the coming of their world on earth
as their fathers, the Christians, sang for their world in heaven, the
Revolution will not tarry.

It is midnight, after the first day. Around the Fisk and Devon mills,
gravid with lights and labor, stand battalions of police: the
comparatively kindly town constables with clubs and the sinister
khaki-clad motor-cops with guns in their holsters and tear gas in
reserve. On the park side are massed the strikers, a good ten thousand.
Glen Trimble harangues them.

“They won’t let us picket? We’ll see about that. All of you here at the
crack of dawn. And when the workers file in to work, we’ll have a picket
line for them to pass through.”

A Negro in the crowd, in a quiet penetrant voice, says: “Why wait till
tomorrow? Why not picket now?”

The crowd turns toward the mill; Trimble accepts the challenge. The
police clubs stop them. The picket line halts, wavers, turns. And its
repressed energy gathers in hands behind. Stones fly from the park side,
and smash the mill windows. The police press forward.

Seven hours later, huge shut vans roll up to the red buildings and
disgorge officers. Far off, beyond an empty lot, fully a fifth of a mile
from the mills, stands the crowd and boos as the tire-fabric workers
pass through to their jobs. Near the gates, they form hesitant knots. A
man stays behind, while his wife enters. A girl looks up at a bevy of
her sisters beckoning from a top mill window, grasps her bag and joins
them. The police, guns swinging, slide across the empty lot, and the
workers fade in the grey background of the harbor.

“There’ll be no picket line,” shouts the police chief at Batty and
Sylvia. “We had enough last night. Look at them windows. Just you let
your men come up, and we’ll take care of ’em.”

But while the clubs and the guns mass at the Devon side of the huge
block, and the crowds die before them, another corps of workers comes to
birth on the farther slope of the mills; a line forms ... marches.

The sun rises, the mill throbs. The clusters of hesitant workers have
vanished, either inside to the machines or away. Suddenly, a gate swings
open. The crowd rises in voice: “THEY’RE COMING OUT”: and forward, four
abreast, march the Fisk workers to join their brothers and sisters.

Sylvia crows like a cock. “I’m proud of you!” And to Mary Vorse and me:
“Tell ’em in Washington and New York, New Bedford has the world’s best
workers.” Even the cops smile. The walk-out is 100 per cent. Now
what?...

I think of the heroic tiny groups of revolutionary organizers throughout
the nation: individuals, isolated, threatened, resourceless save for
their own luminous spirit. Pleading with the workers, against the
workers, to know themselves, to be themselves, to fight the good fight;
while the official leaders and the pack of papers and the towns and the
churches vomit their fear of the new world in the form of insults and
lies. Workers, like everyone else, get the leaders they deserve. The
workers are pitifully ignorant. Ignorance is the mother of misleaders.

I think of the great show of strength that the Textile Strike—like San
Francisco yesterday—has summoned. And, while Ignorance is in the saddle,
of the inevitable betrayal!

When the American workers _know_ what they are, there’ll be a different
story.

That is the task of all young men and women: let thousands, each in his
own way, go among the people, and humbly, quietly explain the cause of
Life, which is the cause of Revolution.

Solidarity is not enough.[13]

2. WITH MARX, SPINOZA....

This essay would not have been written at this hour had it not been for
the dark hour of the German Jews. But their catastrophe is the
deepening, within the crisis of the world, of a threat that for two
centuries has gathered against Jewry. Judaism has never solved the
challenge of the modern world; and this challenge is now a crisis—one of
those historic crises from which Jewry must be reborn, if at all,
through the threshold of death.

I do not stop to swell the lamentations that the fate of half a million
highly cultured Jews has aroused in all sane people. My object is more
stern. It is to analyze the response of the Jews in the United States to
Hitler: to expose and study from the response certain traits of modern
Jewry. There has been, in all the tears and rage, one constant refrain.
“Why are we persecuted?” cry the leaders. “We are not different from you
Gentiles—not in any point of thought, conduct or allegiance, that
_counts_. In Germany, we are good Germans; in America, we are good
Americans. There is no reason for this persecution.” Now, Jews have
often suffered persecution; although I suspect never by such ruthlessly
efficient methods as the German. But Jews have always known why they
were maltreated. It was because they were different; in thought, in
conduct, in allegiance, in all that counted, a peculiar people. It was
because they were Jews. This might cause great sacrifice. But since
Jewishness was the treasure of their lives, source of their beauty and
joy, they deemed even the price of persecution not too great to pay for
being Jewish. They took the persecution for granted, meeting it as
shrewdly as they could. The stress of their energy and will was focused,
not on avoiding or denying reasons for persecution, but on being Jews.
Here, then, is an enormous difference. For the first time in a history
of three thousand years, the leaders of Jewry do not know why they are
persecuted: for the first time they disclaim any reason for persecution.

This sheds new light on the German Jewish disaster. Are these half
million victims to be considered undifferentially as suffering human
beings? Then they deserve no more pity and help—no more and, of course,
no less—than the millions of other sufferers of our dark age: than the
Negroes of our South, for instance; than the countless families broken
by unemployment; than the communists whom Hitler and the Balkan sadists
are torturing and maiming. But such pooled pity does not satisfy the
Jewish leaders. In their appeals and reports they are careful to
separate their cause from others. They imply that German Jewry calls for
more than its quantitative share of the concern of a world riven with
anguish; they assume, indeed, that a great people, whose value to
mankind is high, is being menaced. Now this claim, on the evidence of
the past, can be denied by no intelligent man. The Jews have through the
centuries made contributions to the Western world that are inestimable,
and organic. But are not the contemporary leaders confused in time?
Should the Jews be saved today for what they were in the past? Such a
plea runs counter to all natural law. What is there _alive_ in
contemporary Jewry to distinguish it from any other quantitative group
of human beings?

The answer, alas! is, there is nothing. There are still, it is true,
traditional Jewish communes in Eastern Europe and North Africa. But we
do not hear from them; they provide no Jewish leaders. Indeed, the
modern world no longer gives them nurture or function, and they are
doomed by their own archaic form. The Jewry that protests against
Hitlerism and is menaced by it the world over, and that assumes its past
worth as argument for its present survival, is a “progressive” Jewry,
freed from that past. It is the Jewry that cries: Why are we persecuted?
Let us examine it, then, for Jewishness—and in its most prosperous
member, the Jews of the United States.

First, I must define the Jew; and this, fortunately, can be done without
raising the old problems of race and nation. To be a Jew has always
meant _to live a certain way of life_: a way which, evolving with the
ages and with the cultural-economic conditions of the lands, was yet an
organic growth from a single tradition. This tradition was one; and the
Jewish groups made it organic with their lives. Other nations had
prophets, the Jews enacted theirs. Other nations had arts, the Jews
lived theirs. Other peoples had high standards for personal, communal
and cosmic relations: the Jews, by the minutiae of their 613
commandments, made flesh and bone of their vision of the divine and the
eternal. The defining Jewish trait is _unification_ of values, personal
and communal, into an organic body of behavior. The defining Jewish term
is _action_.

The Jewish principle—unity of value and deed, harmony of person and
group—has always had a dual form. That the values of the person shall be
fulfilled in the community, there must be _social justice_. And that
within the cosmos there shall be preserved and furthered the values of
men and of Man, there must be _God_. Social justice, of course, was an
aspiration limited by the economy of the particular land and
era—limited, that is, by _possibility_. What did God mean to the Jew? At
first by miracle and confusedly, then rationally, God meant the dynamic
immanence, in the world of matter and of man, of what the person most
deeply recognized as his own truth and worth. God meant the principle of
order, the will to unity, in an otherwise chaotic multiverse. God meant
_value in Being_. The Jews, as a people, were the first to understand
that this Value-in-Being could not be abstract, not diffuse, not
impersonal, although it transcended individuals; but was myriadly
focused and fleshed in human lives. This means that for the Jew every
man and woman holds a purposive and creative place in life’s dynamic
process.

Now, bearing this definition in mind, where—outside the vanishing Old
World ghettoes of our East Side—are the Jews? Where in New York, in
Cincinnati, in Chicago, in San Francisco? The American Jew is as divided
in his ideals and his behavior as any Gentile. His amusements and his
arts, his family life and his business methods, his loyalties to class,
state and God, are the same tissue of contradictions. Like any Gentile,
he scrambles for the dollar, lives for his belly, shares in the stampede
for cheap delights. As businessman, he also exploits his brother; as
citizen, he votes for the same liars, crude or gilded. He shouts the
same chauvinistic phrases and is ready, with the rest, in time of war,
to rush with the courage of Gadarene swine to his destruction. He enjoys
(and writes) the same inane novels, movies. In a society whose crucial
trait is the abyss between ideal and deed, he—the Jew—is
indistinguishable from his neighbor. Is the “Jewishness” of these modern
Jews a dynamic pattern of action? or is it a mere moldering heap of
sentiment, vanity and habit?

I am speaking of the prosperous American Jew; not yet of the rank and
file, the humble clerks and clothing workers, artisans and mechanics.
These, as Jews, are passive. And in so far as they have Jewish leaders
to make them act (as contradistinguished from labor leaders, for
example), they choose the very type who have grown great by shrewd
collaboration with a world that is the antithesis, in every value, to
what is Jewish. This is a cardinal point in the lethal condition of
American Jewry. Its leaders and spokesmen, in their loyalty to the
exploiting class, have dangerously identified the Jew with a bourgeoisie
that is degenerate and doomed. In the Middle Ages, the Jew was allied
functionally with the rising burgher class whose destiny it was to break
the feudal system. This alliance was one reason for the Jew’s survival.
But burgherdom, in medieval Europe, played a different moral part from
the grande bourgeoisie of today. In the realm of practicable action, the
burgherdom stood for social justice and intellectual freedom, as against
the exploiting landowning gentry and the landowning church. Technically,
the profit system always meant exploitation of labor. But socially, this
early bourgeois exploitation was in the direction of justice, since it
was a departure from slavery and spread the margin of leisure whereby
man’s culture could alone advance. Until the invention of the machine,
some exploitation of men was needed in order that a privileged portion
of mankind could think—and at last, by perfecting the machine, and
spreading possible leisure to all humanity, abolish the need of human
exploitation altogether. The alliance of medieval Jewry with burgherdom
was therefore within the rhythm of advancing social justice, and hence
harmonious with Jewishness. But today, the dominant bourgeoisie is the
power of stratified social injustice: it is the power of war, of
spiritual death and intellectual ruin.

The intensity of American Jewish allegiance to the exploiting class can
be measured by the lives of the prominent Jewish leaders.

Almost without exception they are lawyers, judges, merchants, bankers,
proprietors of newspapers and other vast affairs; men who have grown
great in the American game of grab, men indistinguishable in spirit,
mind and action from thousands of other divided men who (with like
shamelessness) call themselves Christian. In a few instances, they are
writers and rabbis—apologists, rank or subtle, of the exploiting
classes.

Since their deeds are contradictions of their ideals, are such leaders
Jews? Is a folk that such men lead, a Jewish folk? From the Jewish
premise that value and vision must become action, a trait of Jewry has
ever been to create true Jewish leaders.

But it may be said, there are other Jews, greater than these: not
necessarily American, yet the real leaders of Jewry. There are Albert
Einstein, Sigmund Freud, Alfred Stieglitz, Henri Bergson, Leon
Trotsky ... others. These men are great, and are leaders, and are Jews.
But they are not leaders of Jews. They are leaders of scientists,
philosophers, artists, revolutionists. They and other great Jewish men
of our times are products of Jewish life; but modern Jewry cannot claim
them. They are the offspring of the old communal Jewry which still
existed in their formative years. And the fact that they have been
forced to function quite outside modern Jewry is another proof of its
present dissolution. The Jewish world no longer holds its men of genius;
the highest products of its spirit, of its intellectual discipline and
of its sense of life, leave the parent body. And the world of Jews, in
deadly division from the Jewish spirit, chooses leaders who hasten its
death.

Consider now the pitiful, the ironical condition of the Jew. To suffer
for a cause that our soul loves is bearable: is, indeed—since we must
suffer—man’s most enviable destiny. But to suffer for nothing! To be
hated and ruined as a Jew, when one’s life is not Jewish! The Jews of
Germany, taken as a whole, exist _inertially_ because their past way was
Jewish and because it takes more than a generation to destroy a way of
life so strong and so vital. If two hundred years ago, they had ceased
living as Jews, Hitler and the Nazis, who are ignorant men, would
probably not have heard of them. Hitler persecutes them now because in a
confused way he has inherited what was a real reason, then, for a German
in revolt against Western civilization to dislike real Jews who had so
much to do with its creating.

But that is only half the picture. The Jews are allied with an agonizing
and desperate middle class. When that class flourished, the Jews,
functioning in it, were tolerated by it. Now that it droops and its
spoils dwindle, it turns—like a man in a panic—against its weaker
neighbor. It is the principle of “every man for himself”—the basic law
of bourgeois life. Oh, the ironical confusion in the fate of the modern
Jew! He is persecuted by barbarous and desperate men because of ideals
that he no longer lives: and he is persecuted by a class to which, in
the main, he is loyal, because he is a rival of its barbarous way of
life—a way that contradicts his own ideals!

This is Germany today: who doubts that with variations it may be America
tomorrow? that it may be any capitalistic country where the Jew, _in his
present_, is a minority factor in a desperate middle class and _in his
past_ a reminder of the liberal culture of the Western world, against
which that desperate class is in revolt?

Now for the final questions: How can the Jew survive in the modern
world, _and why should he survive_? To answer clearly, I must first
state some of the reasons why he survived in the past. And since the
kaleidoscope of Jewish generations is so great, I take the latest period
of undisputed Jewish health: the Middle Ages (which lasted for the Jews
until the eighteenth century), when the Jews lived, harmonious and
whole, within a Europe of violent divisions, and often savagely hostile.

1. Jewry’s strict unity of ideal and conduct made the community,
although small and surrounded, an efficient body. All its energy was
conserved for itself and applied functionally for survival; whereas in
a greater community where value and deed are divided, there is
conflict, loss of energy, disease.

2. In Judaism, both ideally and actively, there was no separation
between man and group. Although infiltrations from Alexandrian and
Platonized Egypt corrupted the ancient Hebrew knowledge that there is
no personal immortality, this superstition of a surviving individual
soul (the deepest cause of the failure of European cultures) was never
strong against the healthy Jewish unification of individual and
commune. Therefore, medieval Jewry had no destructive egoism—no “great
men”—to mislead it for discordant personal ends. (The egoistic leader
battens on the accumulated egoisms of his rabble.) In Jewry, the
leaders were as organic to the commune as an eye or a brain to the
body. Moreover, these leaders were not soldiers, not megalomaniacs of
fame and money: they were the seers and the thinkers. Here, then, was
a social body whose eyes and brain literally led it—in contrast to our
modern world in which the eye and the brain often appear to be
discards or decorations.

3. Jewry had, despite theological and cultural differences, a deep
community of values with Christian cultural leaders. These recognized
the worth of the Jewish ethic; the beauty of the Jews’ concept of
Godhead as immanent in human action. The best in Christian Europe at
all times respected, and often learned from, the “hated” Jews. And
during the ages when the church was strong, it had enough influence to
defend the Jews against extremities of persecution.

4. Through these times, _Jewry had an economic function_. Its
activities in international commerce, banking, exchange, and in the
practical sciences of communication and of navigation, did a necessary
work in feudal Europe. And this allied Jewry with the struggling
middle class—the burghers who were to inherit and transform feudal
Europe. Without this function and the alliance with a rising economic
class, Jewry’s inner harmony of action could not have saved it. For
there would have been lacking a harmony of function within the larger
body of the Gentile world.

To return, now, to our time; the Jew obviously can survive, if the
immutable essence of the Jewish social organism can somehow be
transformed to function in the modern world. And obviously, the Jew
should survive, if this essential Jewish nature still has a part to play
before mankind. These questions are the subject for a book—which I shall
write, if I live long enough. Here, I can but sketch my answer.

The Jewish principle of value-in-Being, of God and social justice, of
the _enactment_ of value by individual and group, did not exist _in
vacuo_. It existed within a matrix. And this matrix was the agrarian
economic-cultural world—a world so basally static that the
eighteenth-century Galician Jew shared it, fundamentally unchanged, with
Amos and Isaiah. So long as the matrix held, the Jew could follow the
commandments of his prophets _as interpreted by twenty centuries of
fathers_.

We may now see why the Jewish organism broke in the impact with the
modern world. Modern industrialism destroyed the simple, paternalistic
economy under which the Jewish commune _approximated_ social justice.
And modern thought and science corroded the theologic-ethic form under
which the Jew knew God. To survive, the Jewish principle must be
transfigured into modern terms. Judaism must embrace an again workable
program approximating social justice: and that means the unequivocal
destruction of the unjust anarchy called industrial capitalism. And
Judaism must redefine what it has always meant—or meant to mean—by God.

Now, let the reader answer: Is the principle of social justice needed
today? And that _Man_ may live, must there be, not an anthill system,
but a living social form that nurtures the inward need of every human
being to create and to share his inward vision and value? If your answer
is Yes, then there is need in the world of what has been, for nearly
thirty hundred years, the Jewish principle. And as if history urged that
this cardinal dual need of the world may yet be the peculiar business of
the Jewish people (there have always been, in all nations, saintly and
isolated men who lived and died for it, as greatly as any Jew), the need
stands most forcibly answered in the work of two Jews—Jews of a “new
remnant,” Marx and Spinoza.

I place Marx first, because in the perspective of function he comes
first—although Spinoza lived two centuries before him and profoundly
influenced his thinking. Marx, from the Jewish premise of history as an
organism evolving toward “good,” has given to the industrial world a
realistic logic and a technique of social justice. Time, of course, has
amended or refuted many details of his plan; yet it is nonetheless
categorical that every man who wants to _enact_ social justice in the
modern world must be a Marxist in spirit although he may reject certain
Marxist dogmas. The modern Jew, if he is to exist, must interpret Marx
as a prophet as surely as his forebears interpreted Moses and Isaiah.
Marx (despite chronology) comes before Spinoza, because the social
discord is a disease immediately threatening the survival of civilized
mankind; and because collective consciousness comes before mature
self-consciousness. Marx without Spinoza is an imperative, immediate,
primitive first step in action. Spinoza, without Marx, remains an
abstract philosophy, removed from possible action.

But as Marx is the man who most surely projected the prophetic
aspiration of social justice into a workable modern program, Spinoza is
the prophet who has completed the purifying of the knowledge of God into
the God of inwardness, of substance and of action. If Marx carries on
Moses and Ezra, Spinoza carries on Isaiah and Jesus. It is he who has
best established the organic being of God _in_ matter and in human
thought; who has made rational the ancient mystic intuition that the
cosmic dwells within the man in so far as the man grows self-conscious.
By giving value to matter in a form acceptable to the age of science,
Spinoza will crown the work of Marx, who gives reality to a program of
social justice in the age of machines.

Now, it may be that Spinoza and Marx are the swan song of Jewry: the
final message of a great people before its ultimate death. It may be
that the work of unifying and enacting their contributions shall fall to
other peoples. There is a Soviet Union in the world, and China, and the
two Americas; from such virgin soil may come the fulfillment of the
prophets. I do not know. But I do know that, if the Jew is to survive as
an organic group, he must enact his modern prophets as his fathers
(after rejecting them, also) enacted the prophets of Scripture. And I
conclude by broadly sketching what the modern Jewish way of living must
be.

To begin with (for, I repeat—in the field of action, Marx comes before
Spinoza), the Jew must renounce loyalty to the exploiting class. Without
that, all his “service” is a “vain oblation.” Today, as twenty-six
centuries ago, the word of the prophet is true:

Bring no more vain oblations;
It is an offering of abomination unto Me;
New moon and sabbath, the holding of convocations—
I cannot endure iniquity along with solemn assembly....
Cease to do evil;
Learn to do well;
Seek justice....

“_Learn_ to do well!” In our industrial world, this means active
allegiance to the class whose historic function it is to abolish
economic exploitation—the base of social injustice and of war—by doing
away with economic classes altogether. This new allegiance will not be
easy; since the Jews for centuries have been forced to earn their bread
within the middle class, it will have the value, by itself, of a
religious conversion. But this new loyalty as a group does not mean that
the Jew will be submerged in the working class or in any proletarian
body like the communists. He must fight for the workers (and the farmer
and the intellectual, too, are workers), help them with his brain and
body; but he may be detached from them, at least at present, because of
his particular stewardship of values—“the realm of God,” in each man,
with which the harried and hungry worker has not had time to grow
familiar.

The revolutionary proletariat cannot trouble about God. There are good
functional reasons for the atheism of most Marxists. The word “God” has
been monopolized so long by the apologists of the class of exploitation:
theologians, philosophers, poets! To detach (as Spinoza did) the reality
in God from all the accumulated lies is a problem that calls for
subtlety beyond the present anguished state of the masses; for energy
that the masses and their immediate leaders _cannot spare_ from the
day’s struggle. It is unhistorical to expect the active revolutionist of
our time to do more than reject the false “God” of the churches and the
synagogues. Yet the true experience of God must not die even in the heat
of revolutionary battle. The first Marxist ends cannot be won and man be
raised from animal penury and fear into the human stage of security and
leisure unless the individual finds life good: and this can be only
through the Spinozistic sense of God. The experience of the divine in
mortal life must be preserved. Wherefore, there is need today of a
people, scattered through the nations, that know and nurture the
experience of God. By the tradition of ages, by their ancient prophets
and their modern thinkers, the Jews have inherited the challenge and the
_right_ to be such a people.

This Jewish “remnant”—and only the remnant, through the ages, has
preserved the Jew—will be loyal to the class of social revolution; but
through its consciousness of God it will be still separate, and must
remain so. It will understand the functional “atheism” of many
simple-minded revolutionists, and not demand that it be understood in
return. The God in man will be the still secret treasure it must
lovingly preserve against the day when men, free of fear and hunger,
learn to look within themselves where God is. Thus, the Jews will still
be a peculiar people. And they will be subject to the dislike and
distrust of the zealot for whom the word “God” is anathema; although it
was in the name of God that his values of social justice and individual
dignity were preserved and prepared, through the barbaric ages.

Now, a majority cannot rise to so high a challenge of rebirth. Bankers,
merchants, lawyers, professional men and politicians, even artisans and
mechanics among the Jews, will not yield their old allegiance to the
middle class, although that class turns (as it is turning!) against
them. And these will disappear in the general human welter, as Jews have
disappeared in Assyria, Babylon, Alexandria and Rome. But what a
magnificent remnant there may be! The teacher, the doctor, the engineer,
the clear-eyed man of commerce who knows and hates the rottenness of
capitalist commerce, the Jewish worker and the student—above all, the
Jewish student! Already, these are on the side of the productive class
that alone holds the energy to remake the world. Already, they accept
Marx. Let them fulfill this knowledge with devotion to the inward
value—the God whom Spinoza has explored in man and in matter—and there
will be again, in the world, a Jewish remnant!

Persecution? It is already here, even in America; and as the
capitalistic era shrinks, darkens and despairs, it will grow worse. The
lesson of Hitler, in offering the Jew as the traditional scapegoat for
the accumulated rage of a bewildered people, is bound to be learned;
already we have our little Hitlers, profiteers of suffering stupidity
and blindness. The Jewish people are going to suffer. And for those who
are individually and innocently hurt, and who know not why, there can be
no soothing words. Before their anguish, we can only bow our heads,
humbly, as they enact the world-old mystery of pain. But at least, for
the conscious Jew, the real Jew, there will again be reason for
Jewishness, reason to bear his persecution; and comrades to help him
bear it. And if individual Jews die, their death will be in the cause of
humane life; no man can ask a higher guerdon. And the history of the
Jews will hearten them with knowledge, that when a people is ready to be
persecuted and to die for a good cause, the cause lives—and the people.

_Postscript_:

This article, which appeared in “The New Republic” in 1933 and was
reprinted in many journals, is itself an abbreviated form of an essay
published in French by “Europe,” of Paris, and in Spanish by “Sur,” of
Buenos Aires. I have used it here, rather than the longer version,
because both are a project or programmatic abstract of the essay I
must someday write, in which all the terms of my argument will be more
fully and fundamentally defined. Recent attacks on socialism and
communism by prominent Jews—rich men, shallow, slavish, scared, of the
kind I have described, or by truckling labor leaders, make the writing
of this essay an imperative duty.

I trust it is clear in my conclusion about the possible leadership
of a Jewish “remnant” in our recreative task, that I have not
mentioned the like necessary role of a Christian “remnant,” only
because this paper deals specifically with the Jews. That the
prophetic-revolutionary strain is not dead in the American
Protestant churches is proved by the labors of such men as Reinhold
Niebuhr—one of the truly creative minds of America.

3. FROM MANY MESSAGES TO MANY PEOPLE

_i. War Is with Us Now
To the First United States Congress Against War, Held in New York, 1933_

Two thousand delegates from every part of the country, and of every
shade of progressive opinion, are meeting in New York in a Congress
Against War. A most laudable enterprise; and a most needed. For war
threatens the world; and with war, civilization, still staggering from
the blows of the last conflict, may definitely founder. The crisis is
immediate and tragic. But no congress of good men can avert it. All that
this congress can do is to bring men’s consciousness to focus upon the
present danger; and to raise men’s consciousness to the pitch of
intensity where it becomes action.

Before everything else, we must become aware that _war is already here_!
The political and economic setup of the modern nations IS war. Battles
on land and sea, millions of lives destroyed, cities and fields laid
waste, are but a concentrated form of the jungle anarchy that is called
“government” in the metropolis, that is called “diplomacy” in the
embassies, that is called “business” in factories, mills, mines and
markets.

So long as we have nations playing the lone game of power and
aggression, or banding together like packs of wolves in “alliance”
against other nations, we have war—_war in peace_. And all the
congresses of the world will not prevail against the inevitable,
periodic outbreak of this constant war into pitched battles.

So long as we have a social system within each nation that divides the
citizens into classes whose economic basis is exploiter and exploited; a
social system in which success means power gained at the expense of
others and enjoyed to the exclusion of others, we have war—_civil war_
in peace, within each nation. The small ruling class is brutalized by
its success in enslaving others; the large classes are brutalized by
their slavery—brutalized the more if they are not conscious of
enslavement. In such a social system (and all the “planned economics” of
capitalism can only make it more dangerous by disguising it), it is
inevitable that the state and the nation will reflect, on a large scale,
the jungle spirit of individual men. It is inevitable that the jungle
greed of such a state and nation will come into conflict with the greed
of other nations where the same system prevails. It is inevitable that
this _normal_ state of conflict shall break out, from time to time, in
formal warfare.

But our present condition of war is even deeper! So long as war prevails
in the internal economic structure of each nation, it will prevail as
well in the internal psychic structure of the men and women who
constitute the nation. A society that is a rationalized jungle of greed
and violence, encourages the lust for individual power in all men and
women and atrophies the social instinct in all men and women. The
members of such a society war upon each other in their individual lives:
and each individual soul is itself the seat of warfare. Of course, such
divided men band together in gangs, classes, nations, to make war upon
other gangs, classes, nations.

War has been the constant condition of what we call civilization. War
between individuals, war between classes, war between peoples—each
seeking profit and power at the expense of others. But there is a new
factor in the situation of today.

Modern science has made war deadlier than it has ever been: so that war
now threatens—not only persons and individual nations, but all mankind.
And this new factor of science, by its potentiality of large-scale
production and co-operation, has also made the old systems of
exploitation and rivalry no longer needed.

This is the crucial state of the world—its mortal danger and its hope.
War, as never before, is a menace to human survival. And war (military,
economic, social war) has been made unnecessary, as never before, by our
modern mastery of means of production, distribution, communication,
whereby it is feasible today _for all men_ to live in plenty and with
leisure, without enslaving or exploiting others.

The United States Congress Against War represents a good impulse. But
men’s protest against war is not a new event in the so-called Christian
world. It has been futile, throughout the ages, _because war was organic
in men’s way of living_. Similarly, this congress will not pass the
limits of “good intentions” unless it writes down formally in its record
that the abolition of war means revolution. Fundamental revolution.
Revolution in the social structure of the nations, and revolution in the
souls of men and women.

_ii. To the Students of Cuba_
(_April, 1931_)

I am following with deep emotion your struggle to renovate—indeed to
re-create—the life of Cuba. I am poignantly aware of the terrible
dilemma that confronts you. Your government is the slave of
irresponsible financial interests of the United States, and of the State
Department at Washington which with cynical hypocrisy is launched on a
deliberate campaign to imperialize the entire Caribbean. If your
prostitute government remains in office, Cuba will continue to be a
“factory” for American investments, a “factory” protected by no laws
such as limit exploitation on American soil; since you Cubans are not
citizens of the United States and your political “independence” more and
more is coming to mean the privilege of our exploiters to work in your
country with a ruthless irresponsibility which they would not dare to
display in their own. Yet, if you overthrow this government, it may mean
the landing of American marines in Havana and the swift setting up of a
new rule which will be the replica of Machado’s—the other horn of the
dilemma!

What can you do? What can a citizen of the United States urge you to do?
In a way I am ashamed to speak to you, ashamed to mention my own sorrow
and my shame, as a native of the oppressor country, who is helpless to
help you. Men like myself in the United States are powerless. There is
no enlightened public opinion here with any _punch_ to it. Most of our
good will is Platonic, in the bad sense of the word. And who, here, is
interested in a _students’_ revolutionary movement? Our intellectuals,
as a body, have lost contact with the spiritual, the _human_ source of
art; our student groups are too pampered and too infantile to get
excited over anything but football.[14] You are alone in your fight,
alone with the student bodies and the workers of other Hispano-American
countries who, for the most part, are as dispossessed as you. You are
alone with the truth!

Yet I can say to you: Go on! If for no other reason, _go on because only
then will you be happy_. Do not let so-called practical affairs and
worldly wisdom compromise your ideal. Look at the men who have made
these “necessary compromises”: the successful men, the rulers of the
world. See what ugly, misshapen, miserable men they are. Look well at
the “practical” men, and do not go the hideous way which they have gone,
and of which the ignoble shambles of the modern world is the result.
Even if you are imprisoned, even if you are shot down (as some of you
have been), you must have the satisfaction of knowing that you are
living the sole way that makes life tolerable. The enemies who have sold
themselves for dollars are not happy; the indifferent ones, in Cuba, in
the United States, who follow opportunism—for success, for pleasure, for
power—are not happy. They must drug themselves with ever more success,
more pleasure, more power, lest they awake to the intolerableness of
their way of living. And that is why they hate you: because you are the
constant revealers to themselves of their own nullity. They must deny
their nullity; and by a common psychologic mechanism they do so by
denying _you_ who make them cognizant of it.

I cannot promise you success in your present endeavor to free Cuba and
to bring Cuba to real independence. It would be false to promise it.
_You_ may not succeed in actually overthrowing the hideous anarchy of
which men like Machado are mere minor servants. So to do requires more
than your good will; it requires method, technique and long hard work.
But this triumphant method can come only from such will as yours. Before
you achieve it, perhaps you individually will be crushed, since the
ordered anarchy and greed of the modern world _has_ method. But even if
this is so—this worst which must be bravely envisaged, it makes no
difference in what you must do, not merely from a sense of duty, but in
order to be happy! You must go on struggling to free and to reorganize
your country; knowing that that labor is its own reward; that the man
who gives his life for freedom, by that fact is alive and is free.

You know that your problem as Cubans struggling for independence is not
apart from that of most of the other nations of America Hispana. Yet you
are divided from your allies, not alone by mountains and deserts and
seas, but by proud persistent nationalisms, by differences of race and
culture—the differences of Indian, Negro, mestizo, criollo. You are all
rich in plunder, and the imperialist power feeds on it the better by
exciting the disunities between you. But you are profoundly gifted
peoples; your resources of the spirit are as great as the resources of
your lands—greater, surely, than the difficulties inherited from your
historic pasts. You will help yourselves and one another, synchronously,
by deeper self-understanding. For brothers who fulfill themselves
achieve thereby not homogeneity, but harmony. Without harmony, both your
lands and your cultures would be taken from you. But you are already far
on the way to achieving this organic unity among you, in cultural terms
and in terms of political aspiration.

The imperialist power exploits you and incites you to fratricidal war,
because it has allies within your borders: your own capitalists and
their servants, the politicians. If you effectively fight the domestic
enemy, the foreign enemy will at last be helpless against you, even as
he was helpless against revolutionary Russia. I know that your task is
more complex than was Russia’s, because you are not politically united.
But, essentially, it is one problem.

And it is our problem, too. We in the United States fight the same foe
as you. This, when we attain a conscious intelligentsia and a conscious
working class, will serve to unite us.

Only from the platform of War Against Capitalism can you effectively
meet your national problem. For your foe is only superficially an alien
government; more deeply it is the capitalist power with its twin heads:
the Machados at home, the armed Dollar abroad. Most deeply, it is the
ignorance of all the people—in Cuba, in America Hispana, in the United
States.

Students of Cuba, you have come out into the clear air of action; you
have created leaders for yourselves, and a program. You are blessed in
this. I find myself almost envying you, rather than pitying you despite
your anguish and your struggles. My heart and my mind are with you. If I
could feel that my word warmed you in the slightest degree, heartened
your perseverance, it would be for me an inexpressible joy, who am alone
here in this great country—alone, and unable to act for and with men
like you who stand for everything I cherish.

NOTE: _This is one of many messages by the author clandestinely
introduced, printed in pamphlet form, and distributed, in
Latin-American countries under brutal dictatorships. It has been
re-Englished from the Spanish text._

_iii. The Touchstone_
_on the anniversary of the October Revolution, 1935_

More than ever, in this day of spiritual and social confusion, the
attitude of men toward Soviet Russia is a touchstone of the quality of
their good will. By this criterion three large groups stand forth.

There are, first, the enemies of the Soviet Union: and these are the
souls whose true love, despite all their fine words of God and Man and
Freedom, is for their pocket-books. Their real nature is manifest in
their leaders, archetypes of human ugliness and degeneration—the
Hearsts, the Hitlers, the Hoovers. A second group consists of the
“liberals,” the “socialists,” the idealistic “revolutionaries” who are
so busy deploring the mistakes and injustices committed in the Soviet
Union that they have no time to understand or to defend it. These are
men (when they are sincere) so infatuated with their own private notion
of what truth and justice should look like that the spectacle of a great
nation, heroically serving truth and justice with the humble tools of
humble human nature, leaves them cold. Essentially, these are men
devoted to their own egos: men whose professional love for mankind masks
a childish and shallow and ill-tempered self-adoration.

The third group consists of those who know that in the Soviet Union a
people is dedicated to the task for which in all ages the inspired
few—the prophets and the poets—have given their lives: the task of
founding upon earth, at last, a culture not of slaves but of men, a
society of universal justice, in which human truths shall be sought and
expressed by the common and communal life of all men and women. They
know that this people consists not of gods, but of humans. They know
that this people must meet and overcome, in their great undertaking, the
obstacles of a hostile world and, no less, the obstacles of their own
enslaved past and of their faulty natures as human beings. They know
that the labor of the Soviet Union is the more precious because it is
the work of humble men and women, subject to trial and error; and that
those who reject this labor because of its failures and imperfections
are at heart cowards. They know that if the dark years, in which we have
lived since the Great War, shall appear in the perspective of history as
the time of a great Dawning, the reason is the light that has come since
1917 from Russia.

These sincere men and women, today more than ever, while the clouds of
aggressive ignorance and ill will gather upon the world, must declare
their devotion to the Cause of the Soviet Union.

_iv. To Romain Rolland on His Seventieth Birthday_

Your seventieth birthday comes at a time when France holds in her hands
the immediate destiny of the Western world. The result of the struggle
for power in France between the elements of reaction typified by the
Croix de Feu, which are the forces of death, and the elements of
re-creation typified by the Front Uni, which are the forces of life, may
well determine the result, at least as it affects those still living, of
the same struggle throughout the Occident. If France fails, Great
Britain fails; the sinister forces in the United States, emboldened by a
century of capitalist anarchy, may sweep America into the same disaster.
If France fails, Western man may fail: a period of overwhelming darkness
may intervene for us all, before that future time when our progeny once
again takes up the Torch, held aloft meanwhile—who knows for how
long?—by the Soviet Union and perhaps by certain parts of China, India,
America Hispana that prove inaccessible to fascist armies.

In this crucial scene of mankind, as so often in the past, France plays
a leading role. And we, who celebrate your seventieth birthday, Romain
Rolland, perforce look upon you as the symbol of our hope in your great
country. You are a great man, a great _person_, Romain Rolland, because
you are a symbol; because a world spirit speaks _through_ you. At this
hour of crisis and of celebration, for many in my country, you incarnate
the genius which for eight centuries has sustained French culture.

This genius is a kind of “common sense,” rare alas!—both individually
and collectively rare. It is “common” only as essence, as the universal,
is common. It is compounded of a ruthless clarity in meeting the Real
and in relating its parts together; of an invincible courage in
following whither the Real leads at whatever sacrifice of individual
peace and comfort; and of a creative vision in so mastering the facts
that they may ever more closely conform with man’s intuition of his
dignity and destiny.

As I look about me at the world in which I have now lived for over forty
years, meeting men of all qualities of mind and temperament and talent,
I am appalled at the rarity of this “common sense”; and I am no longer
amazed at the cruel and dolorous pass to which the world has come. Men
of genius in the usual sense of the word are not rare; nor men of
physical courage, nor men of imagination. But terribly rare is the man
who, capable of knowing the truth, continues to serve the truth beyond
the point at which such service begins to make him suffer; terribly rare
is the man of imagination who, finding that he can sell his gifts at
high price unto the prostitutes and exploiters who rule the world,
elects still to give his gifts into the hands of his humble brothers;
terribly rare is the man who, possessing courage, does not get drunk
with it and lose his control of reality, finding it easier to move
armies or mobs than to master his own ego.

Men of this rare “common sense” will, perhaps, someday be more common;
this, then, will be a different world. But until that time of maturity
arrives, these men are historic. You are one of them, Romain Rolland. In
you, there is no break between conviction and action; between
recognition of the truth and every word and deed within your power to
fulfill it; between the responsibility you feel for your dignity as an
heir of Man and the responsibility you feel for your dignity as a
servant of men. Ten years ago, I called you a _whole man_, Romain
Rolland. I cannot improve this term, today. The whole man is he who
possesses this common sense I speak of.

I pray that France may duly celebrate the seventieth birthday of her
great son and heir to those intellectual and ethical qualities which
have made France great. If she does so, it will have to be by her
actions. France knows where the truth lies: will she have the common
sense to serve it? She knows that truth lies first of all in fearless
realization of the collective economic freedom which can alone make
_true_ those principles of _Egalité_, _Fraternité_, _Liberté_, which now
for a hundred years she has flaunted on all her public buildings. To
this end, the people of France must grimly sever from their loyalty to
_La Patrie_ those greeds and inertias and self-indulgences of class
which are the germs of fascism and of death. The hour has come when
France must accomplish the promise of her great tradition to herself and
to the world. She must mature into realization. It will hurt, it will be
heroic. But if France fails now, she goes down; she commits that suicide
of the spirit which ever precedes decomposition of the body.

Great nations mirror their powers and their vision in the lives of their
great men. Let France, today, look to herself by looking to you, Romain
Rolland. Let her study the clear progress of your thought from the
humanitarian idealism of your bourgeois youth, through the trial of war
which schooled you to find the truth in _facts_, and to the strong
revolutionary realism which is your deed, today. What France sees, in
studying you, let her understand to be the symbol of her own ineluctable
course, if she would continue to be France.

... This prayer to France, this challenge to France, this confidence in
France, is my way, Romain Rolland, of celebrating your seventieth
birthday.

_January, 1936_

NOTE: _This letter, before publication, was read at the great mass
meeting held in the Paris Trocadéro, on Romain Rolland’s birthday._

_v. To the Premier of France_

Dear Léon Blum: I presume to address you in this personal form because
you are more than the head of a French government, you are more than
leader of the People’s Front of the French nation: historic circumstance
has made you arbiter of the present destiny of Europe, perhaps of us
all. To fulfill your role, only a true man can suffice. And it is to the
man that I am speaking.

All the world knows just what is happening in Spain. The Spanish people
last February by a great majority chose a government of their
own—somewhat similar to the one you are now leading. Having created a
government of their own, they proceeded by means moderate and legal to
create a Spain of their own. And as their program began to take effect,
the enemies of the people of Spain, they who hate the people because
they exploit them and because their privilege depends on the continued
degradation of the people, took arms against the nation. Alone, these
reactionaries would have failed, for they had almost a whole nation
against them. Even with the trained mercenaries of the army, with the
resources of vested property and vested superstition, they would have
failed. But there were allies at hand—groups of the same kind, some in
power and in possession of their respective countries, dealers in
falsehood and blood, manipulators of ignorance and confusion. With the
military and economic aid of these enemies of the Spanish people, and of
their own peoples, Spain is being invaded, Spain’s democracy is being
crushed, the world is being forced to stand by day after day while the
machines manned by mercenaries and by the lusters after power destroy
the naked body of a nation.

Léon Blum, this is no civil war of Spain; this is the conquest of the
Spanish people by an armed international class to whom the destruction
of life in the defense of property is an everyday routine. This class
knows no frontiers. Its henchmen, called Hitler, Mussolini, Franco, the
Tories of Great Britain and America, may mouth national slogans, but
they are of one brotherhood, they adore one Baal and one Mammon. Was the
conquest of Ethiopia a civil war? Plenty of African troops fought with
Mussolini against the Negus who to them was a local exploiter less
desirable perhaps than the Italian. But who fights against the loyalists
in Spain? A military caste traditionally removed from sympathy with the
people, a clerical caste trained to submission to the powers that be,
all the dupes and victims of these castes—in other words, the forces,
whether in Spain, in Italy, in France or in Britain, who are the sworn
enemies of you, your party and your allies.

This is not a civil war in Spain; this is the civil war of Europe. This
is a war of attempted conquest, Léon Blum, waged by all the elements you
have devoted your life to combat against all the values you hold dear.
It is your war, Léon Blum; it is our war.

The fascists of Italy and Germany know this. They know that the fascists
of Spain are fighting _their_ battle of conquest. Therefore they are
giving aid to their own kind. And the reactionaries of Japan, the United
States, of every nation where money or privilege is in power, by the
force of credits and propaganda are helping the men of their own stamp
in Spain in order that their machines may prevail against a defense of
mere human flesh and blood.

This, Léon Blum, is the war in which you have declared that France must
remain neutral.

In all Europe there are three governments that can claim with validity
to represent the interests of the entire people. They are Spain, which
is fighting for life; your government, and the Soviet Union. The
U.S.S.R., far removed from the immediate scene of battle and menaced by
the two most aggressive militarist states of the world, Germany and
Japan, cannot act alone; cannot act at all without regard to the
decision of its sole ally, the French Republic. If the Soviet Union made
legal its overwhelming sympathy for the Spanish nation as against your
neutrality pact, you, Léon Blum, would fall; the People’s Front of
France would fall; there would be chaos in France to match Spain’s, and
perhaps a similar fascist uprising.

What does this mean, Léon Blum? It means that yours is the decision. In
all Europe, France alone can act; France by the unified nature of its
government and by the immediate threat to it both east and south, must
act.

The world knows where your heart lies in this struggle. We know that if
you could purchase victory for Spain with your life, you would gladly
give your life. We know that what holds you back is the refusal of the
British government to join you, is the criminal leadership of English
Labor, is—in a word—your fear of war waged against the lives of your
people by the united fascists. Yes, that is the superiority of the
fascists over men and women of the democracies. The fascists, despising
life, readily risk it; despising the lives of others, readily mislead
and destroy them; whereas at the Left are they who hesitate because they
think, because they feel, because they are more wholly human.

But, Léon Blum, it is a true saying: He who hesitates is lost. There is
another old saying: He who loses his life shall find it. The words
originally had a supernatural meaning. We can give to them a modern,
psychological, rational form. We can say: “He who through fear of losing
what he values dares not run risks is sure to lose what he values.” You
fear war if you aid the Spanish people; you fear to alienate Britain;
you fear to provoke the enemy who are giving aid to their factions by
every means in their power. And your fear is helping the enemy; your
fear is making more hopeless the cause of the people not only in Spain
but in Germany and Italy, who need encouragement to rise against their
executioners. Your fear is making more assured the position of the
fascists when at last, made mad by their successes, they choose to
unleash their war against you. Your fear—if need be—to risk war now is
making war inevitable; and meantime your hesitancy and caution are
throwing to the fascists the first battles.

Léon Blum, we who in everything human know ourselves superior to the
fascists must equal them in daring and in resolution. Otherwise, our
hatred of war and love of humanity will defeat us and deliver the world
to the war makers. There are times when the best strategy is to get
one’s eye on the goal and to move toward it. This is the strategy of the
fascists, and it has been victorious in Ethiopia, on the Rhine and
elsewhere. It is a strategy not every nation is able to pursue. Britain
is too divided to pursue it. France has the power, the perspective, the
government—and the incentive!—to pursue it.

Already the aid of the fascists to their kind in Spain, while France
rigidly and solitarily remains neutral, is demoralizing the masses of
all countries. They say to themselves, in England, in France, in Brazil,
in the United States: “The fascists help their gangs; we leave our
people to be massacred and their cities to be bombed.” The masses do not
understand that the U.S.S.R. must act with France, must uphold _your_
hand, Léon Blum. None of us understands what holds you back. Your
“neutrality” is breaking the heart and spirit of the peoples,
everywhere, who soon or late must fight _your_ battle.

If I have presumed to address this letter to you, Léon Blum, it is
because I know that my anguish is that of millions before the tragedy of
Spain; and that my expectation of your leadership is that of millions
everywhere—not excluding those in Italy and Germany—who cannot act
alone, but who are waiting to follow.

We implore you: Recognize the facts in Spain. Recognize that _there is
no neutrality_ in this irrepressible conflict between the two possible
futures of mankind—the way forward to human dignity, the way backward to
slavery. Open the frontiers of France for aid to the legitimate
government of Spain before it is too late! Help them with food, guns,
planes, credit, and above all with the moral force that will be theirs
when they know that the French are their comrades. If you do this, at
once, you will be doing merely what one legitimate government should do
for another; you will be doing merely what the fascists, the world over,
are doing for their conspirators in Spain.

If you do less than this, Léon Blum, you are betraying what your country
represents, what your People’s Front gave you the mandate to perform.
You will be betraying mankind.

_October, 1936_

_vi. Values of the Revolutionary Writer_

(_This address was read at the first session of the American Writers
Congress held in New York in April, 1935._)

1. _Definitions_

The world stands at the crossways. It goes forward into the socialist
order, or human culture, not as we know it but as we aspire to create
it, will perish. I do not say the way forward is certain. The life of
man is at issue; and with man the alternatives are present, at all
times, of life or of death. They are present now. But this is certain.
To agonize within the present system, to refuse to get clear by the
social revolution of the working classes, means the plunge of Western
man into a darkness to which his productive and his intellectual forces,
if they continue uncontrolled, must doom him: a darkness from which even
the intimations of light that have made our present, will have vanished.
This makes clear that the cause of the socialist society is not,
finally, a political-economic problem: it is a cultural problem: it is
_the_ human problem.

I propose to show the specific value, in this crisis, of the literary
work of art—not as a chorus of revolutionary politics, not as an echo to
action: but as _an autonomous kind of action_. I propose to show that
above all in America today, owing to our peculiar cultural conditions,
the revolutionary writer must not be a “fellow traveler”: that his art
must be co-ordinate with, not subordinate to, the political-economic
aspects of the re-creation of mankind.

This requires some definition of history and of literary art (for we are
engaged in making history). Fortunately, I may point to the historic
sense of mankind, implicit in Marx, as of a body which, like all organic
life, evolves by reason of inward assimilations of an objective world
from which it wins sustenance and on which it reacts—all according to a
pattern which is the nature of the organism: a pattern which in man is
capable of great variations chiefly through the process of what,
vaguely, we call consciousness.

The part of consciousness, or if you prefer, of _experience_, in
historic evolution is important for us because it leads straight to the
social function of art. The work of art is a means (among other things)
for extending, deepening, our experience of relationship with life as
this organic whole. The feeling of intimate kinship with any part of the
objective world is what we mean by beauty. As this relationship expands
to an inclusive social form, it is what we mean by culture. The basic
social function of art is _so to condition men that they will, as a
social body, be the medium for the actions of growth and change required
by their needs_. These social actions, to be healthy, must be performed
within the true experience of _the whole of life involved_—and the
conveying, the naturalizing, of this experience is the especial function
of art.

I will make this plain. Suppose a man needs to hammer nails for his new
house. He must hit the nails square on the head. But in order to do
this, the man must be in good general condition. If his eyes are poor,
if his brain is dizzy, all his technical skill of wrist-action won’t
save him from hammering nails badly. No man, it is obvious, is in shape
for even an act so simple as hitting a nail on the head unless his body
and mind are a fit _medium_ for the job. No society of men or class of
men is in shape for any needed action, save in so far as it has been
conditioned to become the _effective medium_ for that action.

In simple societies, the prime conditioning arts are lyrical: they are
music, the song, the dance. By means of the experience absorbed and
sustained through them, the folk becomes the effective medium for the
kind of action its emotional and economic needs, and the needs of its
rulers, call for. In our world where a chaos of forces is breaking down
the life of man before our eyes, the chief conditioning art—although all
arts have their place—must be one to synthesize our complex pasts and
present, and to direct them. This is the art of words, by which man
captures the worlds and selves that have borne him, and renders them
alive with his own vision.

We know now, roughly, the kind of social action to demand of our
literary art. It is in general to condition men for the multitude of
direct actions of which their life consists: it is, with us, the crucial
task of conditioning our readers—who we hope will be the workers, the
farmers, and their allies, to become the effective medium of revolution.

This subtle process of _conditioning_ is not to be confused with the
work of direct _preparation_ for daily struggle: work which falls
primarily to the teachers, the theorists, the organizers of party and of
union, who are largely conditioned by the accumulated work of writers.
And it must be clear that this work of conditioning the social body,
however invisible it seems, is the direct action of the writers. Words,
of course, are also instruments for “preparation”: reportage, pamphlets,
slogans, manifestoes (this paper is a kind of manifesto), have their
legitimate uses in political work. But only in so far as the need of the
revolutionary _medium_ is understood; and as the main function of
literary art, _which is to create this medium_, prevails. The writer who
forgets this, in order to bend his art to some seemingly more immediate
task, weakens the organic health and progress of mankind by betraying
his integral part in it. And in a world full of hunger, of hideous
injustice, of threatening war, only a clarity rare, hard and heroic,
will hold the literary artist to his own often thankless, often
obscured, yet fundamental, action.

2. _The American Writer Under Capitalism_

I apply at once these definitions to the special problems of the
American revolutionary writer. To this end, we must first glance at the
general state of readers and writers in our country.

We have never lacked literary talents. But the economic soil in which
they rooted was washed away ere the roots could hold. We have had great
writers. They have been influential abroad, where an organic cultural
life possessing what we still lack—memory and consciousness—could employ
them. Here, a Poe, a Whitman, a Thoreau, a Melville, could win only
sentimental disciples because the discontinuity of ethnic and industrial
conditions made their message obsolete more quickly than a generation
could mature to hear them. We Americans are weak—infinitely weaker than
the peasants of China, America Hispana, or old Russia—in that intuitive
connection with soil and self and human past, which makes of a folk an
effective medium for creative action. In this, our common state of
cultural malnutrition, the need of sound literary art cries aloud. But
our writers have been attainted by the disease they must help to cure. A
sense of impotence, derived from their unconnectedness with the vital
classes of the American world, has delivered them up to a succession of
European fads and dogmas; and their reflections of foreign literary
styles, like the shallow glints of a kaleidoscope, have added up to
nothing. When they have turned to our world, our writers have been
unable to resist the overpowering pulls of the capitalist system. They
have been entertainers, purveyors of candy and cocktails. When at the
end of the War, they began to rebel in numbers, their revolt was hollow:
an exhibitionistic beating of drums or a snarl and a sneer.

Now the deepest cause of their subjection as writers, and of their
impotence, is the hidden ideology of the American system, which—liberal
and conservative alike—most of our writers have absorbed. _And this is
painfully to the point_, because—whether they know it or not—the same
ideology prevails among our revolutionary writers. Far too many of us
have taken over the philosophy of the American capitalist culture that
we are sworn to overthrow.

3. _The American Revolutionary Writer_

This American ideology, which has ruled from the beginning—from the time
of those prophets of bourgeois business: Benjamin Franklin and Alexander
Hamilton, the true masters of our way of life—is a shallow, static
rationalism derived from the thinnest, not the deepest,
eighteenth-century minds of France and Britain: an empirical rationalism
based on fact-worship, on a fetishism (both unscientific and unpoetic)
of the finished cut-and-dried report of the five senses, which is not
remotely related to the organic rationalism explicit in Spinoza and
implicit in the historical dialectic of Marx. Had this vulgar
rationalism ruled in seventeenth-century England and France, there would
be no modern science. It is, since it ignores the organic and evolving
nature of man, by definition the foe of all creative work: the foe,
therefore, however hidden, of art and revolution.

Briefly, I will disclose symptoms and attitudes in our revolutionary
writers, which reveal (although the writers know it not) this sterile
philosophy....

(1) Disbelief in the autonomy of the writer’s art; in its integral place
_as art_ in the organic growth of man and specifically in the
revolutionary movement. This self-distrust makes the writer capitulate
_as artist_: leads him to take orders, _as artist_, from political
leaders—much to the dismay of the more intelligent of said political
leaders. It moves the American writer to misapply in his art borrowed
foreign definitions of values which have cogence in their place and time
of origin; but are meaningless here. This is a carry-over of the faddism
of middle-class American writing.

(2) From the same inorganic view of life and hence of art, comes the
servile or passive concept of revolutionary literature as primarily
“informational,” “reflective,” “propaganda.” This is, of course,
borrowed from the mid-Victorian, middle-class idea of utilitarian or
moralistic art. There is no reason why good literature should not be of
high documentary importance, and have a strong political appeal. Indeed,
in a dynamic age like ours, a profound literary art, insofar as it must
reveal the deepest evolving forces of man at the time, must be
“propaganda” for these forces and for the goal of these forces. But this
kind of propaganda derives from the work’s effectiveness as literary art
and is dependent on it.

(3) What murders the effectiveness of so much of our revolutionary
writing? The clue is the word “murder.” We all know that murder is a
conspicuous American trait: there are more murders, we are told, in the
United States in a day than in some European countries in a month. Now
murder is a sort of short cut: it is an oversimplified solution of a
problem—say, a nagging wife or husband—by simply getting rid of them. It
eliminates the _life_ of which the problem is a factor. What murder is
to the art of life, this dead philosophy is to knowledge; and translated
into literary terms it becomes “oversimplification.” Call it, if you
prefer, a kind of misplaced or _forced_ direct action. Here are some of
its results:

(a) Novels, aiming to reveal the revolutionary portent and substance
of our world, which are stuffed with stereotypes ... or imitate the
spiced journalese of newspaper reports of surface events ... or echo
the bravado (hiding weakness) of the Hemingway-Dashiell Hammett
school ... or borrow the drab pedestrian effects of Victorian
realism—as if these were adequate to convey the body—tragic, farcical,
explosive, corybantic, tender, deep as hell and high as heaven, of
American life!

(b) Proletarian tales and poems which portray the workers as half-dead
people devoid of the imagination, soaring wills and laughter, which
are the springs of creation—and of revolution.

(c) Laborious essays in criticism and literary history in which the
organic bodies of the works of poets and prosemen are mangled and
flattened to become mere wallpapering for the structure of a political
argument.[15]

(4) In these refusals, often by men of genuine literary gift, to
recognize the material for a deep revolutionary art, lies the one
ideological taint. Its final evil is to turn Marxism itself into a
dogmatically, mechanically _shut_ philosophy. And the effect of this,
were it to prevail on our eager, unschooled and sensitive youth (workers
as well as writers), would be to repel them: indeed, to drive many of
them (and not the worst because the worst bewildered) to seek a home in
reactionary schools of thought which do lip service to old forms of
man’s organic intuitions.

If the youth of America are drawn by the decayed loyalties of
nationalism and church into the ranks of fascism, it will be _in part_
because our revolutionary writers have been thwarted, by this dead
rationalism implicit in the dying capitalist culture, from making clear
that life today—in the depths that call for sacrifice, loyalty and
love—is on the side of revolution.

The American revolutionary writer ... to act his part, which is to
create the cultural medium for revolution ... must see life whole. He
will have a political creed; if he is a generous man, it will be hard
for him to forgo some share of the daily political-industrial struggle.
But his political orientation must be within, must arise from, his
orientation to life as an artist. Any course of action, any creed, lives
within the dynamic substance of life itself: _and this substance, in all
its attributes, is the business of the artist_. Therefore it is proper
to state that the artist’s vision of life IS the material of his art.

There is much confusion among us as to “material” and “subject.” The
subject of a book is a mere label or container; it may mislead or be
empty. Our revolutionary poet or proseman, by his loyalty to the working
class (whether born in it or not) and by his natural selection of
strong, expressive subjects, will write more and more of the struggles
of farmer and worker. But if his vision be sound, it will make—_whatever
his subject_—the material for revolutionary art. The term “proletarian”
applied to art should refer to the key and vision in which the work is
conceived, rather than to subject. It should be a qualitative, not a
quantitative, term. A story of middle-class or intellectual life, or
even of mythological figures, if it is alight with revolutionary vision,
is more effective proletarian art—and more effective art for
proletarians—than a shelf full of dull novels about stereotyped workers.

I wish to characterize two of our specific problems.

We writers have two highways for reaching mastery of our material. We
must go into life ... in persons and in self. These two ways are really
one; and the writer must follow them together, else he will make headway
in neither. If we look upon persons or classes, save with the eye of
self-knowledge, we will not see them; and if we look inward upon self,
save with an eye disciplined by objective understanding, we will see
only the mists of egoism which are the tree self’s denial. Even more
complex is this double way we must take, and never cease from taking. If
we look upon persons of one class we will not know them unless we see
the class opposing. If we look upon the present of any scene, we will
not know it unless we see within it the past ... and its dynamic
direction: its future. _This is the dialectic of the artist._

Because classes are in mortal conflict, _and because we have taken
sides_, does not mean they have nothing in common: it means they have
life in common. The class struggle, for us, is a focus of light, a
modern form, by which timeless ingredients of human nature common to
every person are revealed. It is not a substitute for understanding, but
a kind of _spectrum_ wherein hunger, passion, love, pity, envy, worship,
dream, fear, despair and ecstasy receive a dynamic modern order.

The other branch of our simultaneous highway is the self. Self is the
integer of value and of social action, the norm and form of life as man
may know it. The revolutionary writer must understand the _person_, or
his portraits of social struggle will be flat and ephemeral as the
poster on a billboard. As early as Shakespeare, Cervantes and Racine,
the artists were creating the image of the “lonely Soul,” the “atomic
will”—an image which served to make the _medium_ in which the
Protestant-bourgeois, individualist economy could flourish. We must have
poets to sing the image of the new and truer person: the person who
knows his integration with group and cosmos; the person through whom the
Whole speaks.

Only by bringing home the timeless human values in the class struggle to
every member of the exploited classes and to the sensitive of all
classes (for under capitalism all decent men and women are oppressed)
can the writer stimulate the will to revolutionary action. Only by
deepening his comprehension of cultural historic forms, such as
religion, in which, however faultily and impurely, man’s profoundest
intuitions of his organic nature were embodied, can the writer touch the
_spirit_ of the American worker and farmer and middle class, to release
their spirit from obsolete forms into new creative channels. And only
thus can we save them from the decayed devotions which are the
treacherous bait of the fascists.

Thus, for the American revolutionary writer to give less than the whole
picture is poor philosophy, poor art—and poor strategy.

We are aware there is war; we have declared this war to be ours; and we
know that in war strategy is important. But this is a war whose
battleground is the world—the world of extension and, no less, the world
of inward depth. In this battle are countless separate struggles. Many,
engaged on their particular fronts, are forced by the crisis of their
position to ignore its relativity in the whole; or to misprize and
forget values which do not appear to apply to their one urgent need.
Therefore we writers must know the breadth and depth of the whole
struggle: know its background and its foreground: know its ultimate
values within its immediate aims: in order that, by the common
experience of our work, the balance and unity be kept; that in the fever
of struggle no human heritage of truth and freedom languish; and that
the great war for Man move, without error or blindness, to its issue.

_Our_ special work is the universal. In our field there can be no
strategy but the whole truth.

If a writer doubts this, I doubt he is an artist.

If we believe that communism is the organic next step of the world to be
released by freeing the world’s forces of health, we must believe in the
art revealing man’s depths which bear this destiny. We will embody in
our work the substance of life: the blood, the bone, the eye, the
conscious embrace of necessity whose child is freedom—knowing that in so
far as we create this truth, we are moving, and moving those who hear
us, toward the Revolution.

_vii. The Writer’s Part in Social Revolution_

(_An address to the International Congress of Writers for the Defence
of Culture, held at Paris, June 21–25, 1935._)

We are all here, not as Frenchmen, Germans, Americans, but as men of
letters who conceive their art as an articulation of the human spirit.
Each of us bespeaks his class and his country only in so far as he
voices deeply his self, and thereby voices mankind. This is the
irreducible character of the artist. Whether he knows it or not (and in
our day, most do not know it, whence the fragmentary and corrupted
nature of their works and of themselves as men), the artist is one who
acts on the premise that the universal lives in the particular; that
cosmos lives in the person. This is the meaning of the mysterious words
“beauty” and “truth” applied to art. As we share the universal in a
particular form—a painting of a tree, a story of a beggar—we call it the
experience of beauty. We feel the unity between self and some other
object, a unity which (far from destroying) heightens and _makes true_
the particularity of both the self and the object. And whether we know
it or not, we value this experience of truth and beauty; we love it as
somehow good. This is another irreducible trait, beneath our
differences, of us all. The conflicts of our actual existence may so
weary and confuse us that we believe we long for death; may fill us with
distrust and despair: it is love of life, none the less because wounded
and twisted, that writes the darkest of our pages. In so far as a man
seeks beauty, he knows that life _is_ value; for the recognition of
beauty is nothing but the joyous acceptance of our part and our
participation in the body of living.

In periods of normal cultural rhythm, when the social body moves
moderately well in all its organs, this act of conscious participation
in life as a whole, the essential act of the artist, can remain implicit
in the quiet body of his story or song or picture. Such times see no
Congress of Writers such as this one. But today the forms and modes of
human existence, unevenly evolved, have broken the equilibrium which is
life itself. Today, the active and aggressive faith in life, the
revelation of its intricate harmony, which is the sole science of the
artist, is so at variance with the actual world that we feel the need of
a direct action, transcending the solid, quiet, slow certainty of art,
to reinforce our love and our vision in the experience of the people.

All this may seem to you irrelevant esthetics. But you must pardon me,
for the application I wish to draw from it (my brief message to this
Congress) is relevant.

The revolutionary hour in which we live is but the present phase of the
process, centuries old and destined to outlast almost the memory of
economic conflict, whereby man (not a privileged, exploiting class, but
man as a whole) will emerge into a conscious culture; even as the child
at a certain physiologic stage must become adult or go down into
degeneration. The key of the present phase of the long process is
economic; therefore the importance of the class struggle and the
imperative of entering it on the side of the workers. But the process
itself, now as ever, is organic. By which I mean that _the whole of
man_, heart and mind, subtlest sense and deepest intuition, as well as
belly and loin, must partake of it—or it miscarries.

The orthodox revolutionary creeds, which are the technique of the
transition of this crucial hour, do not comprehend the whole man. They
stress, rightly, the aspects of mass social-economic action. They slight
other parts of man: the intuitive, the intimate, the personal which
leads to the cosmic—phases which are the concern of the creative writer.
But since the process of man’s growth must at all times be complete,
these phases too must enter the revolutionary movement. Since they lag,
blame not the political leaders but the writers. Since in consequence
even the immediate economic aspect of the whole process lags, and
threatens to miscarry, again blame (at least in part) the writers.

Excluding the hordes of parasites and peddlers who dare call themselves
“writers” only in a world where illiteracy thinks it can “read,” we
might divide our writers into two groups. The first stress the sensuous,
the personal; strive perhaps after the mystic; ignore utterly the masses
of men, and that vast region of each man’s life involved in economic
forces. The other group, often recruited or converted from the first, in
the enthusiasm perhaps of their discovery of the social-economic factor
limit themselves to it or at least permit their awareness of the
intimate, infinite dimensions of human life to become dulled. Their
work, like the first group’s, is inorganic. And what is worse, the great
Cause—man’s rebirth—to which they are devoted continues, because of
them, deprived of elements needed to make it whole and to make it live.

Of course, the values of the creative writer, as I have named them, are
of the very stuff of the Revolution which, indeed, is the expression in
terms of urgent human need of just these values. At the heart of
socialism and communism, bequeathed to it direct by romantics like
Rousseau who saved it from the contradictory theological impedimenta of
the church, lies a view of men and of man which the degenerate humanisms
of the eighteenth century and the sectarian Protestant creeds had
abandoned. It is the view of human history as one organic body, growing
by tragic effort toward consciousness and justice; it is the view of the
individual (in so far as he is _real_) as an integer of this body, so
that the health of the whole and the health of every part are one; it is
the view that universal meaning is inherent in material behavior, and
therefore, that society becomes by its actions the immanent presence of
timeless value. This view, which I call the _organic_ view, is implicit
in every major artist, however dissident may be his intellectual
convictions. It runs with infallible continuity from the Egyptian
sculptors and the Hebrew prophets through the patrists, through the
builders of the Gothic, through the great sixteenth- and
seventeenth-century founders of modern science, through the systems of
Spinoza and Hegel—ineluctably leading to the historical-prophetic vision
of Karl Marx.

But in the eighteenth century there had grown strong a countercurrent in
the thought of Europe. So successful was the conquest of facts about
material bodies, the capture of their movements in the laws of
mechanics, that certain men, hungry like all men for simplifications,
cut down the organic humanisms of Erasmus and Rabelais, the organic
rationalisms of Spinoza and Newton, to a dogmatic empiricism of the five
senses. Theirs was a “universe” containing everything that moved by
mechanical law—everything, that is, except life. And the victories of
applied science were so great that these shallow empiricists swelled in
prestige; while the organic view grew enfeebled, being confined to
artists with no “scientific” magic to win them credence, to mystics
overburdened with theologies that contradicted their intuitions, and to
simple men and simple women with no intellectual weapons.

The nineteenth century, of course, brought giants who, in philosophy,
literature and the sciences, revived the organic view. In Marx, who
belongs to his century’s great tradition, the organic view of man is
fundamental, and is complete as in perhaps no other modern thinker
except Spinoza and Goethe. But this shallow empiricism was in the air.
Marx, overanxious to attack theological creeds and theological
metaphysics, at times fell into the use of easy terms borrowed from the
vulgar materialists whom he despised as much as he hated the idealists
against whom he aimed them. There are contradictions in Marx—great
prophet, great historical philosopher, great economist, but too harried
a man to be a complete logician. Often on the same page with an
unsurpassed word about man’s primal unity, in thought and deed, with the
dynamic principle of all life, one will find uncritical outcroppings of
sensationalism, phrases from the eighteenth-century materialists whom he
rejected, implicit denials of the validity and primacy of man’s
intuitive organic sense—all of which betray the premise of the Marxist
dialectic. These flaws in his work have been stressed as virtues in our
Western world by sterile men to whom a dogmatic reduction of life to the
report of the five senses offers comfort; and it has been a blight upon
our revolutionary growth.

I have no time, nor need, to expatiate upon the symptoms of this blight.
The course of socialism in nineteenth- and twentieth-century Germany,
France, England, America, is full of them. Witness the degradation, one
might almost say the disappearance, of the _true person_ from
revolutionary letters as the individual is shrunk from an organic
integer of cosmos to a mere quantitative factor of the collective mass,
possessing no inwardness—in consequence of which the human mass likewise
becomes denatured. Witness the simplification of the human being to a
passive product of environment—a fallacy which any man who has ever
planted a carrot seed next to a pea in a garden knows enough to laugh
at. And the failure, in judging the course, both hideous and heroic, of
contemporary events, to allow, in some adequate modern term, for what
our fathers fancifully called the demonic and the angelic aspects of
human nature. Witness the degradation of literature from being an
integral part of life’s creative process to a mere reflection of events
falsely conceived as “objective” or to a mere instrument for some
surface action. Witness, in such poor thought as this, the decay of
logic and the decay of metaphysics. Witness, above all, the dangerous
failure to distinguish between the true essence of religion—its creative
role in human culture—its major role, indeed, in the genesis of
socialism, and religion’s outworn theological and class superstructures.

All such systems indicate the contempt for human life and destiny which
comes when man is cut off from his primitive participation in the cosmos
without finding a conscious synthesis (the task of the writers!) to
replace it: all, regnant in the vulgar revolutionary thought of Western
Europe and America, strike at the very heart of revolutionary meaning.

In agricultural lands, such as Russia, China, great sections of America
Hispana, the folk have not lost that immediate integration with life,
through soil and self, which is the organic sense in its first phase.
The revolutionary doctrines of the West, even with their present
limitations, tend to free these peoples from the imposed dualism of
their priestcraft, to discipline them for technical advance against the
cloudy helplessness in which their misery has mired them, and to release
their instinctive monism so that it should flow with ease into the
organic view and form of a communist order. This procedure is
particularly plain in the Soviet Union where, despite an orthodox
terminology which frequently sounds mechanistic or traditionally
dogmatic, the true foundations of organic Marxism are understood and are
being passionately enacted by the people.

In our industrialized countries, the case is different. Science,
prostituted and misapplied, has for a hundred years plowed down the
primitive monistic intuitions of the masses: the same vulgar empiricism
which attaints our literature flouts its obscene excesses in every penny
paper, every school, every church. The stress on the “environmental,”
the “behavioristic,” the “economic” man, the failure to appeal, in
revolutionary terms, to _the whole man_, stimulates the mechanolatry to
which we are already enslaved; dims further our enfeebled sense of
wholeness from which alone fertility and power issue; and threatens our
whole birth-period with disaster.

I do not deny the economic-political causes of fascism. But only
psychological and cultural factors in all the people can explain its
spread. Among these factors, pre-eminently in Germany, was the failure
of both great revolutionary parties to lead forward into fresh forms of
loyalty and action those primordial intuitive energies of man which,
balked of their future, flow back into the rotted channels of church,
state, race, devotion to a Fuehrer mouthing decayed loyalties—there, of
course, to be exploited by the sinister high priests of Money.

I do not mean that the revolutionary cause in its present form fails to
enlist the heroic loyalties of numbers of men and women. The
concentration camps of Hitler give the lie to such a statement, as does
every industrial struggle of the world from the Saar to California,
where you will find them: the young crusaders for Man, the geniuses of
social vision, clear-eyed, quiet of soul. These are the gifted vanguard
who, of their own lyric health, absorb and express what is deeply
organic in the revolutionary movement. But the world cause cannot rely
exclusively on heroes or on the natural poets of action. Its Word must
be such as to fire also the more cautious, the more conservatively
rooted. And the more subjectively sensitive must also be entrained,
those hosts of men and women (teachers, poets, mothers, subtle and
humble craftsmen) whose religious and esthetic instincts are balked by
the antireligious and antiesthetic conventions of most Marxists. For
each youth who is driven into the fascist ranks because he finds it easy
to adore his own petty ego magnified in a Fuehrer or a Duce, there are a
score of men and women too decent and intelligent to be tempted by these
obscene gestures, who yet remain unmoved while the world cries for them,
because the appeal of Revolution _seems_ to deny those very depths of
man, secret and mysterious, whence the creative will and energy must
issue.

The New World of which the old world is in travail is like an embryon.
Until it be whole, it cannot be born. What intimate _knowing_ moves the
embryon, long after its organs and muscles are complete? This knowing of
completeness is the final phase of completion. When it is there, and not
before, the being issues forth; a new life breathes.... I sometimes feel
that all the organs, the limbs, the brain and nervous system, of the New
World exist. They are the laws of science, the methods of production and
communication, the treasures of literature, art, religious wisdom; and,
embodying these, the mass of workers possessed of the will and the
power, together with their indispensable leaders, drawn from all
classes, the intellectuals, the teachers, and technicians. Why, in this
hour of travail, when death threatens the generations of man, does not
the new life issue? The final integrality is lacking ... the final
completeness which is organic consciousness, the _knowing_ harmony of
all the parts, making them move to life, making them breathe together.
This, within the ready social body, is the function of the writer.

4. TERRE HAUTE HOTEL

Outside the nine cells[16] of our ward runs a corridor which is left
open part of the day, and through its barred windows I can see the
country. Right under my eye is the mellow muddy river that Theodore
Dreiser’s brother sang, long ago. On the banks of the Wabash I see a
huge pile of discarded cars, rust-rotted fragments of machines, shanties
paintless and broken-roofed, the homes of human discards among the
industrial refuse. This view outside the jail makes me feel at home in
the jail. The bars shut me into, rather than out of, a familiar world.

The men in the ward enhance my feeling of having come more close to the
America that put me here. There are details, of course, inanimate or
crawling, to which I am not used; but like the iron-barred windows, the
grated doors, these separating elements are superficial; they do not
avail against the growing knowledge that to be in this jail, among these
men, and with the police and the chamber of commerce outside, is to be
at the heart of a common experience and (given the society we live in)
to be in the right place.

The men of our ward have set up a “kangaroo court” to deal with their
day-by-day needs, problems primarily of supplementing the vile, scant
prison food, of bringing in tobacco, of keeping the ward comparatively
clean. The chief of the court is a big fellow whom I’ll call Jack, a
natural leader. Jack’s boyhood was rooted in the shanties along the
banks of the Wabash; joy for him, from the earliest days, meant escape
from everything familiar—and the best means to it, whisky. Jack found a
good job in a local gymnasium. One night of payday, he left a bootleg
dive and was attacked by a gang who knew that he had dollars in his
pocket. There was a fight; a policeman butted in, and a chance blow of
Jack’s great fist sent him to the pavement, fracturing his skull. The
cop died, and when Jack got out of jail, the police hounded him and no
more jobs were open. Jack had to eat, he had to drink, he had to have a
girl; so he became a bootlegger. From then on, he has spent half his
time in jail. When he’s out, he falls inevitably back into the one way
he can think of to make a living: a way of disorder, of course.

But here in jail (where he has more essential freedom than outside),
Jack is an orderly man. His cell is clean, his clothes, his toilet
articles, his library of magazines, are arranged in shipshape fashion.
With a Flit can, he holds the bugs in abeyance. And with his authority
as chief of the kangaroo court, he keeps order in the ward, teaching the
newcomers and the vags who are let in for the night their duties and
their places. Jack is a great reader, and if what he reads is trash, the
reason is that trash is all he knows—a point in common with the
vigilantes. He is the kind of taciturn man who, when he talks, talks
well. I note, in his description of his friendship with the little
children of his brother, the tenderness that is in him, the kind of
tenderness that I have often felt in preadolescent boys for very little
children. Utterly wanting in Jack is a critical sense of the society he
lives in, is a concept for understanding and bettering his place.
Mentally, spiritually, he is a child, because he has been stopped from
growing; but in his fixedness of immaturity certain virtues of the boy
remain untarnished. I observe this, when he comes into my cell, of his
own accord, and shows me the trick of driving the bedbugs to cover. And
I shall not forget his bringing out to me, as a spread for my bread, his
jar of peach preserve, a homemade gift from his mother; and his
sensitive lie, when he feels my hesitation (I know already what good
food means in jail): “Go ahead, eat all you want—I don’t eat that stuff
much.”

Jack’s right-hand man is Pop, who supervises the ward’s housework,
cooking, cleaning, laundry; an old man of sixty doing time for perjury.
Pop’s grey face has a beauty difficult to decipher, until one catches
its two main elements: a childlike, animal gaiety impervious to
experience and an old man’s pain, the two transfused into a mask, sly,
ironic, covering them both. Pop also is a child; he’d play treacherous
tricks on you if he chose; that is clear. But it is also clear that if
you touch his emotions decently, he may not choose. He’s a child brought
up among hostile and undiscerning masters. He does not question their
authority, nor does he conform. He escapes by remaining in the limbo of
his boyhood, a psychological place beyond good and evil but saturated
with feeling and humor.

Tony is the kind of chap who affects white buck shoes, and even in stir
tries to keep them polished if not clean. He wears a saffron necktie and
his blond hair is pushed up from his vague blue eyes in a pompadour.
Tony is being held for manslaughter—killing a truckman while driving his
car in a state of intoxication. He used to be an iron molder; but
molding jobs have run thin in the mills since the production of capital
machines has dwindled; and bad times have reduced him to the status of a
common laborer. He likes the boys in jail; he’s having a good time doing
nothing.

In this, he is like the farm boy from the Kentucky border—Willie—who
denies the grand larceny charge that has put him here, but visibly
enjoys his moratorium from cribbing corn and milking. Willie, with
brand-new blue overalls, curled-up amber hair, baby blue eyes, could
take the part of the farmer’s son in the melodrama, the youth smelling
of clover who comes to the big city to reclaim his girl lured by the
wicked traveling salesman. Willie is handsome, nonchalant, illiterate,
with many a childish virtue. Back on the farm he has a wife and two
kids. He is glad to be free of them for a while, and time for him does
not go beyond the vague measure of a season.

When night falls, the lock on the door frequently grinds and the
homeless men are turned in for a night’s lodging. Not to dull my story
(which has a point, if you’ll be patient), I’ll describe but two of
these night-guests. One is an old man, dweller in the filthiest shanties
of the Wabash, an aged human body clad in squalor. Sam has been south,
picking cotton, and he tells us it doesn’t pay. That’s why he’s back
home. He hails the tin dish of malodorous slop called supper with
delight; although he has no teeth, the pork chop gets gnawed to the
bone.

Beside Sam is a riveter, a young South Indianan who has helped build
bridges from Bayonne to St. Louis. He’s broke, but he expects a job
tomorrow. Meantime, he shows us where a molten rivet missed his pail and
caught him in the belly; his clothes ablaze, he jumped to the elevator,
dropped to a tank of water and then spent three months in a hospital
bed. But he’s all right now: to prove it he takes hold of a steel butt
on the ceiling with the forward half of his fingers and chins himself
six times. Old Sam jumps up, and chins himself twice, giggling with
pride. Sam’s body is still gamy and beneath his dirty unshaved beard is
the bland face of a boy, a face essentially sweet....

Do not judge that I am sentimentalizing this common, typical group of
failures. There are, of course, vicious men in jails, just as there are
vicious men out of jail. They are the exception in both categories, and
I’m sure I do not know in which one will find relatively more. Perhaps
the vicious among convicts are as rare as the Mellons, Rockefellers,
duPonts, among businessmen; as the Hearsts among journalists; as the
Hitlers and Huey Longs and Coughlins among politicians. Every broad
social group has certain basic traits; in the criminal group not
viciousness is such a trait, but _childishness_. Without a doubt, the
percentage of rotten men among criminals is so small it is no wonder
that every single man in my ward of the jail happens to be a decent
person.

That they were all childish was not accidental. It may help to explain
why I liked these men. I have always felt at ease among children. And
perhaps this means that I am something of a child myself. And this draws
me closer to the point of my story.

Two inmates of our ward, mugged and fingerprinted like the rest of us, I
have not yet named. They are the communist organizers, Andrew Remes and
Charles Stadtfelt. Stadtfelt is a young man with a playboy’s smile and a
body pitifully invaded by tuberculosis. So slight is Stadtfelt’s
resistance that every hour or so he must dive into his lousy bunk, under
mine, for a rest. When he emerges, there is a cigarette in his mouth, a
laugh in his eyes and a jest on his tongue. Stadtfelt’s way of curing
his consumption is to forget it, and devote his life to bringing on the
Revolution. There is no feverish strain in his good humor; it comes from
a harmony of the whole man which tubercular bacilli have not yet broken.
The second communist, Remes, is studious and unsmiling. Brought in later
than I, the first thing he does is to ask me for an explanation of why
the Soviet Union does not officially help the Spaniards. Back and forth
in the corridor we walked, while he put his questions. But the sobriety
of Comrade Remes is not objectionable to the camaraderie of the others.
His intellectual preoccupations trouble them no more than his working
out the crossword puzzles in the old papers (while they hunt tales of
daring gunmen and passionate lovers). Instinctively, they are aware that
Remes looks at the bosses with eyes parallel to theirs.

These bosses are the symbolic “fathers” who keep the boys behind bars.
They have tools. Lowest are the turnkeys, for the most part men
brutalized by long practice of mechanical repression without
understanding; men dehumanized to the bare repressive function. A little
less low are the police, dull incarnations of conformity to the rules
the criminals break; professional opponents, players of the same game as
the lawless but on the other side of the line and held in contempt by
the crooks, who instinctively sense that to obey the rules of our
society means less fantasy, less generosity, less feeling, than to break
them. The true fathers are rarely seen by their unfortunate children:
they are the respectable citizens, the taxpayers, the makers of the
rules, the builders of the courts and jails, the dealers of prison
terms. Implicitly, men like Jack, Pop, old Sam and Tony regard them as
children regard grownups.

These pillars of society are less childlike than the jailbirds. But they
are not the mature men fathers should be. If they were mature (and the
crooks instinctively know this), there would be less filth in jail,
there would be no need of jail at all, there would be less misery,
corruption, injustice, in the chaotic outer world which the jail’s false
order impotently strives to correct. The lawbreakers are children; the
sustainers of the legalized anarchy called the capitalist system are
neither children nor grown men. Call them men in a transition between
infancy and adulthood: that will explain their natural selection for
eminence by a society that is itself an epoch of transition. Capitalism
is a transition age between the naïve childhood of the race and that
mastering maturity in which alone the dreams, values, inventions of
childhood, transfigured, may flower.

This explains why the “children” are in jail; why the men who have not
grown up build the jail and place the “children” in it: it explains also
why the communists, who are creating a form for maturity, are in jail
with the “children.” The two communists in our ward (not to mention the
leading communist in a ward belowstairs) legitimately stand for a will,
a discipline, a method, whereby men may outgrow the irrational chaos of
capitalism, may mature to a society for both grown men and children. By
this truth, symbolically, the communists belong in jail. For the values
which they strive, through changing the laws, to bring to normal life
are kin to the values which the criminals, by breaking the laws,
impotently struggle to retain. The mature man rounds the cycle, giving
organic form to the lyric impulses of childhood—the need for joy, for
play, for freedom, which man outgrows at his peril.

But this natural conjunction of child and mature man in a jail, as
against the halfmen who put them in jail, may be still further
broadened. After we had been released, Chief of Police Yates came up to
us. Yates is a jaunty young man, smooth and hard-eyed, half a machine, a
type too common in this world, without whom fascism could not function.
He is simply the shallow young man, wanting to get along in a hurry, who
sells out to the forces in immediate power—the owners of the Machine;
and who wants for his reward, not so much a fat pay envelope as freedom
to give play to his desires, less destroyed than repressed into sadism
by the dull business world of which he also is a victim.

Yates saunters up to us, and tells us with pride of the congratulatory
cable he has received from Berlin. Capitalist society has already driven
back into infantilism the weakest members of the working class; and you
will find some of them in jail. Fascism is a method for finishing the
process! Fascism would _infantilize_ all the workers; not in order to
put them into jail if they are good boys, but to put them into a brown,
black or silver shirt, and stick a slogan in their mouths and call them
the fatherland’s army. Fascism is the program for the forced regimented
infantilization of the people; implicit or explicit, it must be the
program of all rulers under capitalism, since these rulers, by the
nature of their transitional order, are themselves caught in a
transition before maturity, are not men enough to lead men or to work
with men, and are compelled, before the threatening maturity of the
masses, to drive them all—through force, falsehood, ill nurture—down to
a morbid, regressive, infantile level.

Either down to infantilism or forward to the revolutionary beginning of
a human order in which normal men may normally mature: that was the
choice, palpable as human bodies, within our ward’s barred windows. In
the Terre Haute jail I had our world with me: the atavistic, careless
and abnormal; the future, striving to be; the dolorous, dangerous
present. I felt at home there....

_1936_

INDEX

Abélard, Peter, 134

Absolutists, 88

Adams, John, 96

Aeschylus, 137

Agnosticism, 216 _et seq._

Agrarian class culture, 96 _et seq._

Akiba, Rabbi, 197

Alcott, Louisa May, 167

Alexander, S., 84

“Alice in Wonderland,” Lewis Carroll, 169

Allan, John, 162, 164

Anarchism, 181 _et seq._

Anarchists, 179 _et seq._

Anderson, Margaret, 99

Anderson, Sherwood, 93–96, 99, 214

Andrewes, Lancelot, 221, 223

Aquinas, St. Thomas, 82, 121, 134, 153, 174, 197

Aragon, Louis, 131, 135, 165

Aristotle, 121, 137, 143, 204

Arlen, Michael, 140

Arrast, Harry d’, 67, 70

Art, 142 _et seq._, 149 _et seq._, 186
folk, 119
modern, 146
organism, 145
utilitarian, 142

Artists, American, abroad, 149 _et seq._
religious, 152

“Atlantic Monthly, The,” 214

“Atlantis,” Hart Crane, 106

Attitude toward life, 202

Augustine, St., 196, 197

Automobile, 48 _et seq._

“Ave Maria,” Hart Crane, 103

Bach, Johann, Sebastian, 83

Bacon, Roger, 134, 137

Bakunin, Mikhail, 177

Balzac, Honoré de, 5, 82, 179

Bancroft (ballplayer), 23

Baseball, 21, 38, 40

Batty, William, 233, 234, 236, 239

Baudelaire, Charles, 167, 220

“Baudelaire,” T. S. Eliot, 223

Bazalgette, Léon, 165 _et seq._

Beethoven, Ludwig van, 82, 179

Bergman, Henry, 63, 67

Bergson, Henri, 84, 128, 191, 245

Berkman, Alexander, 177, 179, 180

Bernard, St., 134

Billings, Josh, 131

Binns, Abraham, 235, 236

Blake, William, 82, 98, 134, 163, 179, 190, 220

Blum, Léon, appeal to, 265–269

Bourne, Randolph, 59 _et seq._

Bradley, George G., 223

Brady, Edward, 179

Brancusi, Constantin, 148, 149

Braque, Georges, 148, 149

Breton, André, 135

“Bridge, The,” Hart Crane, 102 _et seq._, 106

“Broken Tower, The,” Hart Crane, 106

Brooks, Van Wyck, 150, 166, 168

Broun, Heywood, 39

Browder, Earl, 287 _n._

Brown, John, 167

Brown, Sonia, 149

Bryan, William Jennings, 129

Buddha, 84, 98

Burke, Edmund, 78

Burke, Walter, 236

Burlak, Ann, 236, 237

Burns, Robert, 114

Cabell, James Branch, 141, 144, 145, 214

Calverton, V. F., 276

Calvin, John, 134

“Calvin Coolidge. His First Biography,” 45

“Cape Hatteras,” Hart Crane, 105

“Capital,” Karl Marx, 85

“Castle of Otranto, The,” Hugh Walpole, 116

Cather, Willa, 141, 170

Cellini, Benvenuto, 205

Cervantes, Miguel de, 138, 276

Cézanne, Paul, 83, 147, 149

Chaney, Lon, 115

Chaplin, Charles, 61–73, 115
“Circus, The,” 73
clothes, 67
“Gold Rush, The,” 115
mementos, 62
reserve, 63 _et seq._, 72
studio, 67
working habits, 66 _et seq._

Chasseloup, Comte de, 62

Chateaubriand, François René, 165, 166, 167

Christians, 215

Christian Scientists, 215

Citroën, M., 112

Civil War, 97

Claudel, Paul, 165

Clemm, Mrs., 162

Clive, Henry, 67

Cobb, Ty, 23

Cocteau, Jean, 131

Codesido, Julia, 149

“Collected Poems of Hart Crane, The,” 108 _n._

Collins, Wilkie, 221

Communism, 181 _et seq._

Comte, Auguste, 82

“Confessions of Rousseau,” 85

Congress Against War, 254–256

Conrad, Joseph, 138

Coolidge, Calvin, 45 _et seq._, 125

Coolidge, Mrs. (mother of Calvin), 45 _et seq._

Cooper, James Fenimore, 5

“Country of the Pointed Firs, The,” Sara Orne Jewett, 169

Cowley, Malcolm, 128, 135
letter to Waldo Frank, 131

Crane, Clarence Arthur, 98 _et seq._

Crane, Hart, 96–108
ancestry, 98
birth, 98
death, 106
employed in candy business, 99
literary associations, 99
mystic, 100
purpose of work, 97

Crime, 35 _et seq._
(_see also_ Murder)

Critics, 139, 141 _et seq._, 202

Crocker, Harry, 67, 70

Croly, Herbert, 75 _et seq._

Crossword puzzle, 27

Cuban independence, message to Cuban students, 256–260

Cultures, 193 _et seq._

“Cutty Sark,” Hart Crane, 104

Dada movement, 128 _et seq._, 165
in America, 129 _et seq._
in Europe, 128 _et seq._

_Daily News_, New York, 123

Dante, 82, 102 _et seq._, 121, 134, 138, 142, 153, 174, 220, 225

“Dante,” T. S. Eliot, 222

Darwin, Charles Robert, 83, 84, 86, 90, 191, 200, 207

Davies, Marion, 63

“Decline of the West, The,” Oswald Spengler, 188–201

Delacroix, Ferdinand V. Eugène, 83

Democritus, 137, 195

Dempsey, Jack, 30, 32
(_see also_ Prize fighting)

Derain, André, 148, 149

Descartes, René, 83, 137

Dewey, John, 79, 135, 174, 216

“Dewey’s Suppressed Psychology,” Scudder Klyce, 216 _n._

“Dial, The” (magazine), 214

Dickens, Charles, 5, 221

Dickinson, Emily, 96, 98

“Divina Commedia,” Dante, 102 _et seq._, 121, 191

Donne, John, 99

“Don Quixote,” Cervantes, 73, 103

Dostoevski, Feodor M., 76, 82, 83, 86, 92, 134, 190

Dreiser, Theodore, 174, 214, 287

Dryden, John, 220

Durant, Will, 135

Eddington, Sir Arthur, 211

Eddy, Mary Baker, 215

“Edgar Allan Poe Letters Till Now Unpublished,” 161 _n._

Edwards, Jonathan, 96

Einstein, Albert, 137, 138, 211, 245

“Elegy,” Thomas Gray, 226

“Eleonora,” Edgar Allan Poe, 163

Eleusinians, 137

El Greco, 149

Eliot, T. S., 153, 214, 220–227
leadership, 226
lives in static world, 224 _et seq._
traits, 221 _et seq._

Emerson, Ralph Waldo, 77, 97, 98, 163, 167, 168, 173 _et seq._

Engels, Friedrich, 181

Epstein, Jacob, 149

Erasmus, Desiderius, 283

Esthetics, 187

Ethiopia, conquest of, 266

Euclid, 137

“Eureka,” Edgar Allan Poe, 163, 164

Euripides, 142

“Europe” (magazine), 253

Fairbanks, Douglas, 65, 115

Fairy tales, 170, 172

“Fall of the House of Usher, The,” Edgar Allan Poe, 163

Fascism, 285, 294

Fascists, 266 _et seq._

Faure, Elie, 184

Felipe of Spain, 124

Fichte, Johann Gottlieb, 97

Firbank, Arthur, 131

Firpo, Luis, 32

Flaubert, Gustave, 165

Florida, 41 _et seq._

Folk art (_see_ Art)

Ford, Henry, 55, 112

Fort, Paul, 133

France, Anatole, 15, 205

Francis, St., 82, 205

Franco, General, 266

Franklin, Benjamin, 77, 274

Freud, Sigmund, 82–93, 203, 245
began as physician, 84
dream interpretation, 86
family, 83, 89
follower of Kant, 88
scientific value of work, 88

Freudian system, indictment of, 91 _et seq._

Frick, Henry Clay, 180

Frost, Robert, 97, 170

Fuller, Margaret, 170

“Function of Criticism, The,” T. S. Eliot, 224

Gabirol, Ibn, 134, 197

Gauss, Karl Friedrich, 138

Gide, André, 84

Gish, Dorothy, 115

Gish, Lillian, 115

Gladstone, William E., 78

Godwin, William, 183

Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, 138, 139, 142, 164, 184, 192, 283

“Golden Day, The,” Lewis Mumford, 173 _et seq._

Goldman, Emma, 177–183
rejects bolshevism, 181 _et seq._
traits, 178

Gourmont, Remy de, 132

Gray, Thomas, 226

“Great Tradition, The,” Granville Hicks, 276 _n._

Greeley, Horace, 167

Griffith, David Mark, 65

Gris, Juan, 148

Griswold, Rufus W., 161

Haeckel, Ernst Heinrich, 213

Halevi, Jehuda, 197

Hamilton, Alexander, 274

Hammett, Dashiell, 275

“Harper’s,” 214

Hart, Grace, 98

Hart, William, 65

Hassam, Childe, 147

Hawthorne, Charles W., 147

Hawthorne, Nathaniel, 170, 173

Heap, Jane, 99

Hearst, William Randolph, 63

Hecht, Ben, 110

Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich, 82, 135, 138, 191, 283

Hemingway, Ernest, 94, 214, 275

“Henry Thoreau, Bachelor of Nature,” Bazalgette, trans. by Van Wyck
Brooks, 165, 166, 168

Heraclitus, 137, 195

Hergesheimer, Joseph, 141

Hennes Trismegistus, 97

Hicks, Granville, 276

Hitler, Adolf, 240 _et seq._, 246, 253, 266, 286

Hollywood, 61, 68

Holmes, Oliver Wendell, 5

Homer, 5

Hooker, Thomas, 96

Hosea, 134

“Huckleberry Finn,” Mark Twain, 170

Hulme, T. E., 205

Hume, David, 138

Hurst, Fannie, 140

Huxley, Aldous, 145, 203, 204

Hylan, Mayor, 40

Iamblichus, 196

Ibsen, Henrik, 7

“Idylls,” Tennyson, 169

Ikinilik, 91

Indian, American, 125

“Individual Talent,” T. S. Eliot, 224

Industrialism, 116 _et seq._

Ingres, Jean Auguste Dominique, 83

“Interpretation of Dreams, The,” Sigmund Freud, 85

“Jacob’s Room,” Virginia Woolf, 145

James, Henry, 150, 151, 153, 174, 205

James, William, 174

Jazz, 118, 119 _et seq._

Jefferson, Thomas, 96, 98

Jewett, Sara Orne, 169 _et seq._

Jewry, 123, 240–253
American, 243
defined, 242
economic function in Middle Ages, 247
German, 240, 245
leaders, 244
persecution, 240, 253
and social justice, 248

Johnson, Walter, 40

Joyce, James, 145, 150

Jung, Carl, 92, 126

Kafka, Franz, 84

Kant, Immanuel, 82, 138, 190, 191

Klyce, Scudder, 216 _n._

Kotzebue, August von, 139

Kreymborg, Alfred, 99

Kropotkin, Peter Alexeivitch, 177

Krutch, Joseph Wood, 201–220

Kuhn, Walt, 149

Laforgue, Jules, 99

Lajoie, Napoleon, 23, 32

Lamarck, Jean de, 200

Landis, Kenesaw M., 23

Larbaud, Valéry, 165

Lardner, Ring, 71

Laurentius, St., 124

Lawrence, D. H., 74 _et seq._, 102, 145

“Leaves of Grass,” Walt Whitman, 5

Leibnitz, Gottfried Wilhelm, 90, 137, 191

Lenin, Nikolai, 72 _n._, 181

“Leonardo da Vinci,” Sigmund Freud, 85

Lewisohn, Ludwig, 221

“Liberation of American Literature, The,” V. F. Calverton, 276 _n._

“Ligeia,” Edgar Allan Poe, 163

Lincoln, Abraham, 114, 201

Literature, pseudo, 139 _et seq._, 141
progress of, 131, 134

“Little Review, The” (magazine), 99

Lloyd, Harold, 115

Lloyd, Marie, 221

Lobachevski, Nikolai, 138

London, Jack, 174

Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth, 5, 6

Lorentz, Hendrik, 138

Lowell, Amy, 99

Lowell, James Russell, 5

Mach, Ernst, 137

Machado, Gerardo, 257, 258

Machine, 153 _et seq._

Madison, James, 96

Maillol, Aristide, 148, 149

Maimonides, 197

Mallarmé, Stéphane, 132

Mani, 196

Marin, John, 146, 148, 149

Marinetti, Filippo Tommaso, 135

Marlowe, Christopher, 99

Marriott (ballplayer), 23

Martin, Henri, 147

Marx, Karl, 83, 84, 85, 90, 97, 181, 249 _et seq._, 270, 274, 283

Massis, Henri, 215

Materialism, 215 _et seq._

Melville, Herman, 94, 99, 153, 163, 168, 170, 173, 174, 176, 201, 226,
272

Mencken, H. L., 38, 135–139, 221

Menjou, Adolphe, 67

Metaphysics, 136

Milton, John, 143, 203, 226

Minkowski, Hermann, 138

“Misanthrope, Le,” Molière, 120

“Modern Temper, The,” Joseph Wood Krutch, 202 _et seq._
analysis, 206 _et seq._
summary, 203–206

Mohammed, 196, 197

Molière, 120

Mom, Arturo, 72 _n._

Monroe, Harriet, 99

“Morella,” Edgar Allan Poe, 163

Moses, 97

Most, Johann, 177, 179

Motion pictures, 111 _et seq._

“Mountain Interval,” Robert Frost, 97

Moussorgsky, Modest P., 82

Mumford, Lewis, 96, 172–177

Munson, Gorham, 99

Murder, 25 _et seq._, 275

Musset, Alfred de, 71

Mussolini, Benito, 266

“Nation, The” (magazine), 214

National Textile Workers Union, 235

Nazis, 246

Negroes, 109, 122

Neurosis (_see_ Psychoanalysis)

“New Republic, The” (magazine), 214, 253 _n._

“New Series of Introductory Lectures, A,” Sigmund Freud, 90

Newspapers, 38 _et seq._

Newton, Sir Isaac, 124, 138, 283

Niebuhr, Reinhold, 253 _n._

Nietzsche, Friederich Wilhelm, 8, 84, 97, 138, 179, 190, 222

“1924” (magazine), 135

Nordau, Max, 190

“North of Boston,” Robert Frost, 97

“Notes from Underground,” Feodor M. Dostoevski, 85

O’Keeffe, Georgia, 149

“O Pioneers,” Walt Whitman, 5

Origen, 196

Ornstein, Leo, 122

Orozco, José Clemente, 146, 148

“Our America,” 176 _n._

“Outline of History,” H. G. Wells, 188

Pageant of Freedom (Philadelphia), 33

“Paradiso,” Dante, 103

Pascal, Blaise, 90, 134

Paul, St., 134, 213

Philo, 196, 197

Philosophy, 135 _et seq._, 187

Picasso, Pablo, 146, 148, 149, 150, 151

Pickford, Mary, 65

Plato, 97, 98, 122, 134, 137, 143, 195

Platonist, 215

Plekhanov, George V., 181

Plotinus, 122, 134, 137, 196, 197

Poe, Edgar Allan, 5, 7, 94, 97, 98, 105, 153, 161–164, 165, 173, 174,
176, 226, 272

Poe, Virginia, 162

“Poetry” (magazine), 99

Poincaré, Raymond, 211

Polo Grounds, 21

Pound, Ezra, 99, 151, 153

“Powhatan’s Daughter,” Hart Crane, 103

Pradon, Nicolas, 139

Prize fighting, 29 _et seq._
Dempsey-Firpo fight, 32
Dempsey-Tunney fight, 29 _et seq._

“Proem,” Hart Crane, 103

“Promise of American Life, The,” Herbert Croly, 77, 79

Protagoras, 137

Proudhon, Pierre Joseph, 179, 183

Proust, Joseph Louis, 165

Psychoanalysis, 85, 88

“Psychopathology of Everyday Life,” Sigmund Freud, 85

Pythagoras, 136, 137, 195

Quinault, Philippe, 139, 142

Rabelais, François, 283

Racine, Jean, 83, 139, 142, 276

Rasmussen, Knud, 91

Ray, Man, 148

Reeves, Alf, 67

“Re-discovery of America, The,” Waldo Frank, 212, _notes on_ 96, 214,
216, 218

Refinement, 109

Reitman, Ben, 179

Remes, Andrew, 291 _et seq._

Renan, Joseph Ernest, 191

Reviewers, 139

Rickard, Tex, 30, 31, 33

Riemann, Georg, 124, 138

Rimbaud, Jean Arthur, 83, 84, 99, 190

Rimsky-Korsakov, Nikolai, 122

Rivera, Diego, 148

Robinson, Carl, 67

Rochelle, Pierre Drieu La, 135

Rolland, Romain, 262–264

Romains, Jules, 133

Roosevelt, Theodore, 78 _et seq._

“Rosary, The” (song), 123

Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, 71, 82, 120, 165, 179, 190, 213, 217

Russell, Bertrand, 132 _n._, 137, 191, 201, 216

Ruth, Babe, 22, 32, 40

“Sacred Wood, The,” T. S. Eliot, 220

Saint-Pierre, Bernardin de, 165

Sandburg, Carl, 13

Santayana, George, 174

“Scarlet Letter, The,” Nathaniel

Hawthorne, 170

Schopenhauer, Arthur, 82, 83, 84, 138, 139, 190, 213

Seaver, Edwin, 135

Seldes, Gilbert, 149

“Seven Arts, The” (magazine), 99

Shakespeare, William, 138, 204, 212, 278

“Show-Off, The” (play), 118

Sinclair, Upton, 144

“Sins of Science,” Scudder Klyce, 216 _n._

Sisler, George, 23, 40

Sophocles, 204, 212

Soupault, Philippe, 133

Soviet Russia, 260 _et seq._, 285

Spain, war in, 265 _et seq._

Spencer, Herbert, 82, 84

Spengler, Oswald, 188–201
ignores Jews, 197
masters, 191
theory of cultures, 193
value, 190

Spinoza, Baruch, 134, 192, 204, 220, 249 _et seq._, 274, 282, 283

Stadtfelt, Charles, 291 _et seq._

Stanard, Mary Newton, 161 _n._

Stein, Gertrude, 186

Stein, Leo, 183–188
literary style, 183

Stendhal, 165, 179

Stieglitz, Alfred, 245

“Story of Philosophy,” Will Durant, 135

“Story Teller’s Story, A,” Sherwood Anderson, 93, 95, 167

Strachey, John, 276 _n._

Stravinsky, Igor, 122, 150

Streets, 124 _et seq._

“Sur” (magazine), 253

Surréalistes, 135

Swanson, Gloria, 115

Swinburne, Algernon Charles, 220

“Swinburne,” T. S. Eliot, 223

Sylvia, Ferdinand, 233 _et seq._, 239

Taine, Hippolyte Adolphe, 191

Talley, Marion, 39

Tate, Allen, 101

Tennyson, Alfred Lord, 203

Teresa, St., 134

Terre Haute jail, 287–294

Textile strike, 231–240

Thales, 195

Therapy, 88 _et seq._

Thoreau, Henry David, 77, 94, 97, 166, 170, 173, 174, 176, 201, 272

“Thoughts after Lambeth,” T. S. Eliot, 221

“Thus Spake Zarathustra,” Nietzsche, 85

Tolstoi, Count Leo Nikolaievitch, 5, 7, 165, 190

Tool, 153 _et seq._

“Totem and Taboo,” Sigmund Freud, 85

Totheroh, Roland, 67

“Tradition,” T. S. Eliot, 224

Transcendentalism, 214 _et seq._

Trimble, Glen, 234, 238

Trotsky, Leon, 245

“Tunnel, The,” Hart Crane, 105

Tunney, Gene, 29

Twain, Mark, 174

Tzara, Tristan, 133, 135

United Artists, 65

“Universe,” Scudder Klyce, 216 _n._

Valéry, Paul, 133, 165

Vance, Arthur C., 40

Van Vechten, Carl, 214

Vinci, Leonardo da, 85, 142

Virgil, 121

Vorse, Mary Heaton, 239

“Voyages,” Hart Crane, 102

Vulgarity, 109 _et seq._

Wagner, John Henry (“Honus”), 23

Wagner, Richard, 82, 83

Walker, Mayor, 38

Walkowitz, Abram, 149

War, 265 _et seq._
World, 97, 128
(_see also_ Congress Against War)

“Waste Land, The,” T. S. Eliot, 226

Weber, Max, 146

Wells, H. G., 144

Whistler, James Abbott McNeill, 151

“White Buildings,” Hart Crane, 101, 102, 106

Whitehead, Alfred N., 84, 92, 136, 137, 191

“White Heron, A,” Sara Orne Jewett, 169

Whitman, Walt, 5, 6, 76, 77, 94, 97 _et seq._, 105, 111, 114, 134, 153,
163, 165, 166, 168, 173, 174, 176, 179, 190, 197, 201, 226, 272

Wilder, Thornton, 214

Williams, Roger, 77, 96

Wilson, Edmund, 150

“Winesburg, Ohio,” Sherwood Anderson, 93

Woodberry, George E., 161

Woolf, Virginia, 145

Wordsworth, William, 175

“World as Will and Idea, The,” Schopenhauer, 85

Wright, Harold Bell, 123, 142

Writers, American revolutionary, 273 _et seq._
American, under capitalism, 272 _et seq._
part in Social Revolution, 279 _et seq._
revolutionary, 269–272
two groups, 281

Writers’ Congress, American, 269 _et seq._

Writers, International Congress of, 279

Yates, chief of police, 293 _et seq._

Zeno, 137

Zola, Emile, 7, 116

------------------------------------------------------------------------

_by Waldo Frank_

STORY

THE UNWELCOME MAN (1917)
THE DARK MOTHER (1920)
RAHAB (1922)
CITY BLOCK (1922)
HOLIDAY (1923)
CHALK FACE (1924)
THE DEATH AND BIRTH OF DAVID MARKAND (1934)

HISTORY

OUR AMERICA (1919)
VIRGIN SPAIN (1926)
THE RE-DISCOVERY OF AMERICA (1929)
AMERICA HISPANA (1931)

CRITICISM

THE ART OF THE VIEUX COLOMBIER (1918)

SALVOS (1924)

PRIMER MENSAJE À LA AMÉRICA HISPANA (1930)
(_published only in Spanish—Madrid and Buenos Aires_)

DAWN IN RUSSIA (1932)

IN THE AMERICAN JUNGLE (1937)

THEATRE

NEW YEAR’S EVE (1930)

-----

Footnote 1:

Arturo Mom, the Argentinian writer, tells us that Lenin once said:
“Chaplin is the only man in the world I want to meet.” It is a story
readily believed. Chaplin’s art expresses the germinal seed of the
revolt—tender and ruthless, romantic and realistic—which Lenin’s
technique attempted to fulfill. Chaplin and Lenin—they are probably
the two most potential spirits of our age. Bring them together—pure
individualist and pure collectivist—into a single force, and you have
a vision of tomorrow.

Footnote 2:

The year of his trouble with his second wife, the truth about which
has not been told.

Footnote 3:

See “The Re-discovery of America,” 1928.

Footnote 4:

This is a short version of the Introduction to “The Collected Poems of
Hart Crane.”

Footnote 5:

El Escorial.

Footnote 6:

Bertrand Russell says, “Traditional mysticism has been contemplative,
convinced of the unreality of time, and essentially a lazy man’s
philosophy.” It has always seemed to me that the mysticism of Mr.
Frank’s novels was of this traditional type.

Footnote 7:

“Edgar Allan Poe Letters Till Now Unpublished,” in the Valentine
Museum at Richmond, Virginia; with introductory essay and commentary
by Mary Newton Stanard.

Footnote 8:

I feel moved to recall that in “Our America,” a work with a kindred
theme published in 1919, Poe receives even unfairer treatment than
that accorded him by Mr. Mumford; and Melville is utterly ignored.

Footnote 9:

The reader of “The Re-Discovery of America” will know that I find
important exceptions to this general statement.

Footnote 10:

We have in America a logician who, obscurely and unaided, is working
out the fundamental problem of the dualistic languages of modern
culture, and who is relating them into a logic of the Whole. His name
is Scudder Klyce and he resides in Winchester, Massachusetts. He has
published three books: “Universe,” “Sins of Science,” “Dewey’s
Suppressed Psychology.” In the first (which I have not yet read), he
attempts to establish continuity, or the Whole, in purely empirical
terms and to construct a logic to express it. In the second, he
exposes (often brilliantly and at times wildly) the contradictory
dualisms in modern thought. The third volume, as invaluable as it is
unwieldy, reveals the failure of John Dewey to carry his own “infinite
pluralism” to its logical conclusion: an explicit philosophy of the
Whole.... So it goes in our America. Just as one is getting ready to
despair of the current tendencies, along comes a man like Klyce who is
doing work as essential and great as any I know in the contemporary
world. I was not aware of Klyce when I wrote “The Re-Discovery of
America.” That is my excuse for not mentioning his contribution and
its organic part in what I call the Great American Tradition.

P.S. Since the writing of this note, Scudder Klyce has died. The first
work to acknowledge the greatness of his contribution has yet to be
published. But it will come!

Footnote 11:

Not to be confused, of course, with the athletic _skepticism_ that is
the servant of positive knowledge.

Footnote 12:

The reader will find a development of this idea in “The Re-Discovery
of America.”

Footnote 13:

A short time after this article was written and published, the five
hundred thousand textile strikers were sold out by their “leaders” in
Washington.

Footnote 14:

Since this was written, a strong revolutionary students’ movement has
sprung up in the United States.

Footnote 15:

I have read only three volumes of Marxist literary criticism in the
English language: “The Liberation of American Literature,” by V. F.
Calverton; “The Great Tradition,” by Granville Hicks; and a short book
by John Strachey. All three are of this category.

Footnote 16:

The author accompanied Earl Browder, communist candidate for President
of the United States, on a tour of Midwest industrial cities as a
newspaper correspondent and was jailed with him in Terre Haute.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

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