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THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

HENRY MILLER

THE BOOKS
IN

MY

LIFE

NEW DIRECTIONS BOOK

Pts)

1123460
All rights reserved

New

Directions

Books
at

are published

by James Laughliti

Norfolk,

Connecticut

NEW YORK
'

OFFICE

333

SIXTH AVENUE,

NEW YORK

Printed in the Republic of Ireland

TO

LAWRENCE CLARK POWELL

(Librarian of the University of California at Los Angeles)

This

is

the

first

of a several-volume work. Included in the

list

second volume will be a

recall

of

all

the books

Henry Miller can

all literary

having read. There will also be an index of

references in

Henry

Miller's works.

CONTENTS
pages

Preface
I.

II

They were Alive and They Spoke TO

Early Reading
Blaise Cendrars

Me

22

3.
3.

40
58
81

4.
5.

Rider Haggard
Jean Giono
Influences
Living

100
121

6.
7. 8.

Books

127
Life

The Days of

My

140 147

9.

Krishnamurti

10. II. 12. 13.

14.

The Plains of Abraham

The Story of

160
172 196

My

Heart

Letter to Pierre Lesdain

Reading in the Toilet

264

The Theatre

287

Appendix

The Hundred Books

Books
Friends
I

317

Still Intend

to Read

320
321

Who

Supplied

Me

with Books

LIST OF

ILLUSTRATIONS
Frontispiea

Henry Miller
Studio

in

ms

facing

page

Blaise Cendrars

6i

The Xerxes Socibty

126

The Miller Family

288

QUOTATIONS FROM WRITERS

**

All

have written

now

appears to

me

as so

much
his

straw."

(Thomas Aquinas on

deathbed.)

"When
no longer

the artist has exhausted his materials,

paints,

when

the faney

when

thoughts are no longer apprehended, and

to live.**

books are a weariness

he has always the resource

(Ralph
all is

Waldo

Emerson.)

**

All

is

marvellous for the poet,

;

divine for the saint,

all is

great for the hero

all is

wretched, miserable, ugly and bad for the

base and sordid souL"

(Amiel.)

" Probably, even in our time, an

considerably stimulated and his

artist

might find

his

imagination
if

work

powerfiilly

improved

he

knew

that anything short

trial

of his best would bring him to the gallows,

with or without

by jury ..."
(Henry Adams.)

"

Apr^

avoir pris

un an de vacances

(15 sept. '49

15

sept. '50),

me

marier,

un peu voyager en

Suisse,

Luxembourg, HoUande,
faire trois

Angleterre, Belgique, soigner

mes yeux,

mois de radio,

d^m^nager,
h^las
!
.

me

r^installer

^ Parisje

me

suis

remis au travail,

Petit k petit je vais

les autres

m*enfoncer dans cet univers qui

contient tous

comme
n

une goutte d'eau des myriades dc

. .
.

microbes,

la

goutte d'encre qui coule de la plume

. . .

C*est
.

extraordinaire
croire

et je

arrive pas k

m*y

habituer ni

"
!

(Blaise

Cendrars

in a letter dated Sept. 16, 1950.)

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To
the World Review^ London, for permission to reprint the

chapter

on

Blaise Cendrars

to Survival,

New York,

for the chapter

on Rider Haggard.
Grateful acknowledgment is herewith made to the following publishers
and
individuals for their kind permission to quote

from the following

works:
Blackie

&

Son

Ltd., for Life

of G. A. Henty by G. Melville Fenn.

History of Magic

Borden Publishing Co., for The

by EHphas

Levi.

Coward-McCann,
C.

Inc., for Hill

of Destiny by Jean Giono.

Collective

W. Daniel Co., Ltd., for

The Absolute

by Erich Gudcind. by Helen

James Ladd Delkin for Zen by Alan

W.

Watts.
Keller.

Doubleday
Druid

&

Co., Inc., for The Story of My Life

Press for

The Obstinate Cytnric by

J.

C. Powys.

E. P. Dutton

& Co., Inc., for Cosmic Conscioustiess by R. M. Bunche

by Maurice Magre. by
Blaise Cendrars.

and

Magicians, Seers and Mystics

Editions Bernard Grasset for Moravagine

Falcon Press for Babu of Montpamasse by C. L. PhiHppe.

Harcourt, Brace

& Co.,

Inc., for

In Search of the Miraadous

by

P.

D.

Ouspensky.

Hermann Hesse for his article which appeared in Horizon,

Houghton
Mifflin Co.,

Sept., 1946.

&

Constable

&

Co., Ltd., for Mont Saint

Michel and Chartres

by Henry Adams.

Henry Holt

& Co., Inc., for Nature and Man by Paul Weiss.

Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., for Men of Good Will by Jules Romain. John Lane The Bodley Head for Autobiography by J. C. Powys.
Frieda Lawrence
for
Studies
in

Classic

American

Literature,

and

Apocalypsehotk by D. H. Lawrence.

Le Cercle

Du

Livre for Krishnamurti

by Carlo Suar^.

Les J^tions Denoel for Le Lotissement du Ciel and Bourlinguer--

both by Blaise Cendrars.

Litde,

Brown

&

Co., for Schliemann

by Emil Ludwig.
P.

Longmans, Green

& Co., Ltd., and A.

Watt

& Son for

The Days

of My Life by H. Rider Haggard.

The Macmillan

Co., for Dostoievsky

by Janko

Lavrin.

W. W.
J.

Norton

&

Co., Inc., for The Great Age of Greek Literature

by Edith Hamilton. C. Powys for his book

for

Visions and Revisions.

Random House
and for Anna

Deems

Taylor's introduction to Peter Ibbetson

O'Neill.
Unpolitical

Christie

by Eugene

Routledge and Kegan Paul

Herbert Read.

Ltd., for Politics of the

by

Sylvan Press Ltd., for From Puskin toMayakovsky by Janko Lavrin.

W.

T. Symonds for an

article

by Erich Gutkind

in Purpose, 1947.

The Viking

Press Inc., for Joy of Mans Desiring

and Blue

Boyboth

by Jean Giono, and

the Portable Sherwood Anderson.

CREDIT FOR PHOTOS

1.

Henry Miller

in Studio,

2. Blaise

Cendrars

Big Sur (1950) by Flair, New York. (1950) by Robert Doisneau, Montrouge,

France.
3.

Xerxes Society.
Miller Family
Portrait

4.

by Pach

Bros.,

New York

(circa

1902-03).

PREFACE
The purpose of
life.

this

book, which will run to several volumes in

the course of the next

It deals

few

years,

is

to round out the story

It is

of

my

with books
it

as vital experience.

not a

critical

study nor does

contain a program for self-education.

One of the
should read

results

of

this

self-examination
to

for that
As

is

what

the

writing of this

book amounts
and
less,

is

the confirmed belief that one

a glance at the

less

not more and more.

the " well-educated

Appendix
the

will reveal, I have not read nearly as

bookworm, or even
a

much as " man

I

the scholar,
I

yet

have

undoubtedly read
for

hundred times more than

should have read

it is said,

my own

good.

Only one out of

But even

five in America,

are readers

of " books."

this

small
fiilly.

number read

far too

much.

Scarcely any one lives wisely or

There have been and always will be books which are truly revolutionary
fiir

that

is

to say, inspired and inspiring.

They

are

few and

between, of course.

One

is

lucky to run across a handfiil in

a Ufetime.

Moreover, these are not the books which invade the

general pubHc.

They, are

thei

hidden reservoirs which feed the

to appeal to the

men of lesser
street.

talent

who know how

man

in the

The vast body of Hterature, in every domain, is composed of hand-me-down ideas. The question ^never resolved, alas is to what extent it would be efficacious to curtail the overwhelming

supply of cheap fodder.

One

thing

is

certain today
us.

the

illiterate

are definitely not the least inteUigctit

i

among
is

If it

be knowledge or wisdom one

.

is

seeking, then

one had

better

go

direct to the source.

And

the source

not the scholar or philo-

sopher, not the master, saint, or teacher, but Ufe itselfdirect

experience of
dispense with

life.
**

The same

is

true for
I

art.

Here, too,

we

can

the masters.**

When

say

life I

have in mind, to
today.
I

be

sure, another

kind of hfe than that

we know

have in

mind

the sort

which D. H. Lawrence speaks of in

Etruscan Places.*

* Published by Martin Seeker, London, 1932.

See page? 88-93.

II

PREFACE
Or
that

Henry Adams speaks of when the Virgin reigned supreme

age,

at Chartres.

In

tliis

which beHeves

that there
is

is

a short cut to everything,

the greatest lesson to be learned

in the long run, the easiest.

that the
is set is

most

difficult

way
all

is,

All that

forth in books,

that

seems so terribly

vital

and

significant,
it
is

but an iota of that from

which

it

stems and which

within everyone's power to tap.

Our whole theory of education is based on the absurd notion that we must learn to swim on land before tackling the water. It applies
to the pursuit

of the

arts as

well as to the pursuit of knowledge.

Men

are

still

being taught to create by studying other men's works

or by making plans and sketches never intended to materialize. The ait of writing is taught in the classroom instead of in the thick

of
to

hfe.

Students are

still

being handed models which are supposed

all

fit all

temperaments,

kinds of intelligence.

No

wonder we

produce better engineers than writers, better industrial experts

than painters.

My encounters with books I regard very much as my encounters

with other phenomena of Hfe or thought.
figurate,

All encounters are con-

not

isolate.

In this sense, and in this sense only, books

I

are as

much

a part of Ufe as trees, stars or dung.

se.

have no reverence

for

them per

Nor do
are

put authors in any special, privileged

better,

category.
exploit the

They
I

Uke other men, no

as

no worse.

They
because

powers given them, just

defend them

any other order of human

being.
I

If

now

and then

as a class

^it

is

beheve

that, in

our society

at least,

they have never achieved the

especially,

status

and the consideration they merit. The great ones,

as scapegoats.

have almost always been treated

To

see

myself

as the reader I

once was

is

Hke watching a

man
aim

fighting his

way through
I

a jungle.

To be

sure, living in the heart

of the jungle

learned a few things about the jungle.

But
!

was never to

live in the

jungle

my
It is

^it

was to get

clear

of it

my

firm conviction that

it is

not necessary to

first

inhabit this jungle

real

of books. Life

itself is

enough of a jungle
But,

a very
ask,

and a very

instructive one, to say the least.

you

may

not books be a

help, a guide, in fighting

our way through the wilderness ? " N'ira pas loin," said Napoleon, " celui qui sait d'avance ou il veut aller.**

The
12

principal

aim underlying

this

work

is

to render

homage

PREFACE
where homage
is

due, a task

which
to

I
it

know beforehand
properly,
I

is

impossible
to get

of accompHshment.

Were

do

would have

down on my knees and thank each blade of grass for rearing its head. What chiefly motivates me in this vain task is the fact that in general we know all too little about the influences which shape
a writer's Hfe and work.

The
he

critic,

in his

pompous
all

conceit and

arrogance, distorts the true picture

author,

beyond

recognition.

The
view

however

truthful

may

think himself to be, inevitably

disguises the picture.

The
rule.

psychologist, with his single-track

blur.
I,

of things, only deepens the

an exception to the

As author,

do not think myself

altering, distorting
eflbrt,

too,
facts

am

guilty

of

and disguising the

facts

if

"

" there be.

My conscious
on

however, has been

I

perhaps

to a fault

in the

opposite direction.
the side of beauty,

am on
I

the side of revelation, if not always

truth,

wisdom, harmony and ever-evolving

perfection.

In this

work

am

throwing out fresh

data, to

be judged and analyzed,

Naturally
I

or accepted and enjoyed for enjoyment's sake.

cannot

write about
I

all

the books, or even

life.

all

the significant ones, which

I

have read in the course of my

But

do intend

to

go on writing

about books and authors until

(for

have exhausted the importance

me) of
recall

this

domain of reaUty.
listing all the

To
I
I

have undertaken the thankless task of

ever reading gives

books

can

me

extreme pleasure and

satisfaction.

know of no

author

who

has been

mad enough

to attempt this.^
its

Perhaps
is

my

Hst will give rise to

more confusion
to read a

but

purpose
to read

not

that.

Those

who know how

man know how

his

For these the Hst will speak for itself In writing of the " amoraUsme " of Goethe, Jules de Gaultier,
books.
I

quoting Goethe,

beUeve, says

"La
is

vraie nostalgic doit toujours

soit meilleure."
It is

etre productrice et cr^er

une nouvelle chose qui

there
as

At

the core of this

book

a genuine nostalgia.

not a

nostalgia for the past

case,

itself,

may sometimes
;

appear to be the
a nostalgia for

nor

is it

a nostalgia for the irretrievable

to the fullest.

it is

moments Uved

These moments occurred sometimes

**

through contact with books, sometimes through contact with

men and women I have dubbed

nostalgia for the

Uving books." Sometimes

I

it is

companionship of those boys

I

grew up with and

with

whom

one of the strongest bonds

had was

books.

(Yet
13

PREFACE
here
I

must confess

that,
as

however bright and revivifying

idols-in-the-flesh,

these

memories, they are

in the

nothing to the remembrance of days spent

^still

company of

boys to

me

my former those boys who went by the immortal names of Johnny Paul,
I

Eddie Carney, Lester Reardon, Johnny and

Jimmy Dunne, none

with a book in
it

of

whom

did

ever sec with a

book or

associate

the remotest way.)

tier, I

Whether

it

was Goethe who

said

or de Gaul-

too most firmly beUeve that true nostalgia must always be

productive and conducive to the creation of new and better things.

If it

were merely to rehash the

past,

whether in the form of books,

a vain and
list

persons or events,

my

task

would be
seem, the

fiitile

one.

Cold
key

and dead

as

it

may now

of

titles

given in the

Appendix may prove for some kindred

with which to unlock
in the past.
their living

souls

to

be

the

moments of joy and

plenitude
^

One of the
it

reasons

bother to write a preface, which

I

is

always

something of a bore to the reader, one of the reasons

for the fifth and,
frustrated
I

have rewritten
its

hope, the

last

time,

is

the fear that

event.

completion

may be
last

by some unforeseen
set to

This

first

volume
ever set
I

finished, I

have immediately to

work

to write the third and

I

book of The Rosy

I

Crucifixion,

the hardest task

myself and one which

like,

have avoided for

many

a year.

would

therefore,
I

while

time permits, to give a hint of some

of the things
volumes.
Naturally,
this
I

planned or hoped to write about in succeeding

had some

sort

of flexible plan in mind when

of erecting

began

work. Unlike the

architect,

however, an author often discards

his edifice.

his blueprint in the process

To

the writer

book

is

something to be hved through, an experience, not a plan

to be executed in accordance with laws and specifications.

rate,

At any
volume
say,

whatever
as

is

left

of

my

original plan has

It is

grown tenuous and

this
I

complicated

a spider's web.

only in bringing

to a close that I

have come to

realize

how much

wish to

and

have to say, about certain authors, certain

I

subjects,

some of which

have already touched upon.* For example, no matter

how

often

* An American whose influence I may have minimized is Jack London. Glancing through his Essays of Revolt, edited by Leonard D. Abbott, I recalled the great thrill it gave me, a boy of fourteen, to merely hear the name Jofk
14


PREP ACB
I

refer to

that I

him I have never said, and probably never will say, all mean to say about Elie Faure. Nor have I by any means

exhausted the subject of Blaise Cendrars.

a giant

And
I

then there

is

Celine,

among our
As

contemporaries,

whom

have not even begun

certainly

to approach.
to say
it

for

Rider Haggard,

I shall

have more

about him, in particular, his Ayesha, the sequel to She^.

to

When
them.

comes

Emerson, Dostoievsky, Maeterlinck, Knut Hamsim,

G. A. Henty. I

know

I shall

never say

my

last

word about

\/
"p
j

subject like

The Grand

Inquisitor, for

example, or The

Eterttal

Husband my

favorite

of

all

Dostoievsky's works

would seem to
I

demand

separate books in themselves.

Perhaps

when

come
I

to

Berdyaev and that great flock of exalted Russian writers of the

Nineteenth century, the
get
for

men with

the eschatological
I
is

flair,

shall

roimd to saying some of the things

twenty years or more. Then there

have been wanting to say

the Marquis de Sade, one

of the most maligned, defamed, misunderstood

wilfully misunderstood
grips

deliberately
sinister,

and

with him

Time I came to Back of him and overshadowing him stands the

in all Htcrature.

figures

figure

of Gilles de Rais, one of the most glorious, European

history.

enigmatic
I '

figures in all
said I

In the letter to Pierre Lesdain

Gilles

had not yet received a good book on

a fiiend has sent

de Rais.
I

In the
it.

meantime

me

one firom

Paris,

and

have read

To us who hungered for life he was a shining light, adored as for his revolutionary fervor as for his wild, adventurous life. strange now to read, ia Leonard Abbott's Introduction, that in the year
Loitdori.

much

How

revolution is here now^. Stop it who can " strange now to read the opening words of his famous speech on " Revolution," which he delivered to university students throughout America how did it ever happen f ^telling of the seven million men and women then enrolled throughout the world in the army of revolt. Listen to Jack London's words : ** There has never been anything like this revolution in the history of the world. There is nothing analogous between it and the American Revolution or the French Revolution. It is unique, colossal. Other revolutions compare with it as asteroids compare with the sun. It is alone of its kind, the first world revolution in a world whose history is replete with revolutions. And not only this, for it is the first organized movement of men to become a world movement, limited only by the limits of the planet. This revolution is unlike all other revolutions in many respects. It is not sporadic. It is not a flame of popular discontent, arising in a and dying down in a day . . ." One of the first Americans, I presume, to make a fortune with the pen. Jack London resigned firom the Socialist Party in 1916, accusing it of lacking fire and fight. One wonders what he would say today, were he alive, about " the devolution."
:

1905 (0 J^ck London was proclaiming

!

"

The

How

^y

15

PREFACE
It is

just the

book

was looking

for

it is

called Gilles de Rais et

son temps

by George Meunier* Here are a few more books and authors

:

intend to dwell on in

the future
to

Algernon Blackwood, author of The Bright Messenger^

the

my mind

most extraordinary novel on psychoanalysis, one

;

which dwarfs the subject

**

The Path
:

to

Rome, by Hilaire Belloc,

I

an early favorite and a steadfast love

pages,
a Praise

each time

read the opening

;

of This Book,"

dance with joy

Marie CoreUi,

contemporary of Rider Haggard, Yeats, Tennyson, Oscar Wilde,

said

who

Stratford-on-Avon
think any
I

of herself in a letter to the vicar of the parish church at " With regard to the Scriptures, I do not
:

woman has ever

let

studied

them so deeply and devoutly

and devoutly."
white
I shall

as

have, or,

me

say, more deeply

certainly

write about

Rene
;

Caill^, the first

man

to enter

Timbuctoo
in

and get out ahve

his story, as related

is

by Galbraith Welch

The

Unueiling of Timbuctoo,
in

to

my

mind

the greatest adventure story

modem

times.

And

Nostradamus, Janko Lavrin, Paul Brunton,

tlie

Peguy, Ouspensky's In Search of

Miraculous, Letters from the

Mahatmas, Fechner's Life After Death, Claude Houghton's metaphysical novels, Cyril Connolly's Enemies of Promise (another

book

about books), the language of night,

as

Eugene Jolas

calls it,

Donald

Keyhoe's book on the flying saucers, cybernetics and dianetics,

the importance

of nonsense, the subject of resurrection and ascension,

and,

among

other things, a recent

book by Carlo Suares

(the

same

who

wrote on Krishnamurti), entitled Le Mythc Judeo-Chritien. I shall also " why not ? " as Picasso says expatiate on the subject ** of pornography and obscenity " in Uterature. In fact, I have

already written quite a

few pages on

this

theme, which
I

have
in

held over for the second volume.

Meanwhile
time.

am

very

much

need of authentic data.

are the great

should like to know, for example, what

all (I

pornographic books of

know

but a very

* In Paris, about 1931 or 1932, Richard Thoma gave me a copy of his book on Gilles de Rais, called Tragedy in Blue. A few weeks ago I received a reprint of this book, published as an anonymous work and entitled The Authorized Version Book Three The Book of Sapphire. Rereading it, I was overcome with mortification that I could have forgotten the power and the splendor of this work. It is a poetic justification, I might almost,

or paean or dithyramb, only fifty-one pages long, unique in its genre, as only highly imaginative works can be. It is a breviary for the initiated. Apologies and congratulations, Dicko
say,

and true
16

PREFACE
few.)

who

are the writers

who

arc

still

regarded as

*'

obscene "
?

How
works

widely are their books circulated and where chiefly

?

In

what languages
are
still

can think of only three great writers whose

banned in England and America, and then only

all.

certain

of their works, not

mean

the Marquis de Sade (whose

most sensational work

Lawrence.

is still

banned in France), Aretino and D. H.

What of

Restif de la Bretonne, concerning

(in

whom

an American, J. Rives Childs, has compiled tome of ** t^moignages et jugements " ?

first

French) a formidable

And what

about that

pornographic novel in the English language. The Memoirs " Hill ? Why, if it is so " dull," has it not become a ** classic Fanny of

by now,
and

free to circulate in
?

drug

stores,

railway stations and other

it first

innocent places
it

It is

just

two hundred

years since

appeared,

has never gone out of print, as every American tourist in

Paris

well knows.
all

Curious, but of
this first

the books
I

was searching for while writing

:

volume, the two

wanted most have not turned up

The Thirteen

Crucified Saviours,
Atiacalypsis,

by

Sir Godfi-ey Higgins,

author

of the celebrated

and Les

Clifs de

VApocalypse, by

O. V. Milosz,
bleau.

the Polish poet

I

who

died not long ago at Fontaine-

Nor have

yet received a

good book on the Children's

Crusades.

There are three magazines

forgot to mention

when

speaking of

good magazines
bright
spirit,

Jugend,

The Enemy (edited by that amazing,

Wyndham Lewis),
a

and The Masque of Gordon Craig.

to

And now

word about

the
It

man

whom

this

book

is

dedicated

Lawrence Clark Powell.

that this individual,
I

was on one of

his visits to

Big Sur

who knows more

else) a short

about books than any one

I

have ever had the good fortune to meet, suggested that

write

(for

him

if for

no one

book about

my

experience with

books.

Some months
rest
it

later

the germ,

which had always been

dormant, took hold.

I

After writing about fifty pages

could never

content with a

I knew that summary account of the subject.

Powell knew

too,
it

no doubt, but he was cunning or

I

discreet

enough to keep
r

to himself.
it is

owe Larry Powell

a great deal.
it

one thing, and

a big thing to

me

because

means the

rrection

of a

false attitude, I

hbrarians as

human

beings,

owe him my present ability to view very Hve human beings, sometimes,


PR EPA C

and capable of proving dynamic

forces in our midst.

Certainly

no

librarian could

be more zealous than he in making books a

vital part

of our

life,

which they

are not at present.

librarian

have given
I

me

greater direct aid than he.

Nor could any Not a single

question have
scrupulously.

put to

him which he

has not answered fully and

No

request of any sort, in fact, has he ever turned

down.
feult.

Should

this

book prove

to be a failure

it

will not be his

Here

must add a few words about other individuals

who

extended their aid in one

way

or another.

First

and foremost,

New York. You, Dante, whom I have never met, how can I express to you my deep gratitude
Dante T. Zaccagnini of Port Chester,
for
all

the arduous labors

I

you performed

and

voluntarily

on

my

behalf i

blush to think what

were.

In addition

you

insisted

your most precious books

^because you thought

humdrum tasks some of them on making me gifts of some of

I

had more need

humility and

of them than you

subtle corrections

And what
me.

helpfid suggestions

you made, vi^t

All done with discretion,

tact,

devotion.
It

Words

fail

should be undentood that

several

when
I

began

this task there

were,

I felt,

hundred books which

needed to borrow or to own.

My

only recourse, not having the

a
list

make up

of

titles

acquaintances

and,
I

money to buy them, was to it among my friends and among my readers. The men and women
and disseminate
at the close

whose names
with

have given

of this volume suppHed

"

me

my wants. Many of these were simply readers whom I got to

correspondence.

who could most me the books I so sorely needed, and whom I counted upon, failed to come through. An experience of this sort is always illuminating. The friends who fail you are always replaced by new ones who appear at the critical moment and from the most
know through
friends

The "

afford to send

unexpected quarten.

One of the few

rare deHghts

rewards an author obtains for his labors

is

the

conversion of a reader into a

warm,

personal friend.

One of the

he experiences

is

to receive exactly the gift he was

reader.

waiting for from an

I

unknown

Every

sincere writer has,

take

it,

hundreds, perhaps thousands, of such

unknown
arc,

friends

among
i8

his readers.

There

may

be,

and doubtless

authors

who

PREFACE
have
little
is

need of

their readers except as purchasers

different.
I I

of

their books.
I

My

case

somewhat

have need of every one.

all

am

borrower and a lender.

their aid.
tures.
I

make

use of any and

who

volunteer

would be ashamed not

latest

to accept these gracious overat Yale,

The

one was from a student

Donald A. Schon.

In filing a letter of

mine to Professor Henri Peyre of the French

which
I

Department
help, this
services.

there, a letter in

had made an appeal for

clerical

young man read

(A grand
is

my
!

letter

and spontaneously offered

!)

his

gesture

Sehr Schon

case in point

the fortuitous emergence

of John Kidis of
shower of
explains
I

Sacramento.

request for a signed photograph led to a brief

interchange of letters followed

by
is

a visit and a
a Greek,

gifts.

John Kidis (originally Mestakidis) But it doesn't explain everything.

which he dumped on
viz.,

whidi

mudi.

dont know which

appreciate

the more, the armfiils of books (some of them very difficult to find)

my

desk or the never-ceasing flow of

gifts,

sweaters and socks of pure

wool and nylon,

articles

knitted

by

his

mother, trousers, caps, and other

of clothing picked up
!)

here and there, Greek pastries (such deHcious deHcacies

prepared

by

his

grandmother or

his aunt, tins

of Halva, jugs of

rezina, toys
all

for the children, writing materials (paper, envelopes

of

kinds,

post cards with

my name
is

and address printed on them, carbon

and nuts of all kinds,
(all

paper, pencils, blotters), circulars and announcements, baptismal

towels (his father

a priest), dates

firesh figs,

oranges, apples, even pomegranates

to say nothing

from

the mythical

" farm

"),

of the typing he did for me, or the printing

{Tfie

Waters RegUtterized, for example), the water colors he bought,

the paper and paints he supplied

to run, the books he sold for

in-trade

me with, the errands he volunteered me (throwing out all his other stockas
**

and

setting himself

up

The House of Henry

so

Miller "),
(records,
.
.

the tires he bought for

me, the music he offered to get

me
.

sheet music, albums), and so

is

on and

on ad
?

infinitum.

How
the

one to account for such generosity

It

How

ever repay

it ?

goes without saying,

trust, that I shall

all

welcome from
of

readers

of

tliis

book any and

indications

error, omission,

falsification
it is

or misjudgment. I am well aware that this book, because " about books," will go to many who have never read me
I

before,

hope

that they will spread the

good word, not abotn

19

PREFACE
this

book, but about the books they love.

close
rest
;

Our world
is

is

rapidly

drawing to a
it

new one
as

is

about to open. If it
faith.

to flourish

will

have to
flesh.

on deeds

well as

The word

will have to

become

There are few among us today

future with anything but fear

who are able to view the immediate

If there
is

and apprehension.
I

one book

among
taining

all

those

have recendy read which

might

signal as conit

words of comfort, peace,

inspiration

and sublimity,

is

Henry Adams' Mont-Saint-Michel and

Every reference to the " Queen
**

Chartrfs.

Particularly the

chapters dealing with Chartres and the cult

is

of the Virgin Mary.

exalted and
is

commanding. Let
:

me

quote a passage

page 194*

which

in order

There she acttially is ^not in symbol or in fancy, but in penon, descending on her errands of mercy and listening to each one of us, as her miracles prove, or satisfying our prayers merely by her presence which calms our excitement as that of a mother calms her child. She is there as Queen, not merely as intercessor, and her power is such that to her the difierence between us earthly beings is nothing. Pierre Mauclerc and PhiHppe Hurepel and their men-at-arms are afraid of her, and the Bishop himself is never quite at his ease in her presence but to peasants, and beggars, and people in trouble, this sense of her power and caJm is better than active sympathy. People who ^who are crushed sufi*er beyond the formulas of expression into silence, and beyond pain ^want no display of emotion ^no bleeding heart ^no weeping at the foot of the Cross ^no phrases They want to see God, and to ^no hysterics know that He is watching over His own.
;

There are

writers, such as this

us.

man,

who

enrich us

and others
more
enrich or
letters,

who

impoverish

However
write,

it

be, there

is all

the while a

important thing going on.

impoverish,
scribblers,

All the while, whether

we

we who

we

authors,

we men of

we

are being supported,

protected,

maintained, enriched
the men we reveal the no man knows.

and endowed by a vast horde of unknown individuals

and

women who watch

which
is

and pray, so to speak, that

vast this multitude
is

truth

in us.

How

No
20

one

artist

has ever reached the

Mifflin

whole great throbbing mass

Boston and

*^From the Houghton,

Co.

edition,

New York,

1933.

PREFACE
of humanity.
of the

We

swim

in the

same stream,
deeply are

same source, yet

write,

how often or how common need If to

i
:

we we
is

drink from the

aware,

we who
what

write books

to restore

we have taken from the granary of Hfe, from sisters and brothers " unknown, then I say " Let us have more books
In the second
things,

volume of

this

work

I shall

write,

among

other

of Pornography and Obscenity,

Dostoievsky's

Gilles

de Rais, Haggard's
Inquisitor,

Ayesha, Marie CorelH,

Maeterlinck, Berdyaev,

Grand

C^Hne,

Claude Houghton and Malaparte.

all

The
of my

index of

all

references to

books and authors cited in

all

books will be included in the second volume.

HENRY

MILLER.

ai

THEY WERE ALIVE AND THEY SPOKE TO ME

I

SIT in a little

room, one wall of which

the
first

is

now

completely lined

with books.

It is

time

have had the pleasure of working

with anything

like a collection

of books.

There are probably no

more than
that

five

hundred in
It is

all,

but for the most part they represent

I

my own choice.
I

the

first

time, since

began

my writing career,
I

am

surrounded with a goodly number of the books

have
I

always longed to possess.

did most of

The

fact,

however, that in the past

I

my work
first

without the aid of a Hbrary

look upon

as

an advantage rather than a disadvantage.

One of

the
I

things

associate

with the reading of books

is

Not to own them, mind you, but to lay hands on them. From the moment the passion took hold of me I encountered nothing but obstacles. The books I
the struggle

waged

to obtain them.

wanted, at the pubUc Hbrary, were always out.

never had the

And of

course

money

to

buy them.

To

get permission

from the

Hbrary in
years of

my

neighborhood

ageto borrow

such a

was then eighteen or nineteen ** demoralizing " work as The

Confession of a Fool,

days the books which

by Strindberg, was just impossible. In those young people were prohibited from reading
stars

were decorated with hope

one,
this

two or

three
I

according

to the

degree of immoraHty attributed to them.

still

suspect this procedure

better calculated to
classification

obtains.

so, for I

know of nothing
stupid
sort

whet

one's

appetite

than

of

and

prohibition.

What makes
answer, in
sionate

a book live ?

How
simple.

often this question arises

The

my

opinion,

is

book Hves through

being.

the pas-

recommendation of one reader to another.

Nothing can
will always

throttle this basic impulse in the

human

Despite the views

of cynics and misanthropes,

it is

my

beHef that

men

strive to share their deepest experiences.

Books
32

are

one of the few things incn cherish deeply.

And

the

TttBY
better the

WERE ALIVE AND THEY SPOKE TO MH

the

man

more

easily will

he part with
shelf
is

his

most cherished

possessions.

book

lying idle

on a

wasted ammunirion.

Like money, books must be kept in constant circulation.

Lend
!

and borrow to the

maximum

of both books and money

infinitely

But

more than money. A book is not only a fiiend, it makes friends for you. When you have possessed a book with mind and spirit, you are enriched.
especially books, for

books represent

But when you

Here an

pass

it

on you

are enriched threefold.

seizes

irrepressible

impulse
:

me

to

offer

a piece

of

gratuitous advice.
as possible
!

It is this

read as Uttle as possible, not as

that
I

much

Oh, do not doubt

I,

have envied those

secretly

who drowned
But
I

themselves in books.
all

too,

would

Hke to wade through

those books

have so long toyed with in

I

my mind.

know
is

it is

not important.

know now
is

that I did

not need to read even

thing in Ufe
to

a tenth of
learn to

what

have read.

The most

difficult

do only what
an excellent

strictly

advantageous to one's welfare,

strictly vital.

There

is

way

to test this precious bit of advice

have

not given rashly.

like to read,

When you
it

stumble upon a book you would

it

or think you ought to read, leave

as intensely as

alone for a few

you can. Let the title and the author's name revolve in your mind. Think what you yourself might have written had the opportunity been yours. Ask yourself earnestly if it be absolutely necessary to add this work to your
days.

But think about

store

of knowledge or your fund of enjoyment.

it

Try

to imagine

what
Then,

would mean
if

to forego this extra pleasure or erdightenment.

you

find

you must read

tackle
it.

the book, observe with

what

extraordinary
stimulating
If
it

acumen you

Observe, too, that however

is

may
from

be, very Httle

of the book

really

new

to you.

you

are honest

with yourself you will discover that your stature

the

has increased

mere

effort

of

resisting

your impulses.

Indubitably the vast majority of books overlap one another.

Few
fifiy,

indeed are those which give the impression of originality,

either in style or content.

Rare

are the unique

books

^less

than

perhaps, out of the

whole storehouse of Hterature. In one of

Blaise

his

recent

autobiographical novels,

Cendrars points out

that

R^my

de Gourmont, because of his knowledge and awareness

of

this repetitive

quaUty in books, was able to

select

and read

all

23

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

that
is

worth while

in the entire reahn

it

of

literature,

Cendrars

himselfwho would suspect

?is

a prodigious reader.

He
but

reads

most authors in
well as his

their original tongue.

last

Not only
book
the

that,

when

he Ukes an author he reads every

as
letters

man
I

has written,

and

all

the books that have been written about

is

him.

In our day his case

almost unparalleled,

imagine.

For,

not only has he read widely and deeply, but he has himself written
a great

many

books.

All
a

on

the side, as

it

were.

For, if he

is

any-

thing, Cendrars,

he

a
is,

man who

has

man of action, an adventurer and explorer, known how to "waste** his time royally. He
is

in a sense, the JuHus Caesar

of

Hterature.

The other day, at the request of the French publisher, Gallimard, made up a Hst of the hundred books* which I thought had

influenced

me

most.
Peck*s

A strange
Bad Boy,

list,

indeed, containing such incon-

gruous
Island.
I

titles as

The

first

Mahatmas and Pitcaim named, a decidedly " bad " book, I read as a boy.
Letters from the

ever

it worth including in my list because no other book made me laugh so heartily. Later, in my teens, I made periodical trips to the local hbrary to paw the books on the shelf labelled

thought

" Humor.**
This
is

How

few

found which were

is

really

humorous

the one realm

of Uterature which

woefully meagre and

deficient.
trata.

After citing Huckleberry Finn, The Crock of Gold, LysisSouls,

I

Dead

two or

three

of Chesterton's works, and Juno

it

and the Paycock,

am hard
true,

put to

to mention anything outstanding

are passages in Dostoievsky

in this category of in

humor. There

and

Hamsun,

it is

which

still

bring tean of laughter to

professional humorists,

my eyes,
and
their
as

but they are only passages.

The

names

are legion, bore

me

to death.

Books on humor, such

I also

Max
It

Eastman*s, Arthur Koestler*s, or Bergson's,

I feel, if I

find deadly.

would be an achievement,
I

could write just one humorous

book before

die.
is

The

Chinese, incidentally, possess a sense of

humor which

very

close,

very dear, to me.

Particularly their

poets and philosophers.

In books for children, which influence us the

fiiiry tales,

mostI mean

legends, myths, allegorieshumor

lust

is,

of course, woefully

absent.

Horror and tragedy,

and

cruelty,

seem to be the cardinal

ingredients.

But

it is

through the reading of these

boob

that the

* See Appendix. 24
/

THEY WERE ALIVE AND THEY SPOKE TO MB

imaginative faculty
is

nourisheci.

As we grow

older, fantasy
is

and

imagination become increasingly rare to find.

One

carried along

on

a treadmill

which grows increasingly monotonous.

that
it

The mind
to rout

becomes so dulled
one out of a
state

takes a truly extraordinary

book

of indifference or apathy.
reading there
is

With childhood

a factor

of significance which

we

arc prone to forget

the physical ambiance of the occasion.

one remembers the
feel
first

How

distinctly, in after years,

of a favorite book,

the typography, the binding, the illustrations, and so on.

How easily
Some books

one can locaHze the time and place of a

are associated

reading.

with

illness,

some with bad weather, some with

In the remembrance of these
fiise.

punishment, some with reward.

events the inner and outer worlds

These readings are

distinctly

" events " in one's

life.

There

is

one thing, moreover, which

later reading,

differentiates the reading

is

done in childhood firom

choice.

and that

the absence of

The books one

reads as a child arc thrust

!

upon

one.

Lucky
is

the child

who

has wise parents

that

So powerful, however,

the

dominion of certain books

avoid them.

even the ignorant parent can hardly

What

child has not read Sinhad the Sailor, Jason and

the Golden Fleece, All

Baba and

the Forty Thieves, the Fairy Tales

of

Grimm and
i

Andersen, Robinson Crusoe, Gulliver's Travels and

such like

Who also,
later in life

I ask,

has not enjoyed the uncanny thrill

his early favorites
I
?

which comes

on rereading

Only

recently, after

the lapse of almost fifty years,

reread Henty's Lion of the North.

What an
books.
I

experience

As a boy, Henty was

parents

my

favorite author.

Every Christmas
Today, and

my

would give me
I

eight or ten of his

I

must have read every blessed one before

I

was

fourteen.

regard

this as

phenomenal,

can pick up any book

I

of

his

He

does not seem to be

and get the same fascinating pleasure ** talking down " to his
be on intimate terms with him.

got

as

boy.
seems,
I

reader.

He
To

rather, to

Everyone knows,

presume, that Henty*s books arc historical romances.

the lads

of

my

day they were

vitally important, because

they gave us our

instance,

first
is

perspective

of world

history.

The Lion of the North, for

about Gustavus Adolphus and the Thirty Years* War.

In

it

appears that strange, enigmatic figureWallenstein.

When,

just

25

The books in
the other day,
it

my

lif
the pages dealing with Wallenstein,

came upon
I

was

as

though

had read them only a few months ago.

the book,
it

As

remarked in a
" destiny
rate.
I
*'

letter to a friend, after closing

was in

these pages about Wallenstein that I first encountered the

words
at

and " astrology."

Pregnant words, for a boy.

any

began by speaking of

my

" hbrary."

Only

lately

had the
Like

pleasure
ours, his

of reading about the Hfe and times of Montaigne.

was an age of
I

intolerance,
sure,

persecution, and wholesale

massacres.

had often heard, to be

of Montaigne's withdrawal
life,

from

active Hfe,

of

his

devotion to books, of his quiet, sober

There, of course, was a
!

so rich in inward ways.

man who

could
If,

be said to possess a Hbrary

thought to myself,
elbow,
all
I

For a

moment
this Uttle

envied him.
at

could have in

room, right

my

the books

which
I I

cherished as a child, a boy, a

!

man,

how

fortunate

would be
liked.

It

was always
it

my

habit to

young mark

excessively the
I,

books

How wonderful
I

would

be, thought

to see those markings again, to

know what were my

opinions

and reactions in that long ago.

thought of Arnold Bennett, of

the excellent habit he had formed of inserting at the back of every

book he read
what one was
and events,
tions

few blank pages whereon he might record

as

his notes

and impressions

he went along.

One

is

always curious to

know

like,

how

one behaved,

how

one reacted to thoughts

In the marginal annota-

at various periods in the past.

of books one can

easily discover one's

former

selves.

When one realizes

bodily death
i

the tremendous evolution of one's being which

is

occurs in a lifetime one

bound

to ask
?

" Does

life

cease vwth

on

earth

Have I not Hved before or perhaps on some other planet

all else

Will

not appear again

Am

not truly imperish-

able, as

is

in the universe
still

"

Perhaps, too, one

:

may be
" Did I

impelled to ask himself a

learn

more important question

"

my

lesson liere
I

on earth ?

Montaigne,

noticed with pleasure, speaks frequently of his

bad memory.

He

says that

he was unable to

recall the contents,

or even his impressions, of certain books,

read not once but several times.
I feel

many of which he had

however, that he

certain,

must have had a good memory in other

has a faulty, spotty

memory.

Most everyone The men who can quote copiously

respects.

26

THEY WERE ALIVE AND THEY SPOKE TO Ml

and accurately from the thousands of books they have read,
can
relate the plot

who

of a novel in

detail,

who

can give names and

dates

of

historical events,

and so on,

possess a

monstrous sort of

memory which has always seemed repellent to me. I am one of those who have a weak memory in certain respects and a strong one in others. In short, just the kind of memory which is useful
for

me.

When
But
I

I really

wish to

recall

something
I

can,

though

it

may

take considerable time and effort.

know

quietly that nothing

is lost.

know

also that

it is

important to cultivate a " forget-

tery."

The
I

flavor, the savor, the

aroma, the ambiance,

I

as

well

as the value

or non-value of a thing,

never forget.

The only kind

of memory
there
is

wish to preserve
infaUible,
total,

is

the Proustian sort.

To know

that

this
it

exact

memory

is

sufficient for

me.

How

often

happens

that, in

glancing through a

book read long

a burning,

ago, one stimibles

on

passages

whose every word has

i

inexhaustible, unforgettable resonance

Recently, in completing
Crucifixion, I

the script of the second

to turn to

book of The Rosy

was obHged
number,

my

notes,

made many
I

years ago,

on

Spengler's Declitt^^

of the West.
I

There were certain

of which

passages, a considerable

might

say,

had only to read the opening words and

the rest followed

Hke music.

The

sense

of the words had

I

lost, in

some
for I

instances,

some of

the importance

once attached to them,

I

but not the words themselves.

Every time

struck these passages,

had read them again and

redolent,

quality
is

became more more pregnant, more charged with that mysterious which every great author embeds in his language and which
again, the language

the

mark of his

uniqueness.

At any

rate,

so impressed was

by

the vitality
that
I

and hypnotic character of these Spenglerian passages

decided to quote a
I

number of them
felt

in their entirety.

It

was

an experiment which

obHged to conduct, an experiment

between myself and

my

readers.
I felt

The

lines I

chose to quote had

become

my

very

own

and
as

that they

had to be transmitted.
as the as

Were

they not every bit

important in

my Hfe

haphazard

encounters, crises and events

which

had described

my own

Why
I

not pass Oswald Spengler on intact also since he was an

event in

my

life

am

one of those readers who, from time to time, copy out

I

long passages from the b^<^ks

read.

find these citations every-

17

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

where whenever
are never at
I
I

begin going through

my
I

belongings.

They

my

elbow, fortunately or unfortunately.

Sometimes

spend whole days trying to recollect where

have secreted them.

notebooks to look
passages

Thus, the other day, opening one of

for something else, I stimibled

my

Paris

on one of those

which have
IntroFleurs

hved with
du

me for years.
is

duction to Against the

by Gautier from Havelock Ellis* " The poet of the Grain. It begins
It is
:

Mai loved what

is.

improperly called the

but art arrived

style

of decadence,

and which

nothing

else

at that

point of extreme
:

maturity yielded by the slanting suns of aged civilizations

ingenious, compHcated style, full
stantly pushing
all

an

of shades and of

research,

con-

back the boundaries of speech, borrowing from

the technical vocabularies, taking color

from

all

palettes

and

notes

from

all

keyboards ..."

Then

follows a sentence which

:

always pops up Hke a flashing semaphore

is

" The

style

of decadence

the ultimate utterance

its last

of the Word, summoned to

final expression

and driven to

hiding-place."
I

Utterances such as these

have often copied out in large

that, in leaving,

letters

and placed above

my

door so

my

friends

would
to

be sure to read them.

Some

people have the opposite compulsion

secret.
I

they keep these precious revelations

shout from the rooftop whenever
thing of vital importance.
I

My

weakness

is

beHeve

have discovered somebook, for

On

finishing a wonderfril

example,

almost always

sit

down and

write letters to

my friends,
The

sometimes to the author, and occasionally to the publisher.

experience becomes a part of

my daily conversation,
I called this
!

enters into the

very food and drink

it
is

consume.

a weakness.

Perhaps

not.

**

Increase

and multiply

"

commanded
it

the

Lord.

E.
I

Graham Howe, author of War

even
better.

Dance, put

another way, which

like

" Create and share!" he counseled. And, though

blush seem like an act of creation, in a deep

reading
sense

may not

at first

it is.

Without

the enthusiastic reader,

who is

really the author's

coimterpart and very often his most secret rival, a

book would die. The man who spreads the good word augments not only the life of the book in question but the act of creation itself. He breathes spirit
other readers.
is

into

He

sustains

the creative spirit everywhere.

is

Whether he
28

aware of it or not, what he

like the

doing

is

praising God's

handiwork. For, the good reader,

good

author,

knows

that

THEY WERE ALIVE AND THEY SPOKE TO ME

everything stems from the same source.

He knows

that

he could not

participate in the author's private experience

were he not composed

of the same substance through and through.

I

And when

say author

mean Author. The writer is, of course,

**

the best of all readers, for in

is

writing, or

creating," as

it is

called,

he

but reading and transcrib-

ing the great message of creation which the Creator in his goodness
has

made

manifest to him.
list

In the Appendix the reader will find a

of authors and
it

titles

arranged in a firank and curious way.*

it

mention

because

think

important to

stress at

the outset a psychological fact about the

is

reading of books which

subject.
It is this
:

rather neglected in

most works on the

many of the books one

Uves with in one's

mind

are

books one has never read.

Sometimes these take on amazing

this order.

importance. There are at least three categories of

first

The

comprises those books which one has every intention of reading

in
all

some day but

those books
at least,

probability never will

feels

the second comprises

which one

he ought to have read, and which, some

dies
;

he undoubtedly will read before he

the third comprises

the books one hears about, talks about, reads about, but
is

which one

almost certain never to read because nothing, seemingly, can ever

break

down
first

the wall of prejudice erected against them.

In the

category are those monumental works,

usually

classics
:

mostly,

which one
one nibbles

is

ashamed to admit he has never read

tomes

at occasionally,

only to push them away, more than ever

unreadable.

convinced that they are

individual.

still

The

list

varies

with the

For myself, to give a few outstanding names, they

as

comprise the works of such celebrated authors

Francis Bacon, Hegel,
ing, Santayana.

Homer,

Aristotle,

Rousseau (excepting
I

Entile),

Robert Brown-

In the second category

include Arabia Deserta, the

Decline and Fall of the

Roman

Empire, The Hundred and Twenty Days

of Sodom,

Casanova's Memoirs,

Napoleon's Memoirs,

Michelet's

History of the French Revolution.

In the third Pepys' Diary, Tristram

Shandy, Wilhelm Meister, The Anatomy of Melancholy, The Red and the Black, Marius the Epicurean, The Education of Henry Adams. Sometimes a chance reference to an author one has neglected to

read or abandoned
the

all

thought of ever reading

a passage, say,
who
read.

in
is

work of an
is,

author one admires, or the words of a friend

I

* That

those

have read and those

I still

hope to

29

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE,

ako a book loveris
with
sufficient to

make one run

for a book, read

it

new eyes and claim it as one's very own.

In the main, however,

the books one neglects, or deUberately spurns, seldom get read. Certain subjects, certain styles, or unfortunate associations

connected v^dth

the very names of

insuperable.
tackle

certain

books, create a repugnance almost

Nothing on

earth, for

example, could induce

me

to

anew
I

Spenser's Faery Queen,

I left

which

began in college and

fortunately dropped because

that institution in a hurry.

Never

again will

look

at a line
I

of Edmund Burke, or Addison, or Chaucer,

think altogether worthy of reading. Racine
I

though the last-named

Comeille

and Comeille are two others

though
intrigues

doubt

if I shall ever

look

at again,
I

me

because of a brilliant essay

'

on Phldre in The Cloums Grail* On the other hand there are books which He at the very foundations of literature but which are so remote from one's thinking and experience as to render them " untouchable." Certain
read not long ago
authors, supposed to be the
culture, are

bulwark of our

particular

Western

more

foreign in spirit to

me

than are the Chinese,

the

the

Arabs, or primitive peoples.

Some of

most exciting
example, have

Hterary works spring

directly to
/--v

from

cultures

which have not contributed

our development.

No

fairy tales, for

exercised a

r^

which

more potent influence over me than those of the Japanese, became acquainted with through the work of Lafcadio

Heam, one of the exotic figures in American Hterature. No stories were more seductive to me as a child than those drawn from the
Arabian Nights* Entertainment.
cold, whereas the folklore
as I

American Indian folklore

is

leaves

me

of Afiica

near and dear to

I

me.f And,
ancestors.

have said repeatedly, whatever

read of Chinese Uterature

(barring Confiidus) seems as if written

I

by

my immediate
who
liked that
fall

said that

sometimes

it is

an esteemed author
**

puts one

on

the track of a buried book.

What! He

book?" you
the

say to yourself, and immediately the barriers

away and

mind
Often

becomes not only open and receptive but

it

positively aflame.
tastes

happens that

it is

not a friend of similar

who

revives one's
this

interest in a

dead book but a chance acquaintance. Sometimes

ht

* By Wallace Fowlie. Sub-title A Study of Love Dennis Dobson, Ltd., London, 1947.
:

its

Literary Expression

t See Cendrars* African Anthology.

30


THEY WERE ALIVE AND THEY SPOKE TO ME
individual gives the impression

of being a
a

nitwit,

and one wonders

book which this person casually recommended, or perhaps did not recommend at all but " merely mentioned in the course of conversation as being an ** odd
he should retain the
book.
In a vacant

why

memory of

mood,
a

at loose ends, as

recollection

of this conversation occurs, and

we say, suddenly the we are ready to give the

From having heard
that
it

book

trial.
is

Then comes

hock, the shock of discovery. Wuthering

this sort.
it

Heights

for

me

an example of
so often,
I

praised so

much and
whose

for an English novel

had concluded
!

was impossible

^by a

woman
Though

to be that good.
be shallow,
let

Then one
drop a few

day a

friend,

taste I suspected to
it.

pregnant words about

his

promptly proceeded to forget

it, I

remarks, the poison sank into me. Without realizing

nurday.
I

tured a secret resolve to have a look at this famous

Finally, just a

book one

few

years ago, Jean

as is

Varda put
I

it

in

my

hands.*

read

it

in

one gulp, astoimded

everyone,

suspect,

by its amazing
EngHsh

power and beauty. Yes, one of the very

language.

great novels in the

And

I,

through pride and prejudice, had almost missed

reading

it.

Quite another story

I
it

is

that

of The City of God.

St.

Many

years ago

had, like everyone

else,

read the Confessions of

Augustine.

And
thrust

had made a deep impression. Then, in

in

Paris,
I

some one
it

upon me The City of God^

bookseller, hearing
that
I

two volumes.

found

not only

boring and deadly, but in parts monstrously ridiculous.

An English

a mutual friend to his surprise, no doubt work informed me that he could get a good price for it if I would only annotate it. I sat down to read it once again, taking elaborate pains to make copious remarks, usually derogatory, in the margins after spending a month or so at this vain task I dispatched the book to England. Twenty years later I

from

had read

this

received a post card

to
sell

from

this

the

copy in a few days

last I

same bookseller
^he

stating that

he hoped
it at last.

had found a buyer for

And

that

was the

Throughout
should also
* He
painter,

my

heard from him. Droie d'histoire ! Hfe the word ** confessions " in a title has
I

alwa)^
i

acted like a magnet.

I

mentioned Strindberg's Confession of a Fool, have mentioned Marie BashkirtsefF's famous work

also put into

my

hands another amazing book, Hebdomeros, by the

Giorgio di Chirico.

31

"

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

and the Confessions of Two Brothers by Powys. There are some very which I have never been able to

celebrated confessions, however,

wade through. One

recently
I

is

Rousseau's, another
at

is

de Quincey's. Only

took another stab

Rousseau's Confessions, but after a

it.

few pages was forced to abandon

fully intend to

His Emile,

on

the other hand,

readwhen

can find a copy with readable type.

The
I

Httle I did read

of it had an extraordinary appeal.

beheve they are woefully mistaken

who

assert that the

founda-

tions

of knowledge or

culture, or

any foundations whatsoever, are

found in every
list

necessarily those classics

which

arc

of

**

best
their

books.

know

that there are several universities

which base

entire curricula

on such

select

lists.

It is
is

my

opinion that each

at all

man
by

has to dig his

own

foundations. If one

an individual

it is

reason of his uniqueness.

aflfected the

Whatever the material which

vitally

form of our
it

culture, each

man must

decide for himself

his

which elements of
destiny.

are to enter into

and shape

own

private

The

great

works which

are singled out

It is

by

the professorial

minds represent
intellects to
It

their

choice exclusively.

in the nature

of such

beheve that they are our appointed guides and mentors.

may be

that, if left to

our

own

devices,

we would

in time share
is

their point

of view. But the

surest
lists

way

to defeat such an end

to

promulgate the reading of select

tion stones.

of books

the so-called foundatimes.

A man

should begin with his

own

He
is

should

become acquainted
and
too
participating.
Uttle.

first

of all with the world in which he

Uving
or

He

should not be afraid of reading too

much

He

should take his reading as he docs his food or his

will gravitate to the

exercise.

The good reader

good books. He

will

discover firom his contemporaries

what is

inspiring or fecundating, or

merely enjoyable, in past Hterature.

He

should have the pleasure

of making these discoveries on

his

own,

in his

own way. What has

or forgotten.

worth, charm, beauty, wisdom, cannot be

things can lose
all

lost

But

value, all

charm and

appeal, if

one

is

dragged to

them by

the scalp.

disillusionments, that in
said the better
i

Have you not noticed, after many heart-aches and recommending a book to a friend the less The moment you praise a book too highly you
your
listener.

awaken

resistance in

One
it is

has to

know when

to give

the dose and

how muchand
it

if

to be repeated or not.

The

gurus of India and Tibet, 32

is

often pointed out, have for ages

THBY WERE ALIVE AND THBY SPOKE TO MB

practiced the high art

o( discouraging

their ardent

would-be

disciples.

The same
of books

sort

of strategy might well be applied where the reading

is

concerned. Discourage a

man
thing

in the right

way,

that

is,

with the right end in view, and you will put him on the path that

much more

quickly.

The important
to have, but

is

not which books, which

experiences, a

man is

what he

puts into

them of his own.

in Hfe
is

One of the most mysterious of all the intangibles

call influences.

what we

Undoubtedly
it

influences

attraction.

But

should be borne in
it
is

come under the law of mind that when we are

pulled in a certain direction

direction, perhaps
at the

also because
it.

we

pushed in that

without knowing

It is

obvious that
are

we

are not

mercy of any and every

influence.

Nor

we

always cognito

zant of the forces and factors

another.

which

influence us

from one period

of destiny
:

Some men

never

know

themselves or what motivates their

others the sense
is

behavior.

Most men,

in fact.

With

so
1

clear, so strong, that there

hardly seems to be any choice

fulfill their

they

create the influences

needed to

ends.

use the

word

" create " deHberately, because in certain startling instances the

j

individual has literally been

obUged to

create the necessary influences.

We

are

on

strange grounds here.

is

My

reason for introducing such

are concerned, just as with
all is

an abstruse element

that,

where books

friends, lovers, adventures

and
is

discoveries,

inextricably mixed.

The

desire to read a

book

often provoked

by

the most unexpected

incident.
piece.

To

begin with, everything that happens to a

The books he

chooses to read are no exception.

Fifteen

man is of a He may

have read Plutarch's Liues or The

Decisive Battles of the

his nose.

World because a doting aimt thrust them under

not have read them
titles

He may
.

if

he detested

this aunt.

Of

the thousands of

which come under one's ken, even

steers straight
?

early in hfe,

how

is it

that

one individual
towards others

towards certain authors and another

man is.

If a

man reads are determined by what a man be left alone in a room with a book, a single book, it
The books
a
it

does not follow that he will read

do. If the

because he has nothing better to

book bores him he will drop it, though he may go wellnigh mad for want of anything better to do. Some men, in reading,
take the pains to look

up every

reference given in the foomotes

others again never even glance at footnotes.

Some men
title

will under-

take arduous journeys to read a

book whose

alone has intrigued

33

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

them. The adventures and discoveries of Nicholas Flamel in connection with the

Book of Abraham

the Jew constitute one of the golden

pages in literature.

As

was saying, the chance remark of a

illness, solitude,

friend,

an unexpected

encounter, a footnote,
a thousand are times

strange quirks

of memory,

and one things can set one off in pursuit of a book. There
to any and
all
it

intimations.

when one is susceptible And there are times

astir.

suggestions, hints,
takes

again

when

dynamite to

put one afoot and

in the writing

One of the great temptations, for a writer, is to read when engaged of a book. With me it seems that the moment I begin a new book I develop a passion for reading too. In fact, due to some perverse instinct, the moment I am launched on a new book
itch to

do

a thousand different things

not,

as is often the case,

I

out

of a

desire to escape the task

of writing.

What

fmd

is

that I can

write and do other things.

least,

When

the creative urge seizes one

creative in
all

at

such

is

my

experience

one becomes

directions

at once.
It

was

in the days before

undertook to write,

must

confess, that

reading was at once the most voluptuous and the most pernicious

of pastimes. Looking backward,

it

seems to

me

as if the

reading of

books was nothing more than a narcotic, stimulating

depressing and paralyzing afterwards.

at first
I

but

From
As
a

the time

began

in earnest to write, the reading habit altered.

A new element crept

young man
have done
I

into

it.

A fecundating element, I might say.

on putting
a

often

thought,
better

book down,
I

that I could

much

myself The more

read the

more

critical I
I

became. Hardly

anything was good enough for me.

Gradually
I

began to despise

books

and authors too.

I

Often the writers

had most adored were

and eluded me. As

the ones

castigated mercilessly.

There was always a fringe of

baffled

authors, to be sure,

whose magic powers

the time approached for

I

me

to assert

my own powers
with

of expression
I

began to reread these

all

**

spellbinders "

new
I

eyes.

read coldIn order,

bloodedly, with

the powers of analysis

possessed.
I

bcHeve

it

or not, to rob them of their secret. Yes,

was then naive

the clock tick
this
all

enough

to beUcve that I could discover

it

what makes

by taking
34

apart.

Vain and

foolish
as

though

my

behavior was,

period stands out, nevertheless,

one of the most rewarding of

THEY WERE ALIVE AND THEY SPOKE TO ME

my
art

bouts with books.

learned something about style, about the

of narration, about

effects

and
is

how

they are produced. Best of

all, I

learned that there really

a mystery involved in the creation

is

of good books.

To

say, for

example, that the style

the

the man,

is

to

say almost nothing.

Even when we have

a

man we have
speaks, the

next to

nothing.

The way

man

writes, the
is

way he

way he
not to

walks, the

way he

does everything,

unique and inscrutable. The

it, is

important thing, so obvious that one usually overlooks

wonder about such matters but

to let his

to listen to

what

man

has to say,

words move you,

truly are.

alter

you,

make you more and more

of any
art is the

what you

The most important

practice
it

factor in the appreciation

of it. There

is

the

wonder and intoxication of the

;

child

when

first

encounters the world of books

there

is

the ecstasy and

;

despair of

youth in discovering

his

**

own "

authors

but greater

than these, because combined with them are other

more permanent
reflections

and quickening elements, are the perceptions and

mature being
reading

of a

who

has dedicated his Hfe to the task of creation. In

letters to his brother,

Van Gogh's

one

is

struck

by

the vast

amount of meditation,
painter.

analysis,

comparison, adoration and criticism

as a

he indulged in during the course of his brief and frenzied career

It is

not

case

it

reaches

uncommon, among painters, but in Van Gogh's heroic proportions. Van Gogh was not only looking
but
at other

at nature, people, objects,

men's canvases, studying

their

methods, techniques,
earnestly

styles

and approaches.

He

reflected

long and

these thoughts and observations anything but a primitive, or a " fauve." Like Rimbaud, he was nearer to being " a mystic in the wild state."

on what he observed, and

penetrated his work.

He was

It is

not altogether by accident that

illustrate

have chosen a painter rather

It

than a writer to

my

point.

happens that

Van Gogh,

without having any

literary pretensions

whatever, wrote one of the

that

great books of our time,

and without knowing

it

he was writing

a book.

His

life, as

we

get

in the letters,

is

more

revelatory,

more
us

moving, more a work of

art, I

would

say, than are

most of the

famous autobiographies or autobiographical novels.

He

tells

unreservedly of his struggles and sorrows, withholding nothing.

He

displays his rare

knowledge of the
and

painter's craft,

though he

is

acclaimed

more

for his passion

his vision

than for his knowledge

35

THE BOOKS

IN

MY
life,
is

LIFE
in that
it

of the medium. His

and the same time

makes
all

clear the value

and the
is

meaning of dedication,

a lesson for

time.

Van Gogh
all

at
!

one

and of how few men can we say

brother of

this

the

humble
critic,

disciple, the student, the lover, the

men, the

the analyst, and the doer of

good

deeds.

He may have been

working
in the

obsessed, or possessed rather, but

he was not a

fanatic

dark.

He

possessed, for
his

one thing, that rare faculty of being able to

criticize

and judge

own

work.

He

proved, indeed, to be a
it

much

better critic
is

and judge than those whose business

and condemn.

unfortunately

to criticize, judge

The more
tell

write the

me

in their books.

more I understand what others are tryii^ to The more I write the more tolerant I grow
(I

with regard to
writers, for

my

fellow writers.
I

am

" not including " bad

traffic.)

with them

refuse to

have any

But with those

who
days

are sincere,

with those

who

are honestly struggling to express

themselves,

I am much more lenient and understanding than in the when I had not yet written a book. I can learn from the poorest

done his utmost. Indeed, I have learned a very great deal from certain " poor " writers. In reading their works
writer, provided he has
I

which

have been struck time and again by that freedom and boldness it is almost impossible to recapture once one is " in harness,"
is

once one
it is

aware of the laws and limitations of his medium. But

in reading one's favorite authors that one becomes supremely

art

aware of the value of practicing the with the right and the
sheer enjoyment
left eye.

of writing.

One

reads then

Without

the least diminution of the

a marvellous

of reading, one becomes aware of

heightening of conscioumess. In reading these

men the element of the

Drunk with
is

mysterious never recedes, but the vessel in which their thoughts are
contained
ecstasy,

becomes more and more

his

transparent.

one returns to

verted into reverence.

before.

own work revivified. Criticism One begins to pray as one never

con-

prayed

One no

longer prays for oneself but for Brother Giono,

Brother Cendrars, Brother Celine

authors, in fact.

for the whole galaxy of fellow

longer asks for something

One

accepts the uniqueness of his fellow artist

it is

imreservedly, realizing that

only through one's uniqueness that

one

asserts his

commonness.

One no

different

of his beloved author but for more of the same. Even the
testifies

ordinary reader

to this longing.

Does he not say, on

finishing

36

THBY WERE ALIVE AND THEY SPOKE TO ME

the
last

volume of
!

his favorite

author

"If only he had written

is

few more books

"

When,
is

after

an author
a bundle

dead some time, a

letters,

forgotten manuscript

dug up, or

of
!

or an un-

known diary, what

even the
tiniest

a cry of exultation goes

!

up

What

gratitude for

posthumous fragment

Even

the perusal of an

author's expense account gives us a

The moment a writer dies his Hfe suddenly becomes of momentous interest to us. His death often enables us to see what we could not sec when he was aUve that his Hfe and work were one. Is it not obvious that the art
thrill.

of

resuscitation (biography)

masks a profound hope and longing

We

are not content to let Balzac, Dickens, Dostoievsky remain

their

immortal in

works

we

want

to restore

them

in the flesh.
its

Each age

strives to join the great

men of letters with

own,
its

to

incorporate the pattern and significance of their Hves in

own.

Sometimes

it

seems

as

though the influence of the dead were more

have resurrected

potent than the influence of the living. If the Saviour had not been
resurrected,

man would

certainly

grief and longing.

sity

That Russian author

who
is

Him through spoke of the " necesthe simplest and

" of resurre<jting the dead spoke

alive

truly.

They were
eloquent

and they spoke

to

me! That

most
have

way

in

which

can refer to those authors

Is this

who

remained with
considering
Just as

me over that we are

the years.

not a strange thing to say,

dealing, in books,

with signs and symbols

no

artist

has ever succeeded in rendering nature

on

canvas,

so

no author

has ever truly been able to give us his Hfe and thoughts.
is

Autobiography
reaHty than
fact.

the purest romance.

fable
is

Fiction

is

always closer to

The

not the essence of worldly

wisdom but
science,

the bitter sheU.

One might go on, through

on deep
me!
?

aU the ranks and divisions

of Hterature, unmasking

history, exposing the

analysis,

myths of

devaluating aesthetics. Nothing,

it

proves to be what

seems or purports to be.

Man continues
to
Is it

to hunger.

They were

alive
is

and they spoke

not strange to understand

is

and enjoy what

incommunicable

Man

not communicating with

man through words, he is communing with his feUow man and with his Maker. Over and over again one puts down a book and one is
speechless.

Sometimes

it is

because the author seems " to have said

this sort

everything.'*

But

am

not thinking of

of reaction.

am
37

thinking that

this business

of becoming mute corresponds to some-

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

thing
it is

much

deeper.

It is

from

the silence that

words

are drawn,

and

to the silence that they return, if properly used. In the interval

:

something inexpHcable takes place

man who

is

dead,

let

us say,

resuscitates himself, takes possession

of you, and in departing leaves

you thoroughly

altered.

He
not,

did

this

by means of signs and symbols.

Was

this

not magic which he possessed

it

perhaps

still

possesses

Though we know
talk a great deal

we do

possess the

key to

paradise.

Wc

about understanding and communicating, not only

with our fellow

man but with the dead, with the imbom, with those
be unlocked.

who
are

inhabit other realms, other universes.

secrets to

mighty

We believe that there We hope that science will poillt

now know
;

the way, or if not, religion.

We dream of a Hfe in the distant future

from the one we

which

will be utterly different

we

invest ourselves

with powers unnameable. Yet the writers of books

have ever given evidence not only of magical powers but of the
existence

of universes which infringe and invade our

universe and

which

are as famiUar to us as

though

own Httle we had visited

them

in the flesh.

These

men had no "

occult " masters to initiate

diem. They sprang from parents similar to our own, they were the
products of environments similar to our own.
stand apart then
?

Not

the use of imagination, for

What makes them men in other

practice equally
is

walks of Hfe have displayed equally great powers of imagination.

Not

the mastery of a technique, for other

artists

difficult techniques.

No,

to

me

the cardinal fact about a writer

all.

his

abihty to " exploit " the vast silence which enwraps us

artists

Of all

he

is

the one

Word
it

and the

who best knows that " in the beginning was the Word was with God and the Word was God." He
which informs
all

has caught the spirit

creation and he has rendered

in signs and symbols.

Pretending to communicate with his

fellow creatures, he has unwittingly taught us to

Creator.
is

commune with

the
it

Using language
at all

as his

instrument, he demonstrates that

not language

but prayer.

A very special kind of prayer, too,

**

since nothing

is

demanded of
runs,

the Creator.

Blessings

on

thee,

Lord
" Let

"

So

it

no matter what

the subject,

what

the idiom.
!

me

exhaust myself,

O Lord,
work

Is this

not " the heavenly

" in singing thy praises " of which it has been spoken

Let us cease to

wonder what

they, the great, the illustrious ones,

that they are
still

are doing in the beyond.

Know

singing

hymns of

38

THEY WERE ALIVE AND THEY SPOKE TO ME

praise.

Here on

eartli

they

may have been

practicing.

There they are

i

perfecting their song.

Once

again

must mention the Russians, those obscure ones of

the Nineteenth Century,

who knew

that there

is

only one
earth.*

task,

one

y
,

supreme joy

to

establish the perfect Hfe here

on

X
* In 1880 Dostoievsky made a speech on " The Mission of Russia " in " To become a true Russian is to become the brother of which he said all men, a universal man. Our future Ues in Universality, not won by violence, but by the strength derived from our great ideal the reuniting of all mankind."
:
. . .

39

II

EARLY READING
It
is

only in the
I
:

last

few years

that

have begun to reread

first

certain

books.
reread
land,

can

recall

with accuracy the

books

singlec^out to
in

The

Birth of Tragedy,

The Eternal Husband, Alice

Mysteries.

Wonder-

The Imperial Orgy, Hamsun's

is

Hamsun,

as I

have

often said,

one of the authors

who

vitally affected
as Mysteries.

me

as writer.

None of his books intrigued me I spoke of earher, when I began

concentrated

as

much

In that period

to take

my favorite authors apart in

men
I

order to discover their secret power of enchantment, the

on were Hamsun

first

of all, then Arthur Machen, then

Thomas Mann. When I came to reread The Birth of Tragedy I remember being positively stunned by Nietzsche's magical use of language. Only a few years ago, thanks to Eva SikeHanou, I became
intoxicated once again with this extraordinary book.
I

mentioned Thomas Mann. For a whole year

as

Uved with Hans

as

Castorp of The Magic Mountain

with a living person,

it

with a
a writer

blood brother,

might even

say.

But

was Mann's

skill as

of short stories, or novelettes, which most intrigued and baffled mc during the " analytical " period I speak of At that time Death in
Venice
years,

was for
however,

me

the supreme short story.

In the space of a
especially

few

my opinion of Thomas
It is
.

Mann, and
During

of his

Death

in Venice, altered radically.

It

a curious tale

and perhaps
early days in

worth recounting.
Paris
I

was

like this

my

made

the acquaintance of a most engaging and provocative

I

individual

whom

beHeved to be a genius. John Nichols was

his

name.

He was

a painter. Like so
It

many

Irishmen, he also possessed

the gift of gab.

was a

privilege to listen to him,

whether he

were discussing

painting, Hterature, music, or talking sheer nonsense.

when he waxed strong, his tongue One day I happened to speak of my admiration for Thomas Mann and, before long, I found myself raving about Death
a
flair

He had

for invective, and,

was

vitrioHc.

in Venice.

Nichols responded with jeers and contempt. In exaspera-

40

EARLY READING
tion
I

told

him I would

get the

book and read the story aloud

to him.

He admitted he had never read it and thought my proposal an excellent one.

I shall

never forget

this experience.

Before

had read three pages

said

Thomas Mann began

the

to crumble. Nichols,

mind you, had not

critical ear,

a word. But reading the story aloud, and to a

suddenly

whole creaking machinery which underlay

itself.
I,

this

fabrication

exposed

who

thought

was holding in
at a piece

my hands
Later
I

a piece of

pure gold, found myself looking

of papier-mach^. Half-

way through
as

flung the

book on

the floor.

on

glanced

through The Magic Mountain and Buddenhrooks, works

had regarded

monumental, only to find them equally meretricious.

This sort of experience,
I

must quickly add, has happened but

seldom to me. There was one outstanding one

it
!

blush to mention

^and that

was

in connection with Three

that

Men

in a Boat.
is

earth I

had ever managed to find

I

book " funny "

I

beyond
I

How on my
laughed

comprehension. Yet
until the tears

had, once. Indeed,

remember

that

came

to
it

my

eyes.

The

other day, after a lapse of

it

thirty years, I picked

I tasted

up and

started to read

again.

Never have

a shoddier piece of tripe. Another disappointment, though

much
Egg.

milder, lay in store for

It

me on

rereading The Triumph of the

came near

to being a rotten egg.*

But once

it

had made

me
?

laugh and weep.

Oh, who was I, what was I, What I started to say is that,

that the

in those dreary days of long in rereading,

I

^o

find
I

more and more

There arc

books

long to read again are the ones

I

read in childhood
!

and early youth.

others

mentioned Henty,

bless his

name

like

Rider Haggard, Marie

Corelli,

Bulwer-Lytton, Eugene

Sue, James
Flags),

Fenimore Cooper, Sienkiewicz, Ouida {Under Two

{Hnckleberry Finn and

Mark Twain
As

Tom Sawyer
since

particularly).
!

Imagine not having read any of these

incredible.
it

men

boyhood

It

seems

for Poe, Jack

I

London, Hugo, Conan Doyle, Kipling,

at their

matters Uttle if
I

never look

works

again, f

should also like very

much

to reread those

books which

used

his

It should not be inferred from this that I have turned against Sherwood Anderson, who has meant so much to me. I have still a great admiration for WineshuTg, Ohio and Many Marriages. f For some mysterious reason I do, howe er, intend to read Toilers of the Sea, which I missed when I was devouring Hugo.

41

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

to read aloud to

my grandfather

as

he

sat

on

his tailor's

bench in our
these, I

old

home

in the Fourteenth

Ward

in Brooklyn.
(for a day)

One of

recall,

was about our great " hero "

Admiral Dewey.
battle

Another was about Admiral Farragut

probably about the

I

of

Mobile Bay,

if there

ever was such an engagement. Regarding this

book

I recall

now

that, in

writing the chapter called "

My Dream of
aware of

Mobile " in The Air-conditioned Nightmare,

this tale

was

actively

of Farragut's heroic

exploits.

Without
this

a doubt,
I

my
I

whole

conception of Mobile was colored by

ago.

book

had read

fifty years

But

it

was through the book on Admiral Dewey

that

became
but our

acquainted with

my

first

Hve hero,

who was
rebel.

not

Dewey

sworn enemy, Aguinaldo, the Fihpino

Dewey's
portrait, floating

My mother had hung

my bed.

above the battleship Maine, over

Aguinaldo, whose likeness is

now dim in my mind, links up physically

Rimbaud
taken in Abyssinia, the

with that strange photograph of

one wherein he stands in prison-Hke garb on the banks of a stream.

Little

did

my

parents reaHze, in handing

Admiral Dewey, that they were nurturing

Beside

in

me our precious hero. me the seeds of a rebel.

colossus.
I still

Dewey and Teddy Roosevelt, Aguinaldo stands out Hke a He was the fu-st Enemy Number One to cross my horizon.
I still

revere his name, just as

revere the

names of Robert E.

Lee and Toussaint L'Ouverture, the great Negro hberator

fought Napoleon's picked
In this vein

who

men and

worsted them.

how
?

can

forbear mentioning Carlyle's Heroes and

Hero Worship

Or
I

Emerson's Representative

Men

?
?

And why

not

make room

for another early idol, John Paul Jones

In Paris, thanks

to Blaise Cendrars,

learned

what

is

not given in history books or

biographies concerning
this

John Paul

Jones.

The

spectacular story of

man's

life is

one of those projected books which Cendrars has

will.

not yet written and probably never

The

reason

is

simple.

Following the

trail

of this adventurous American, Cendrars amassed

such a wealth of material that he was

swamped by

it.

In the course

of

his travels, searching for rare

documents and buying up rare

books relating to John Paul Jones' myriad adventures, Cendrars

confessed that he had spent

more than

tenfold the

amount given him

by

the publishers in advance royalties.

Following John Paul Jones'

traces,

Cendrars had

made

a veritable Odyssean voyage.

He

con-

fessed finally that

he would one day either write a huge tome on

42

EARLY READING
the subject or a
perfectly.

very thin book, something which

understand

whom I ventured to read aloud was my grandit I can still hear him saying to my mother that she would regret putting all those books in my hands. He was right. My mother did regret it bitterly, later. It was my own mother, incidentally, whom I can scarcely recall ever seeing with
The
first

person to
that

father.

Not

he encouraged

book

in her hand,

who

told

me
I

one day when

was reading The

Fifteen Decisive Battles of the

World that she had read that book

years ago herselfin the toilet.

was

flabbergasted.

Not

that she

had admitted to reading in the

that

toilet,

but that

it

should have been

book, of all books, which she had read

to

there.

Reading aloud
Tony,

my

boyhood

friends, particularly to
I

Joey and

my

earhest friends,

was an eye-opener for me.

later,

discovered

early in hfe

what some discover only much

to their disgust

and chagrin, namely, that reading aloud to people can put them to
sleep.

Either
I

my

voice was monotonous, either

read poorly, or

the books
to sleep

chose were the

wrong

sort.

Inevitably

my audience went
incidentally,

on me. Which did not discourage me,

from

continuing the practice.

I

Nor

did these experiences alter the opinion

I

had of my

little

friends.

No,
to
it

came

quietly to the conclusion that

last

books were not for everyone.

I still

hold to that view. The

thing

on

earth

would counsel
first

is

make everyone
that a

learn to read. If I

had

my way, I would
by
all

see to

boy learned

to be a carpenter, a
first,

builder, a gardener, a hunter, a fisherman.

The

practical things

means, then the luxuries.

And books

are luxuries.

Of course I
And

expect the normal youngster to dance and sing from infancy.

to play games.
I

would

abet these tendencies with might and main.

wait.
is

But the reading of books can

To
all

play games
itself
I

Ah, there

a chapter

of life in a category

by

mean, primarily, out-of-door games

in the streets of a big city.
this

the
I pass

games

which poor children play

temptation to expand on
different,

up the

subject lest

write another, very

kind of book

However, boyhood is a subject I never tire of Neither the remembrance of the wild and glorious games we played by day and
night in the
streets,

nor the characters with

deified, as

whom

hobnobbed and

whom I

sometimes

boys are prone to do. All

my

cxper-

43

THE BOOKS
iences
I

IN

MY
my

LIFE
comrades, including the experience of
in

shared with

reading.
the

Time and again, amazing acumen we

Hfe.

my

writings,

have made mention of

displayed in discussing the fundamental

problems of

Subjects such as sin, evil, reincarnation,

good
real

government,
life

ethics

and morality, the nature of the

deity, Utopia,
us.

on other on

planets

these were

food and drink to

My

education was begun in the

days, or
street

street, in

empty

lots

on cold November
was books,

comers

at night,

frequently with out skates on.

forever discussing

Naturally, one of the things

the books

we were

we were then reading and which we were not even supposed to know about. It sounds extravagont to say so, I know, but it docs seem to me that only the great interpreters of Uterature can rival
boy
in the street

the

when

it

comes to extracting the

the

flavor

and

essence

of a book. In

my

humble opinion,

boy
of

is

much

nearer

to understanding Jesus than the priest,

much

closer to Plato, in his

this

views on government, than the

political figures

world.

During
into

this

golden period of boyhood there was suddenly injected

a

my

world of books

whole Hbrary, housed

in a beautiful

walnut bookcase with

books.

glass

doors and movable shelves, of boys'

They were from

the collection of an Englishman, Isaac

Walker,

my

father's predecessor,

who
all

had the

distinction

of being

one of the

first

merchant
these

tailors

of New York.

As

review them
titles

now in my mind,
thick

books were
as

handsomely bound, the

designs.

embossed usually in gold,

were the cover

clear.

The paper was

and

glossy, the type

bold and

In short, these books were

de luxe in every respect. Indeed, so elegantly forbidding was their

appearance, that
it

took some time before

to relate
is

dared tackle them.

What I am about
telling the truth

a curious thing. It has to

I

do with
beUeve
is

my
am

deep and mysterious aversion for everything English.

when

say that the cause of this antipathy

deeply

connected with the reading of Isaac Walker's Httle Hbrary.

profound was

How my disgust, on becoming acquainted with the contents

may be judged by
Just
is

of these books,
forgotten the

the fact that

have completely
this
is

titles.

one

lingers in
:

one

am

not positive

correct

A
I

memory, and even Country Squire. The rest

my

blank.
first

The

nature of my reaction

can put in a few words. For the

time in

my life I sensed the meaning of melancholy and morbidseemed wrapped

in a veil

ity.

All these elegant books

of thick fog.

44

EARLY READING
England became for
evil,

me

a land

shrouded in murky obscurity, in

issued

cruelty and
It

boredom. Not one ray of light was the primordial

it

from

these

musty tomes.
and
irrational

slime,

on

all levels.

Senseless

though

be, this picture

of England and the EngHsh

I

lasted well into

middle

life, until,

to be honest,

visited
their

England and

had the opportunity of meeting EngHshmen on

heath.*

own

native

(My

first

impression of London,

must however admit,

of it
;

corresponded closely to
sion

my boyhood

picture

it is

an impres-

which has never been wholly

to Dickens, these
I

dissipated.)
first

When I came

impressions were, of course,

corroborated and strengthened.

have very (ev/ pleasant recollections

His books were sombre,

connected with the reading of Dickens.

terrifying in parts,

and usually boring.

Of them all, David Copperfield

stands out as the

to

most enjoyable, the most nearly human, according

my

conception (then) of the word. Fortunately, there was one

book which had been given

corrective to this

me by

good aunt,f which served

as a

morose view of England and the English people.

if I

The

title

of this book,

remember righdy, was

A Boys History of
book gave
also readI

England,

by

Ellis.

remember

distinctly the pleasure this

me. There were, to be

ing, or

sure, the

Henty books, which

and from which
I

was

had readjust a

Httle earHer,

gained a wholly

different notion

of the English world. But the Henty books were

concerned v^dth historical exploits, whereas the books from Isaac

Walker's collection dealt with the immediate
I

past.

Years

later,

when

came upon Thomas Hardy's works,

I mean.

reUved these boyish reactions

the bad ones,

to adjust

Sombre,

tragic, full

of mishaps and accidental

or coincidental misfortunes, Hardy's books caused

me

once again
I

my

"

human "

picture

of the world.
For
all

In the end

was

obhged

to pass judgment

on Hardy.

the air of realism

which

permeated his books, I had to admit to myself that they were not " true to life." I wanted my pessimism " straight."

On returning

to

America from France

met two

individuals

who

were passionately fond of an EngHsh author

whom I had never heard

* On reading that delightful and singularly imaginative book, Land Under England by Joseph O'Neilljust a few years back the old feeling about England cropped up again. But this is a book by an Irishman, and an unusual

one

it is.

t This good aunt, my father's sister, also gave me The Autocrat at the Breakfast Table, a brace of books by Samuel Smiles, and Knickerbocker's History of

New

York.

45

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

ofClaude Houghton. "
called.

metaphysical novelist," he

is

often

At any

rate,

Claude Houghton has done more than any

Englishman, with the exception of

**

gentleman "
I

ever

met

W.

Travers

Symons

the

first

^to

alter

profoundly

my

picture

of

England.

have by
is

now

read the majority of his works.

Whether

the performance

me.

Many

Americans

good or bad, Claude Houghton's books captivate know I Am Jonathan Scrivener, which would
as

have made a wonderfiil movie,

Julian Grant Loses His

would some of

his others.

His

Way, one of

my

favorites,
pity.

and All Change,

Humanity

are less well

is

known

more's the

But

there

one of Claude Houghton's books

here

touch upon

a subject I

hope to enlarge on laterwhich seems to have been

It is called I

written especially /)r me.

Hudson Rejoins

the Herd.

In a

lengthy

letter to the

author

This

letter will
this

one day be

why this seemed to be so. made public* What so startled me, in

explained

reading

book, was that

it

appeared to give a picture of my most

intimate Hfe during a certain crucial period.

The
I

outer circumstances
real.
I

were " disguised," but the inner ones were hallucinatingly

could not have done better myself For a time

thought that Claude

access to these facts

Houghton had
and events in
I

in

some mysterious way gained

all his

my life.

In the course of our correspondence, however,

soon discovered that

works
I

are imaginative.

Perhaps the

reader will be surprised to learn that

should think such a coincidence

" mysterious."

Do not
who

the Uves and characters in fiction frequently

correspond to actual counterparts

impressed.

Those

think they

Of course. But still I am know me intimately should have

?

a look at this book.

And now,
He
for
is

for

no

reason, unless

it

be the afterglow of boyhood

the

reminiscences, there leaps to

mind

one of the authors on the Hst of A Hundred Books

There was a writer

GaUimard.

name of Rider Haggard. I made up who had me in his thrall The

!

contents of his books are vague and fuzzy.

a

At

best

can

recall

only

few

titles

She, Ayesha, King Solomons Mines, Allan Quatermain.

Yet when

think of

them

get the same shivers as

do when

rehve the meeting between Stanley and Livingstone in darkest Africa.

I

am

certain that

when

reread him, as

expect to do shortly,
;

shall

Lake,

* Not to be confused with the " Letter " New York, 1950.

Argus Books,

Inc.,

Mohegan

46

EARLY READING
fmd,
alive
as I

did with Henty, that

my memory
it

will

become amazingly
difficult to

and fecund.

This adolescent period over,

strike

becomes increasingly
effect

an author capable of producing an

anywhere near

that

created
Trilby

by Rider Haggard's works. For

close to

reasons

now

inscrutable,

came

doing

so.

Trilby

and Peter

Ibbetson are a

unique

brace of books.
illustrator,

That they should have come from a middle-aged

for his drawings in " Punch,"
is

renowned

more than
by
the

interesting.

In the introduction to Peter Ibbetson, pubHshed

Modem
in

Library,
Street,

Deems Taylor
a novel,
says,

relates

how,

**

walking one night Maurier offered

High

Bayswater, with Henry James,

Du

his friend
Trilby.'*

an idea for

and proceeded to unfold the plot of

" declined the offer."
Fortunately, I

"James," he
I

should say.

can imagine with dread what Henry James would

subject.

have made of such a

Oddly enough,
also

the

man who
later.

put

me on

the track of
et Pecuchet,

Du Maurier
which
I

put into

my

hands Flaubert's Botiuard

did
the

not open until thirty years

Sentimental Education to

He had

given

this

volume and
a small debt

my

father in

payment of

he

owed.

My

father,

of

course,

was

disgusted.

With

the Sentimental
says

Education goes a queer association.

that certain

Somewhere Bernard Shaw

books cannot be appreciated, and should therefore not

is

be read, until one

past fifty.
It is
I

work of Flaubert.

another of those books, Hke

One of those he cited was this famous Tom Jones and

I

Moll Flanders, which

intend one day to read, particularly since

have " come of age."

But
as

to return to

Rider Haggard

Strange that a

book such

Nadja,

by Andr6 Breton, should

in any

way be

linked with the

emotional experiences engendered in reading Rider Haggard's

works.
length

think

it is
it

in

The Rosy Crucifixion that

to

have dwelt

at

some

or was

in Remember
cast

Remember
I

upon the
it I

spell

which

Nadja will always

over me. Each time

read

go through the

same inner turmoil, the same

that seizes

rather terrifyingly

deHdous sensation

one,

for example,

upon

finding himself completely

disoriented in the pitch blackness

of a room with every square inch

I recall

of which he

is

thoroughly famiUar.

singling out a section

of
47

THE BOOKS IN MY LIPB

the
*

book which reminded mc

statement
essay
is

vividly of

my fint piece of prose, or at

I

least the first I

this

was to submit to an
not quite

editor.* (As

write,
first
I

I realize

that

\)

true, because

my

very

piece

of prose

was an
in

on

Nietzsche's Anti-Christ,

which

wrote for myself

I

my

father's shop.

Also, the

first

piece

of writing

ever submitted
a

to an editor antedates the aforementioned piece

by

few

years,

being a

critical article

which

sent to the Black Cat magazine

and

which, to

my

amazement, was accepted and paid for to the tune of

this
fire,

$1.75, or something like that,

sufficient at the

trifling

remuneration being
a brand
a

time to

set

me on
it

to

make me throw

new

hat into the gutter, where

was immediately crushed by

passing truck.)

Why an author of the magnitude of Andr^ Breton should be Unked

in

my mind with Rider Haggard,

require pages to explain.

of all authors,

is

something which
is

would

Perhaps the association

not so

far-fetched after aU, considering the peculiar sources

Surrealists

from which the

gathered inspiration, nourishment and corroboration.

to

Nadja

is still,

my way
text
I

of thinking, a unique book. (The photos

have a value
all their

which accompany the

is

own.) At any

rate, it

one of the few books

spell.

have reread several times with no rupture

itself, I

of the original
it

This in

do

believe,

is

sufficient to

mark

out.

The word I have dcHbcrately withheld, speaking of Rider Haggard

and of Nadja,
the plural,
I
is

" mystery." This word, both in the singular and

treat

have reserved in order to

of

my

delightful, all-

engrossing associations with dictionary and encyclopaedia.

is

Many
most

the time

spent

whole days

at the

pubHc Hbrary looking up words

must say
that tht

or subjects.

Here

again, to be truthfiil, I

wonderfiil days were passed at

home, with

my

boon companion
scarce

Joe O'Regan.

Bleak, wintry days,

when food was

and

all

hope or thought of obtaining employment had vanished. Mingled

with the dictionary and encyclopaedia bouts are recollections of other
days or nights spent entirely in playing chess or ping pong, or
painting water colors

which we turned out

of bed,
I

like

monomaniacs.

One morning,

scarcely out

turned to

Wagnall's unabridged dictionary to look up a

Funk & word which had come

my huge

* The man to whom I sent it was Frands K. Hackctt, and never shall forget his discreet but encouraging reply, God bless him I

48

BARLY RBADING
to

my mind
is

on awakening. As

usual,

what

the dictionary if not the subtlest

i

one word led to another, for " fonn of " circuit game

masquerading in the guise of a book

eternal sceptic, a discussion ensued

With Joe

at

my side, Joe the

day and

which

lasted the entire

night, the search for

It

more and more

definitions never slackening.

was because of Joe O'Regan,

all

who had

stimulated

me
first

so often to
suspicions

question

that I

had blindly accepted, that

my

about the value of the dictionary were aroused. Prior to

I

this

moment

had taken the dictionary for granted, much

as

one does the Bible.

word. But

had beheved,

as

everyone does, that in obtaining a definition one

or shall
I

got the meaning

that day, shifting

of,

say the

**

truth," about a

from derivation

to derivation, thereby stumbling

upon
and

the

most amazing changes in meaning, upon contradictions

of earUer meanings, the whole framework of lexicoslide.

reversals

graphy began to sHther and

" In reaching the earUest " origin

Surely

of a word
it

observed that one was up against a stone wall.

was not

possible that the

words we were looking up had entered

!

human

language

at the points indicated

To

get back only as far

as Sanskrit,

Hebrew or
!)

Icelandic (and

what wonderful words stem

History had been

from the

Icelandic

was nothing,

in

my opinion.

pushed back more than ten thousand years, and here were we,
stranded at the vestibule, so to speak, of

modem

times.

That so
freely

many words of

metaphysical and spiritual connotation,

lost all significance brief, it

employed by the Greeks, had

thing to give us pause.
the

was

in itself some-

To

be

soon became apparent that

entirely,

meaning of a word changed or disappeared

or became

the very opposite, according to the time, place, culture of the

people using the term.

it,

The

simple truth that

life is

what we make
is

how we
who
get

see

it

with our whole being, and not what

or
statistically,

given

factually, historically,

appHes to language too.

this is the philologist.
. .

The
let

one

seems

least to

understand

But

me
It

on

from

dictionary to encyclopaedia

was only

natural, in

jumping from meaning

to meaning, in

observing the uses of the words

a
ftiller,

we were
all,

tracking

down,

that for

deeper treatment

we must

have recourse to the encyclois

paedia.

The
the

defining process, after

one of reference and

cross-reference.

To know what

a specific

know

words which, so to speak,

word means one has to hedge it in. The meaning

49

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

is

never directly given

this
is

it

is

inferred, implied, or distilled out.

is

And

probably because the original source

!

never known.

But the encyclopaedia

firm ground
discover
!

Ah, there perhaps

we would

be on

We would look up subjects, not words. We would

arose these mystifying symbols over

whence

which men

had fought and

is

bled, tortured

and

killed

one another.

Now

there

a wonderful article in the Encyclopaedia Britannica (the celebrated

edition)

on " Mysteries "* and,

if

one wishes to

pass a pleasant,

amusing and instructive day

a

at the Ubrary,

by

all

means

start

with

word such as ** mysteries." It will lead you far and wide, it will send you home reeling, indifferent to food, sleep and other claims of the autonomic system. But you will never penetrate the mystery And if, as the good scholar usually does, you should be impelled *' authorities " selected by the encyclopaedic knowto go from the ** authorities " on the same subject, you will soon find alls to other your awe and reverence for the accumulated wisdom housed in
!

encyclopaedias withering and crumbling.

It is

well that one should

become m^fiant
all,

in the face

of

this

buried learning.
i

Who,

after

are these pundits

?

entombed

in the encyclopaedias
!

Are they
must

the final authorities

Decidedly not

The

final authority

always be oneself.
field,"

These wizened pundits have "labored in the

and they have garnered much wisdom.

But

it is

neither

sum of human wisdom (on any They have worked Hke ants and subject) which they offer us. beavers, and usually with as Uttle humor and imagination as these humble creatures. One encyclopaedia selects its authorities, another
divine

wisdom nor even

the

other authorities. Authorities are

always a drug on the market.

When

you have done with them you know a Uttle about the subject of your quest and a great deal more about things of no account.

More

often than not

all, it is

you end up

in despair, doubt and confusion.

If you gain at
that faculty

in the sharper use of the questioning faculty,

extols

which Spengler
think

and which he
Nietzsche.
I

distinguishes as

the chief contribution

The more
contribution

made him by of it the more

beUeve that the unwitting

made me by

the makers of encyclopaedias

was to
foolish
this

foster the lazy, pleasurable pursuit

of learning

the

most

article, in

* Even Annie Besant, I noticed just the other day, makes mention of her book Esoteric Christianity.

50

EARLY READING
of all pastimes.

To

read the encyclopaedia was like taking a drug

it

one
is

of those drugs of which they say that

has

no

evil effects,

non habit-forming.
I

Like the sound, stable, sensible Chinese

of old,

think the use of

opium
care,

preferable.

If

one wishes to

relax,

to enjoy surcease

from

to stimulate the imagination to mental,

and

what could be more conducive

health
?

moral and

spiritual far better

then
my

would

say the judicious use of

opium

is

than the spurious drug of the encyclopaedia.

Looking back upon

not
recall

my

days in the Hbrary

a Hbrary
!

curious

that I

do

first visit to

Hken them

to the days

spent

my

*'

by an opium addict in his Httle cell. I went regularly for dose " and I got it. Often I read at random, whatever book

came

Sometimes I buried myself in technical works, to hand. or in handbooks, or the " curiosa " of Hterature. There was one

shelf in the reading

I

room of
which
I

the

New

York 42nd

Street Hbrary,

recaU,

which was packed with mythologies (of many

devoured Hke a starved
mission,
I

countries,

many
times,

peoples) and

rat.

impeUed

as if

by an ardent

burrowed
it

in

Somenomen-

clatures alone.

There were other times when

it

seemed imperative
trance

and indeed
of ophidians.
time,

was imperative, so deep was

my

to study
varieties
first

the habits of moles or whales, or the thousand

and one

word Hke

**

ecliptic,"

encountered for the

last

might

set

me

off on a chase that

stellar

would
depths

for weeks, leaving

me

stranded eventuaUy in the

I

this side

of Scorpio.
Httle

Here

must diverge to make mention of those

books
is

which one stumbles on accidentaHy and which, so

great

their

impact, one esteems above whole rows of encyclopaedias and other

compendiums of human knowledge.

in size but

These books, microcosmic

be Hkened to precious stones

monumental
**

in effect,

may

hidden in the bowels of the earth.

crystalline or

Like gems, these books have a

primordial " character which gives them a simple,

eternal quaHty.

immutable and

They
later

are almost as
I

Hmited in
at

number and

variety as crystals in nature.

I

will

mention two
I

random which
by Frederick
stances
I
;

came upon much

than the period

speak

of but which iUustrate

Carter,
is

my thought. The one is Symbols of Revelation, whom I met in London under pecuHar circumhundred people
in this

the other

The Roundy by Eduardo Santiago, a pseudonym.

doubt

if there are a

world

who would
51

THEBOOKSINMYLIFE
be interested in the
of,
latter

book.

It is
is

one of the strangest

know

though the
religion
this

subject, apocatastasis,

one of the perennial themes

of

and philosophy.

One of
At

the freakish things connected

with

unique and limited edition of the

the printer.

work

is

the error in

spelling

made by
reads
:

the top of every page, in bold

freakish,

type,

it

apocastasis.
is

Something even more

however, something which

cold shivers,
is

apt to give the lovers of Blake the

the reproduction of WiUiam Blake's Hfe

mask (from
of definiis

the National Portrait Gallery,

London) which
and

is

given on page 40.

usage,

Since
tions

have spoken

at

some length of dictionary

and

their failure to define,

since the average reader

not apt to recognize the import of such a

let

me

give the three definitions offered

:

word as by Funk
place

apocatastasis,

&

"Wagnall's

unabridged dictionary " I. Return to or toward

re-establishment
;

previous

or

condition

complete restoration.

"2. Theology.
of

The

final restoration to holiness

and the favor

God of
3.

those

who
The

died impenitent.
periodic return of a revolving

"

Astronomy.
its

body
from

to the

same point in
In a footnote

orbit."

on page 4 Santiago
(Paris,
is

gives the following

Virgile

by J. Carcopino
" Apocatastasis

1930)

the

word which

the Chaldeans had already

celestial sphere,

used to describe the return of the planets, on the

to the points symmetrical to their departure.

It is also

the

word

the

Greek doctors employed to describe the return of the patient

to health."

it

for Frederick Carter's Uttle hook Symbols of Revelation may be of interest to know that it was the author of this book who suppUed D. H. Lawrence with invaluable material for the

As

writing of Apocalypse.

Without knowing, Carter has

also given
I

me, through

his

book, the material and inspiration with which

hope one day to write Draco and the Ecliptic. This, the seal or capstone to my " autobiographical novels," as they are called, I trust
will prove to
as a

be a condensed, transparent, alchemical work, thin

air-tight.

wafer and absolutely

greatest
it is

The
I

of

all Httle

books of course

is

the Tao Teh ChUng.

suppose

not only an example of supreme

wisdom but unique

52


EARLY READING
in
its

condensation of thought.
its

As

philosophy of Hfe

it

not only

holds

own

with the bulkier systems of thought propounded

by other

great figures of the past but, in

It

my

mind, surpasses them

sets it

in every respect.

has one element

which wholly

apart

from other philosophies of hfe

follower of Lao-tse

humor.

Aside from the celebrated

later,

who comes

a few centuries

meet with humor in

Rabelais.

these lofty regions again until

we do not we come to
and
the
it is
:

Rabelais, being a physician as well as a philosopher

imaginative writer, makes

great emancipator.

humor

appear what in truth

But beside the suave,

sage, spiritual iconoclast

of old China, Rabelais seems Hke an uncouth Crusader.

The

Sermon on
and
but
I

the

Mount

is

perhaps the only short piece of writing

Lao-tse's miniature gospel
spiritual

which can be compared with

health.
It

of wisdom

may
it

be a more

message than Lao-tse's,

It is,

doubt that

contains greater

wisdom.

of course, utterly

devoid of humor.

Two
all

Httle

books of pure hterature, which belong in a category

to my way of thinking, are Balzac's Seraphita and Hermann Hesse's Siddhartha. Seraphita I first read in French, at a period when my French was none too good. The man who put the book in my hands employed that artful strategy I spoke of he said almost nothing about the book except that it was earHer Coming from him, this was incentive enough. a book for me. It was indeed a book " for me." It came exactly at the right moment
their

own,

in
I

my

life

and

it

had

precisely the desired effect.

have

since, if

may put it thus, " experimented " with it by handing it to people who were not ready to read it. I learned a great deal from these
experiments.
indeed,
a
to
Seraphita
is

which make
or
it

their

one of those books, and they are rare " **

way

unaided.

Either

it

converts

man

bores and disgusts him.

read.
it

Propaganda can do nothing

its

make
at
It is

it

more widely

Indeed,

virtue Hes in this, that

never
few.

any time will

be

effectively read except

by

a chosen

true that in the beginning

all

of its career

it

had a wide vogue.

Are we not
student
to kiss the
out,

famiHar with the exclamation of that young Viennese

accosting Balzac in the street, begged permission
that

who,

hand

wrote Seraphita

Vogues, however, soon die

and
its

it is

fortimate they do, because only then does a

book

begin

real

journey on the road to immortaHty.

53

THE BOOKS
German
any
India.
It

IN

MY

LIFE

Siddhartha I first read in

Germanafter
It

not having read any

I

for at least thirty years.

I

was a book
fruit

had to read
visit

at

cost because, so

was

told, it

was the

of Hesse's
it

to

had never been

translated into

EngHsh* and
Suddenly
sent

was

difficult

for

me,

at the time, to lay

hands on the 1925 French version which

Paris.
I

had been published by Grasset in

with two copies of
it,

found myself
translator,

in

German, one

me by my

Kurt Wagenseil, the other sent by the wife of George Dibbem,

author of Quest.
I

had hardly finished reading the

original version

when

my friend Pierre Laleure,

a bookseller in Paris, sent

I

me several

copies of the Grasset edition.

that language, discovering to

immediately reread the book in

delight that
I

my

had missed nothing

of the flavor or substance of the book because of my very rusty knowledge of German.
is

Often

since I

have remarked to

friends,

and there

truth in

the exaggeration, that had Siddhartha been obtainable

I

only in Turkish, Finnish or Hungarian, understood

it

would have read and

not a

just the same,

though

know

word of any of

these outlandish tongues.

It is

not quite accurate to say that

conceived an overwhelming
to India.

desire to read this

It

book because Hermann Hesse had been

epithet

was the word Siddhartha, an

which

had always associated

with the Buddha, that whetted

accepted Jesus Christ,
I

my

appetite.

Long

before

had

had embraced Lao-tse and Gautama the

!

Buddha.
tion never

The

Prince of Enlightenment
fit

Somehow,

that appella-

seemed to

Jesus.

A man

of sorrow

that was more

my conception
a responsive

of the gentle Jesus. The word enHghtenment struck

chord in

me

it

seemed to

bum

out those other words

associated, rightly or
I

wrongly, with the founder of Christianity.

redemption, and so on.
saint

mean words such

I still

as sin, guilt,

To

this

day

prefer the

guru to a Christian

or the best of the

be, this

twelve

disciples.

About

aura, so precious to
I I

the guru there is, and always will me, of " enlightenment."
at

should like to speak

length of Siddhartha but,

I shall

as

with Seraphita^

know

that the less said the better.

therefore content myself

to read

with quoting

between the lines

for

the benefit of those

a

who know how

few words Ufted from an autobiographical sketch

1946, issue of Horizon, London.

by Hermann Hesse in the September,

*

An

English version

is

nov/ promised by

New

Directions.

54

EARLY READING
Another reproach they [his friends] levelled at me I also found to be quite just they accused me of lacking in a sense of reahty. Neither my writings nor my paintings do in actual fact conform to reaHty, and when I compose I often forget all the things that an educated reader demands of a good book and above all I am lacking in a true
:

respect for reality.

I see that

inadvertently

have touched on one of the vices or

Lao-tse says that "

weaknesses of the too passionate reader.

a

when

man with
it is
!

a taste for reforming the

world

takes the business in

it."

hand,

easily seen that there will

be no end to

Only too

true, alas

Each time

I feel

impelled to advocate a

with

all

the powers that are in

me
I sit

new book

^I

create

more work, more

anguish,

more

frustration for myself.

I

have spoken of

my

letter-

writing mania.

have told
all

how

down,
it.

after closing a

good
?

book, and inform

Perhaps.

and sundry about

Admirable, you think

But

it is

also sheer folly

and waste of time.

pubHshers
I

The very
the ones

men

seek to interest

critics,

editors,

are

least affected

by

my

enthusiastic howls.
is

have come to beheve,

in fact, that

my
I

recommendation
lose interest in a

alone sufficient to cause editors

and publishers to
or for which
I

book.

Any book which I sponsor,

to be

vmte

a preface or review, seems

is

doomed.*
"

think perhaps there

a profound and just

it,

law underlying the

:

situation.

As

best I can put

this

unwritten law runs thus

if that other

Do
me

not tamper with the destiny of another, even

but a book."
act

be nothing

More and more,

is,

too,

understand what makes

I

on

these rash impulses. It

sadly enough, the fact that

I

identify

myself with the poor author

whom

am

trying to aid.

(Some
have

of these authors, to reveal a ridiculous aspect of the

been dead a long time.
course
I

situation,
I

They

are aiding

me, not
:

them

!)

Of

always put

it

to myself this

way

"
!

so-and-so or so-and-so has not read this

give

book

What a pity that What joy it would

him

What

sustenance

"

never stop to think that the

serve equally well.

books which others find on

It

their

own may

was because of

my

overheated enthusiasm for such books

a letter, in the
is

* An exception is Really the Blues, which, in the French version, carries form of a preface, under my signature. This book, I am told, selling Uke hot cakes. However, I take no credit for this it would have
;

sold

as

well without

my

preface.

55

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFB

as

The Absolute

Collective^

Quest, Blue Boy, Interlinear to Caheza

still

de Vaca, the Diary

script),

of Anais Nin (which

exists

only in manu-

and

others,

many
of

others, that I

began to plague the perverse

and mercurial
world what

tribe

editors

and publishers

who

dictate to the

we

shall

or shall not read.

Concerning two writers

letters

particularly, I
able.

have penned the most ardent, urgent

imagin-

A
It

schoolboy could not have been more enthusiastic and

I.

naive than
tears.

In writing one of these

letters, I recall, I actually

shed

was addressed to the editor of a well-known pocket book

edition.

Do you

suppose
?

this

individual

was moved by
six

my

unrestrained emotion

It

took him just about

months

to answer,

in that matter of fact, cold-blooded, hypocritical fashion

editors often

which

employ, that " they " (always the dark hones) had

come
that

to the conclusion, with deep regret (the

same old song),

my man

was unsuitable

for their

list.

Gratuitously they cited

the excellent sales enjoyed

by Homer
and

(long dead) and William

Faulkner,

whom
it

they had chosen to publish.

The impHcation
to the bait
It is
!

was

^find

us writers like these

we

will

jump

Fantastic as

may

sound,

it is

nevertheless the truth.

exaaly

how

editors think.
this vice

However,

of mine,

as I see

it, is

a harmless one compared

with those of poHtical

fanatics,

miUtary humbugs, vice crusaders

and other detestable

types.

In broadcasting to the world

gratitude

my
to

admiration and affection,

my

and reverence, for two

Uving French writers

see that I

Blaise

Cendrars and Jean Giono

I

I fail

may be guilty of indiscretion, I may be regarded as a naive dolt, I may be criticized justly or unjustly for my taste, or lack of it I may be guilty, in the highest sense, of " tampering " with the destiny of others I may be writing myself down as one more ** propagandist," but^how am I injuring anyone I am no longer a young man^ I am, to be exact, fifty-eight years of age. (" Je me nomme Louis Salavin.")
doing any serious harm.
; ;

am

Instead

of growing more dispassionate about books,

is

find the

contrary

taking place.

Perhaps

my

extravagant statements do

contain an element of insensitivity.

called

" discreet " or " deUcate."

But then I was never what is Mine is a rough touch honest

and

sincere, in

any

case.

And

so,

i(l

am

guilty, I
I

beg pardon in

advance of my friends Giono and Cendrars.

56

beg them to disown

EARLY READING
me
should
I

bring ridicule upon their heads.

But

will not hold

back

my

words.

The

course of the previous pages, the course of

my

whole

hfe, indeed, leads

me

to this declaration

of love and

adoration.

57

Ill

BLAISE

CENDRARS
the
first

Cendrars was
stay in Paris,*

French writer to look

me

up, during
I

my
I

and the

last

man

saw on leaving
train for

Paris.

had just

few minutes before catching the

last

Rocamadour and

was having a
d'Orleans

drink on the terrasse of

in sight.

my

hotel near the Porte

when Cendrars hove

I

Nothing could have given

In
I

me
sat

greater joy than this unexpected last-minute encounter.

told

a few words

him of

my

intention to visit Greece.

his

Then
last

back and drank in the music of

always seemed to

sonorous voice which to

In those

me

come from

a sea organ.

few

minutes Cendrars managed to convey a world of information,

and with the same warmth and tenderness which he exudes in

books.

his

Like the very ground under our

all

feet, his

thoughts were
I

honeycombed with him sitting there in

perhaps taking
I

manner of subterranean
again, never

passages.

left

shirt-sleeves,

never dreaming that years would

elapse before hearing

from him
look

dreaming that

was

my
is

last

at Paris.

had read whatever was

That

translated

of Cendrars before arriving

in France, in his

to say, almost nothing.

at a

own

language came
I

time

My first taste of him when my French was none

I

too proficient.

began with Moravagine, a book by no means

easy to read for one

a dictionary

who knows

Httle French.

read

it

slowly, with
It

by

my

side, shifting

from one

cafe to another.

was

in the Caf^ de la Liberte,

comer of
I

the rue de la Gaiete and the

it.

Boulevard Edgar Quinet, that

began
lines

remember well

the day.

Should Cendrars ever read these

perhaps, to

he

may be

pleased, touched
I first

know

that

it

was in

that dingy hole

opened

his

book.
Moravagine was probably the second or third book which
I

had

attempted to read in French.

Only
it.

the other day, after a lapse

of
to

about eighteen years,

*
I

reread

What was my amazement

lived in Paris

from March, 1930, to June, 1939.

58

BLAISE CENDRARS
discover
that

whole passages were engraved in

French was null
!

my memory

And I had thought my

I

Here
it.

is

one of the passages

begins at the top

remember

as clearly as the

day

I first

read

It

of page 77 (Editions
I tell

Grasset, 1926).

you of things
also
. .

that

brought some reUef at the

start.

There was
(Does
this

the water, gurgling at intervals, in the

water-closet pipes.

boundless despair possessed me.

convey anything to you,

think of

my

dear Cendrars

i)

Immediately
engraved in

two

other passages, even

la

more deeply
I

my

mind, from Une Nuit dans

later.
I cite

Foret* which

read

about three years

them not

to brag of

my

powers of

memory

but to reveal an aspect of Cendrars which his English

and American readers probably do not suspect the existence of

1.
I,

the freest

man

that exists, recognise that there

:

is

always something that binds one that Hberty, independence do not exist, and I am full of contempt for, and at the same time take pleasure in, my helplessness.
2.

More and more

life.

reaHse that

have always led the

contemplative
all

am

a sort of

Brahmin
and scorns

in reverse,

meditating on himself amid the hurly-burly, who, with

his strength,

disciplines himself

existence.

Or

the boxer with his shadow,

at emptiness,

who,
form.
to

furiously, calmly,

punching

watches

his

What

virtuosity^

what
rates

science,
!

what

balance, the ease with

which he

accele-

Later, one must learn

how

take punishment with

equal imperturbability,

I, I know how to take punishment and with serenity I fructify and with serenity destroy myself in short, work in the world not so much to enjoy
:

as

to

make

others enjoy

(it's

others*

reflexes

that give

me

pleasure,

not

my

own).

Only

a soul full of despair

can ever attain serenity and, to be in despair, you must have loved a good deal and 5//// love the ti'orld.'f

These

last

two
are

passages have

probably been cited

many

times

akeady and will no doubt be

cited

many

times

more

as the years

go by.

They

memorable ones and thoroughly

Sutter s Gold,
^all

the author's

own. Those who know only

Trans-siberian,

Panama and

On

the

which

are

about

the

American reader

gets to

* Editions du Verseau, Lausanne, t Italics mine.

1929.

59

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

passages why man has not been translated more fully. Long before I attempted to make Cendrars better known to the American pubHc (and to the world at large, I may well add), John Dos Passos had translated and illustrated with water colors Panama, or the adventures of my seven

know, may indeed wonder on reading the foregoing

this

uncles.'^

However, the primary thing to know about

that

Blaise Cendrars

is

he

is

man of many

parts.

He

is

also a

man of many

books,

** and kinds of books, and by that I do not mean " good " bad " but books so different one from another that he gives the

many

impression of evolving in
truly.

all

directions at once.

An evolved man,
And this

Certainly an evolved writer.

life itself

His

reads like the Arabian Nights* Entertainment.

individual

who
")

has led a super-dimensional Ufe

is

also a

The most
solitudes
!

gregarious

of

men and

yet

soUtary.

bookworm. (" O mcs

logic.

A man
Life fu^t

of deep intuition and invincible

The

logic

of life.

and foremost. Life always with a

capital L.

That's Cendrars.

To home

follow his career from the time he sHps out of his parents*
in Neufchatel, a

boy of fifteen or
secretes

sixteen, to the days

of the

Occupation when he

himself in Aix-en-Provence and

silence, is something to make The itinerary of his wanderings is more difficult to follow than Marco Polo's, whose trajectory, incidentally, he seems to have crossed and recrossed a number of times. One of

imposes on himself a long period of

one's head spin.

the reasons for the great fascination he exerts over

me

is

the resemI

blance between his voyages and adventures and those which

associate in

memory with

Sinbad the Sailor or Aladdin of the

attributes to

Wonderful Lamp. The amazing experiences which he

the characters in his books, and

which often

as

not he has shared,

have

all

the qualities of legend as well as the authenticity of legend.

life,

Worshipping Ufe and the truth of

author of our time to revealing the
deed.

he comes

closer than

any

common
life

source of

word and
him
to

He

restores to

contemporary

the elements of the heroic,

the imaginative and the fabulous.

His adventures have led

nearly every region of the globe, particularly those regarded as

* See chapter 12, " Homer of the Trans-siberian," Cape & Harrison Smith, New York, 1923,

Orient Express

Jonathan

69

Blaise Ccndrars

BLAISE CBNDRARS
dangerous or inaccessible.
to appreciate the truth
types,

(One must read

murderers,

his early life especially

of this statement.)

He

has consorted with

all

including

bandits,

revolutionaries

and other

varieties

of fanatic.

according to his

knowing every
making
his

He has tried out no less than thirty-six metiers, own words, but, like Balzac, gives the impression of metier. He was once a juggler, for example on

the English music-hall stage

at the

same time

that Chaplin

was
;

d^but there

he was a pearl merchant and a smuggler

he was a plantation owner in South America, where he made a

fortune three times in succession and lost
it
is

even more rapidly than

in
it

he had made
eye.

it.

But read

his Hfe

There

more

than meets the

Yes, he

is

an explorer and investigator of the ways and doings of

men. And he has made himself such by planting himself in the

midst of
life,

by taking up

his lot

with
this

a superb, painstaking reporter he

is,

thought of being called " a student getting " his story " by a process of osmosis

What man who would scorn the of Hfe." He has the faculty of
his fellow creatures.
;

he seems to seek
his

nothing deliberately.

Which

is

why, no doubt,

own
he

story

is

always interwoven with the other man's.

the art of distillation, but

To

be

sure,

possesses
is

what he

is

vitally interested in

the

alchemical nature of all relationships. This eternal quest of the trans-

mutative enables
it

him

to reveal

men to

themselves and to the world

causes

him

to extol men's virtues, to reconcile us to their faults

is

and weaknesses, to increase our knowledge and respect for what

essentially

human,

to deepen our love and imderstanding of the

**

world.
faculties

He is

the " reporter

seer

par excellence because he combines the

of poet,

and prophet.

An innovator

and

initiator,

ever

the

first

to give testimony, he has

made known
I

to us the real

pioneers,

the

real

adventurers,

the real discoverers

contemporaries.

More

than any writer

can think of he has

among our made

dear to us "

le bel

aujourd'hui."
all levels

Whilst performing on

he always found time to read.

(I

On

long voyages, in the depths of the Amazon, in the deserts

imagine

he knows them
jungle,
liners,

all,

those of the earth, those of the spirit), in the

on

the broad pampas,

in the great

on trains, trams, tramps and ocean museums and libraries of Europe, Asia and

Africa,

he has buried himself in books, has ransacked whole archives,

6t


THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE
has photographed rare documents, and, for
stolen invaluable books, scripts,
all I
all

know, may have

kinds

documents of

^why not,
(les

considering the enormity of his appetite for the rare, the curious, the

forbidden

He

has told us in one of his recent books

!)

how

the

Germans

Boches

destroyed or carried

off,

forget which, his precious

Ubrary, precious to a
precise data

man like

Cendrars

who

loves to give the

most

books.

when referring to a passage from one of his favorite Thank God, his memory is aHve and functions Hke a faithful

machine.
his

An incredible memory,
recent books
Lotissement du Ciel,

as will testify those

who have

read

more

La Main Couple, VHomnte

La
Banlieue de Paris.

Foudroye, Bottr-

linguer,

Le

Cendrars it seems as though almost everything of account has been done " on the side " ^he has translated the works

On the sidewith

of other writers, notably the Portuguese author, Ferreira de Castro

{Foret Vierge)

and our

own
is

Al Jennings, the great outlaw and bosom

a

friend of
loi

O. Henry.* What
in English

wonderful translation

is

Hors-la-

which
a sort

called Through the

Shadows with O. Henry.

It is

of secret collaboration between Cendrars and the innermost

it,

being of Al Jennings. At the time of writing

Cendrars had not yet

(This
is

met Jennings nor even corresponded with him.

book,
I

another

must say

in passing,
is

which our pocket book

it,

editors

have

overlooked. There

a fortune in

unless

am all wet,

and

it

would

be comforting to think that part of this fortune should fmd

into

its

way
is

Al Jennings' pocket.)
fascinating aspects

One of the most

his abihty

of Cendrars' temperament
artist.

and readiness to collaborate with a fellow

after the first

Picture

him, shortly

World War,
!

editing the pubHcations of

La Sirene

What

an opportunity

To him we owe

an edition

of Le5 Chants

de Maldoror, the first to appear since the original private

pubhcation by the author in 1868.

In everything an innovator,

always meticulous, scrupulous and exacting in his demands, whatever

issued

from the hands of Cendrars

at

La Sirene

is

now

a valuable

collector's item.

Hand in hand with

this capability for

collaboration
first

goes another quaHty

tures.

the abiUty, or grace, to make the

a criminal, a saint, a

over-

Whether it be
is

man of genius,
up, the
first

a tyro with

promise, Cendrars
* Cendrars has

the

first

to look

him

to herald him,

also translated

Al Caponc's autobiography.

62

BLAISE CENDRARS
the
first

to aid

him

in the
here.

way

the person

most

desires.

speak with
signal

justifiable

warmth

No
at

writer ever paid

me

more

honor than dear

Blaise Cendrars

who,

shortly after the pubHcation

of Tropic of Cancer, knocked of firiendship. Nor can

the
I

my door one day to extend the hand

first

forget that

tender, eloquent review

of

book which appeared under

(Or perhaps
it

his signature in

Orbes shortly there-

after.

was

before

he appeared

at the studio in the Villa

Seurat.)

There were times when reading Cendrars

and

this is

something
in order to

which happens
wring
tion.

to

me

rarely

that
in

put the book

down

my hands
as a

with joy or

despair,

with anguish or with desperatracks again

Cendrars has stopped

me

my

and again, just

as

implacably
I
I

am often am alluding now

am
talking

gunman pressing a rod against one's spine. Oh, yes, carried away by exaltation in reading a man's work. But
to something other than exaltation.
all
I

am

talking

of a sensation in which
I

one's emotions are blended

and confused.

of knockout blows. Cendrars has knocked

me

cold.

Not once, but a number of times. And I am not exactly a ham, when it comes to taking it on the chin Yes, mon cher Cendrars, you not
!

only stopped me, you stopped the clock.

It

has taken

me

days,

weeks, sometimes months, to recover from these bouts with you.

Even

years later,

can put

my

hand

to the spot

where

caught the

blow and
left

feel the

old smart.

You

battered and bruised

me
is

you

me
I

scarred, dazed,

punch-drunk. The curious thing

that the
I

better

know youthrough your booksthe more

It is as if

susceptible

become.

you had put the Indian sign on me.

with chin outstretched

often said.
I

" to take

come forward
as I

it."

/ am your meat,

have so

And it is because I beHeve I am not unique in this, because wish others to enjoy this uncommon experience, that I continue to

put in
I I

my Httle word for you whenever,

:

wherever,

can.

incautiously said

"the

better

know you."

My dear Cendrars,

will never

No

matter

know you not as I do other men, of that I am certain. how thoroughly you reveal yourself I shall never get
I

to the

bottom of you.

doubt that anyone ever

will,

and

it is

not

vanity which prompts a Buddha.

me to put it this way. You are as inscrutable as

you
reveal,

You

inspire,

but you never give yourself

!

wholly away. Not that you withhold yourself

No, encountering
63

you, whether in person or through the written word, you leave the

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

impression of having given
all

there

is

to give. Indeed,
as

you

are

one

of the few
that

men I know who, in their books

It is

well as in person, give

us.

" extra measure " which means everything to

not your
fault that the

You

give

all

that can be given.

forbids scrutiny.

very core of you

It is

the

law of your being.

grasping,
less

No

doubt there are

men

less inquisitive, less

clutching, for

whom

these

remarks are meaningless. But you have so refined our

heightened our awareness, so deepened our love for
for books, for nature, for a thousand

sensitivity,

so

men and women,

and one things of life which

only one of your

own unending paragraphs could catalogue, that you

:

awaken
talk to

in us the desire to turn

I

you

you inside out. When I read you or am always aware of your inexhaustible awareness you

are not just sitting in a chair in a

room

in a city in a country, telling

talk

us

what

is

on your mind or

in

your mind, you make the chair

and the room vibrate with the tumult of the dty whose Hfe is sustained

by

the invisible outer throng of a

history,

whole nation whose

your
life

history has

become your
you
talk

whose

life is

and yours

theirs,

and

as

or write

all these

elements, images, facts, creations enter

into your thoughts and feelings, forming a

web which
us,

the spider in

you
have

ceaselessly spins

and which spreads in

is

your

listeners, until
it,

the whole of creation

lost identity

involved, and we, you, them,

life

everything,
.

and found new meaning, new

Before proceeding further, there are two books on Cendrars which

would like to recommend to all who are interested in knowing more about the man. Both are entitled Blaise Cendrars. One is by Jacques-Henry Lev&que (Editions de la Nouvelle Critique, Paris,
I

1947), the other

1948), finished

by Louis

Parrot (Editions Pierre Seghers, Paris,

on

the author's deathbed.

Both contain
a

biblio-

graphies, excerpts

from Cendrars* works, and

number of photo-

graphs taken at various periods of his

French

life. Those who do not read may glean a surprising knowledge of this enigmatic individual

from the photographs

photographs.

alone.

(It is

amazing what

spice

and vitaHty

French publishers lend their publications through the insertion of old

Seghers has been particularly enterprising in this

respect. In^his series

of Httle square books,

called Poetes d*Aujourd*hui*

he has given us a veritable gallery of contemporary and near contemporary figures.)

* Distributed in the United
States

by

New

Directions.

64

BLAISE CENDRARS
Ycs one can glean a lot about Cendrars just

from studying

his

physiognomy.

He

has probably been photographed

more than any

of him have

contemporary writer. In addition, sketches and

been made by any number of celebrated
Apollinaire, L6ger. Flip the pages
artists,

portraits

including ModigUani,

^Lev^que's and Parrot's

Some
is

take a

good look

of the two books I just mentioned at this " gueule " which

Cendrars has presented to the world in a thousand different moods.

will

make you weep

some

are almost hallucinating.

There

one photo of him taken in uniform during the days of the Foreign
left

Legion when he was a corporal. His

is

hand, holding a butt which

the cape
;

burning

his fingers, protrudes

from beneath

it

is

hand so

expressive, so very eloquent, that if

it

you do not know

unerringly.
It is

the

story of his missing arm, this will convey

this

with

powerful and

sensitive left

hand

that he has written

most of his
shaved

books, signed his

himself,

name

to innumerable letters
his

and post

cards,

washed himself^ guided

;

speedy Alfa-Romeo through

this left

the most dangerous terrains

it is

with

hand

that

he has

hacked

way through jungles, punched his way through brawls, defended himself, shot at men and beasts, clapped his copains on the back, greeted with a warm clasp a long lost dend and caressed the
his

women
called

and animals he has loved. There

is

another photo of him

the film

taken in 192 1

when he was working with Abel Gance on

La Roue^ the eternal cigarette glued to his lips, on

his

a tooth missing,
ear.
1

huge checkered cap with an enormous peak hanging over one

expression

'Vx

The

ux

is

something out of Dostoievsky.

On die

opposite page

is

a photo taken

by Raymonc

in 1924,

when he was
legs spread
-.

working on VOr
apart, his left

{StUter*s Gold).

Here he stands with

hand sHding into the pocket of his baggy pantaloons,

lips, as

m^ot

to his

always. In this photo he looks like a healthy

is

cocky young peasant of Slavic origin. There

his eye, a sort

a taunting gleam in
*'

of ftank, good-natured

defiance.

Fuck you. Jack,

Another,

I'm fine

and you?" That's what it conveys,

at

his look.

taken with

Lev^que

Tremblay-sur-Maulne, 1926, captures him

;

square in the prime of life. Here he seems to be at his peak physically

he emanates health, joy,

has been reprinted

vitality.

In 1928

we

have the photo which

by

the thousands.
fit,

It is

Cendrars of the South

American period, looking

sleek almost, well garbed, his

its

conk
has

crowned by a handsome fedora with

soft

brim upturned.

He

65


THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE
a

burning, faraway look in the cy, as if he had just

(I

come back from

was writing,

the Antarctic.

beUeve

it

was

in this period that he

first

or had just finished,

Dan

Yackt the

half of which [Le Plan de

r Aiguille] has only recendy been issued in translation by an English

publisher.*)

But

it is

in 1944 that

we

catch a

gUmpse of

le

vieux

Legionnaire

photo by Chardon, Cavaillon.

developed earth

Here he reminds one

Informer.

of Victor MacLaglan in the tide role of The

period of V Homme Foudroye, for

This

is

the

he

is

the

fiilly

me one of his major books. Here man composed of many rich layers
bruiser,

roustabout, tramp,
sailor,

bum, panhandler, mixer,

adventurer,

soldier,

tough guy, the

man of

a thousand-and-one hard,

bitter experiences

who

never went under but ripened, ripened,

!

ripened.
at

Un homme,
which he

quoi

There are two photos taken in 1946,

Aix-en-Provence, which yield us tender, moving images of him.

in leans against a fence,
:

One,

shows him surrounded by

teaching

the urchins of the neighbourhood

of hand

tricks.

The

other catches

them a few sleight him walking through a shadowed

he
is

old street which curves endearingly. His look

triste.

is

meditative, if not

It is

a beautifiil photograph, redolent

of the atmosphere of

the Midi.

One

walks with him in

his pensive

mood, hushed by
I
**

the

unseizable thoughts

which envelop him ...

**

force myself to
aspects
that's

draw
what.
ones.

rein. I

could go on forever about the

is

physiognomic
It's

of the man. His

mug

one can never

faces, like

forget.

human,

Human

Hke Chinese

Egyptian, Cretan, Etruscan

Many
that his

are the things

which have been

said against this writer

books are cinematic in

style, that

they are sensational, that

is

he exaggerates and deforms \ outrance, that he

that

prolix and verbose,

the realist or else

he lacks

all

sense

of form,

that

he

is

too

much

that his narratives are too incredible,

and so on ad infinitum. Taken

altogether there
let

is,

to be sure, a grain of truth in these accusations, but a grain

I

us

remember(w?y

They

reflect the

views of the paid

for a
?

critic,

the academician, the frustrated novelist.

at face value.

But supposing,

moment, we accepted them

in the age

Will they hold water

Take his cinematic technique, for example. Well, are

of the dnema
i

we

not Uving

more "
*

incredible," than the

:

h not this period of history more fantastic, simulacrum of it which we see unrolled
Pushkin
Press,

Title

Antarctic

Fugue

London, 1948.

66

 "

BLAISE CENDRARS
on
the silver screen
?

As

for his sensationalism

have we forgotten
?

Gilles

dc Rais, the Marquis de Sade, the Memoirs of Casanova

As

for hyperbole,

what of Pindar

As

for prolixity
?

and verbosity, what

about Jules Romains or Marcel Proust

As for exaggeration and

deformation, what of Rabelais, Swift, Celine, to mention an anomalous trinity

;

As

for lack
its

of form,

that perennial jackass

which
I

is

always kicking up

heels in the pages

of Hterary reviews, have

*'

not

heard cultured Europeans rant about the " vegetal

temples, the fa9ades of

aspect
riot

of Hindu

which
i

arc studded

with a

of human,

animal and other forms

in distaste

Have I not seen them twisting their Hps when examining the amazing efflorescences embodied in
?

Tibetan
control
i

scrolls

No

taste,

eh

No

sense

of proportion
!

No

C'est ca.

De

la

mesure avant tout

These cultured

nobodies forget that their beloved exemplars, the Greeks, worked

with Cyclopean blocks, created monstrosities

as

well as apotheoses of

harmony,

grace,

form and

spirit

they forget perhaps that the

Cycladic sculpture of Greece surpassed in abstraction and simplification anything

which Brancusi or

his followers ever attempted.

The

very mythology of these worshippers of beauty, whose motto was " Nothing to the extreme," is a revelation of the ** monstrous
aspect

of their being.
is

Oui, Cendrars
swell

full

of excrescences. There are passages which

text

up out of the body of his

parentheses,
asides,

Hke rank tumors.

are
is

There are

detours,

which

the embryonic pith and a grand efflorescence and

his

substance of books yet to come. There

exfoHation, and there
is

also a

grand wastage of material in

books. Cendrars neither cribs and cabins, nor does he drain himself
completely.
it is

When

the

moment comes
brief,

to let go, he lets go.

When

expedient or efficacious to be

he

is

brief and to the point

like a dagger.

To me

his

books

reflect his lack

of fixed

habits, or
!)

better yet, his ability to break a habit.

(A sign of real emancipation

are

In those swollen paragraphs,

which

hke une mer houleusc and

cope with, Cendrars

which some

readers, apparently, are unable to

reveals his oceanic spirit.

ness, his

We who

vaunt dear Shakespeare's madto fear these cosmic gusts

?

elemental outbursts, are

we

We who
are

swallowed the Pantagruel and Gargantua, via Urquhart,

we

to be daunted

by

catalogues of names, places, dates, events

We who produced the oddest writer in any tongueLewis Carroll

67

THE BOOKS
are

IN

MY

LIFE
the play of words,

we

to ahy

away from

from the ridiculous, the

*' t

grotesque, the unspeakable or the " utterly impossible

It

takes a

man

to hold his breath as Cendrars does

when he
stop.

is

about to unleash

one of his triple-page paragraphs without

sea diver.

A
also

man

deep-

whale.

whale of a man,
that this

precisely.

What
of the

is

remarkable

is

same man has

given us some

shortest sentences ever written, particularly in his

poems and

prose poems.

Here, in staccato

rhythmlet
!

us not forget that

before he was a writer he was a musician

style.
fast as
(It

^he

deploys a telegraphic

might

also

be

called

"

telesthetic/')

One

can read

it

as

Chinese, with

whose written

characters his vocables have a

curious affinity, to

my way

of thinking.

This particular tech-

nique of Cendrars* creates a kind of exorcisma deliverance from

the

heavy weight of prose, from the impedimenta of grammar and

syntax,

from

the illusory intelligibility of the merely communicative

in speech.

In VEubage, for example,

It
is

we

discover a sibylline quality

his curious books.
is

of thought and utterance.

one of

An
don't

extreme. Also a departure and an end.

to classify, though

Cendrars

indeed

difficult
I

why we
I

should want to
**

classify

him

know. Sometimes
is

think of him as

a writer's writer," though he to say

is

definitely

not

that.

But what

mean

that a writer has

much

to learn

from Cendrars. In
as

school, I

remember,

we were
Coleridge,

always being urged to take

models

men like Macaulay,

know.

Ruskin, or

Edmund Burke

even de Maupassant.
I

Why they didn't

professor ever

say Shakespeare, Dante, Milton,

believed,
I

don't

No

dare say, that any of us brats

would turn out

teachers.

to be writers

one day. They were failures themselves, hence

Cendrars has
is

made

it

clear that the

only teacher, the only model,

Hfe itself

What a writer learns from Cendrars is to follow his nose, to obey Ufe's commands, to worship no other god but life. Some interpreters will
have
it

that Cendrars

means " the dangerous

it

life."

don't believe
all

Cendrars would limit

its

thus.

He means
all its
is

life

pure and simple, in

aspects, all

its
is

ramifications,

bypaths, temptations, hazards,

what
life.

not. If he

an adventurer, he

an adventurer in

all

realms of

What

interests

him

is

every phase

of life. The

subjects

he has

touched on, the themes he has pursued, are encyclopaedic. Another

sign

of" emancipation,"
It is

this all-inclusive

absorption in Hfr's myriad

manifestations.

often

when he seems most

"

realistic,"

for

68

BLAISE CENDRARS
example, that he tends to pull
is

all
is

the stops
in front

on

his organ.

The

realist

meagre

soul.

He

sees

what
is

of him, Hke a horse with

;

blinders.

Cendrars* vision

perpetually open
his

it is

almost as if he
all

had an extra eye buried in

cosmic
life's

crown, a skylight open to

be
sure, will

the

rays.

Such a man, you

may

never complete his

work, because Hfe will always be a

step ahead
is

of him. Besides,
hfe.

life

knows no completion, and Cendrars article by Pierre de Latil in La Gazette des

few
is

one with

An
6,
.

Lettres, Paris,

August

1949, informs us that Cendrars has projected a dozen or

to be written within the next
years.
It is

more books

an astounding pro-

gram, considering that Cendrars

now

in his sixties, that he has

no

secretary, that

he writes with

his left

hand, that he

is

restless

underneath, always itching to sally forth and sec

that he actually detests
labor.
all, I

more of the world, writing and looks upon his work as forced
**

He works on four or five books at a time. He will finish them am certain. I only pray that I Uve to read the trilogy of les
**

souvenirs humains
consist
obscurs.
I

called Archives de de
lettres,

ma

tour d'ivoire,

which

will

of

Hommes

Homtnes
.
.

d'affaires
.

and Vie

des homnies

Particularly the last-named

have long pondered over Cendrars* confessed insomnia.

He
True

attributes it to his life in the trenches, if I

remember

rightly.

enough, no doubt, but

surmise there are deeper reasons for

is

it.

At

any
tion

rate,

what

wish to point out

that there seems to be a connec-

between

his fecundity
is

and

his sleeplessness.

For the ordinary

individual sleep

the restorative.

Exceptional individualsholy

men, gurus, inventors,

insane

leaders,

men of affairs,
Httle sleep.

or certain types of the

v^

are able to

do with very

They

apparently have

^
^s^\

other means of replenishing their

dynamic

potential.

Some men,
more and
to

merely by varying their pursuits, can go on working with almost

no

sleep.

Others, Hke the yogi and the guru, in becoming

therefore

more aware and

selves

more

alive, virtually

emancipate them-

from the

thrall

of sleep.
fullest ?)

(Why

sleep if the purpose

of Ufe

is

enjoy creation to the

that in switching

With

Cendrars,

have the feeling

versa,
I

from

active Hfe to writing,

and vice

he

replenishes himself
at a loss to

A pure supposition on my part.

man
burning the candle

Otherwise

am
of

account for a

at

both ends and

is

not consuming himself. Cendrars mentions somewhere that he

a line

of long-Uved antecedents.

He

has certainly squandered his

69

THE BOOKS

IN

MY

LIFE

hereditary patrimony regally. But

he shows no signs of cracking up.

a period of second youth.

Indeed, he seems to have entered

is

upon

He

when he reaches the ripe age of seventy he will be ready to embark on new adventures. It will not surprise me in the least if he does I can see him at ninety scaling the Himalayas or
confident that
;

first rocket to voyage to the moon. come back to the relation between his writing and his sleeplessness ... If one examines the dates given at the end of his books, indicating the time he spent on them, one is struck by the rapidity with which he executed them as well as by the speed with

embarking in the

But

to

which

(all

good-sized books) they succeed one another.

All this

impHes one thing, to

my

mind, and that

is

**

obsession."
is it

To

write

one has to be possessed and obsessed.

obsesses Cendrars
?

What

that possesses

and

Life.

He is

man in love with life

et c*est tout.

No matter if he denies this at times, no matter if he vilifies the times or

excoriates his contemporaries in the arts,

no matter if he compares

his

own

recent past with the present and finds the latter lacking,

no

matter if he deplores the trends, the tendencies, the philosophies and

behavior of the

men of our epoch, he is the one man of our time who

is

has proclaimed and trumpeted the fact that today

beautifiil.

profound and

And

it is

just because he has anchored himself in the midst

of contemporary
all

life,

where,

as if firom a

conning tower, he surveys

Hfe, past, present

and

future, the Ufe

of the

stars as

well

as the

Ufe of the ocean depths,

that
I

life

in miniscule as well as the

life

grandiose,

seized

upon him

as

a shining example of the right principle, the

right attitude towards

life.

No one can steep himself in the splendors

;

of the

past

more than Cendrars

;

no one can
It is

hail the fiiture

with

greater zest
glorifies

but

it is

the present, the eternal present,

alHes himself

which he

and with which he

such men, and only

such men,

who

are in the tradition,

who

carry on.

The
it is
is

others are

backward

lookers, idolaters, or else

mere wraiths of

hopefiilness,

bonimenteurs.

With Cendrars you

strike ore.

And
it

because he
it,

understands the present so profoundly, accepts

that he
is

and

one with
that

able to predict the fiiture so unerringly.

as a

Not

he

sets

himself up
casually

soothsayer
;

No,

his prophetic

remarks are made

and

discreetly
this

they are buried often in a maze of unrelated

material.

In

he often reminds
to

me of
In

the

good

physician.
all

He knows how
70

take the pulse.-

fact,

he knows

the


BLAISE CENDRARS
pulses, like the

Chinese physicians of old.

When

he says of certain

men men

that they are sick, or

of certain

artists

that they are corrupt or

fekes,

or of poUtidans in general that they arc crazy, or of miUtary

that they are criminals,

he knows whereof he speaks.

It is

the

magister in

him which

is

speaking.

He has, however, another way of speaking which is more endearing me. He can speak with tenderness. Lawrence, it will be remembered, originally thought of calling the book known as Lady
to

Chatterleys Lover

by

the

title

" Tenderness."

mention Lawrence's

name

because

remember

vividly Cendrars' allusion to

visit to

him on
I

the

occasion of his

memorable

the Villa Seurat.

I

"

You must
repHed.

think a lot of Lawrence," he said questioningly. "

do,"

We exchanged a few words and then I recall him asking me fair and
square if
I

did not believe Lawrence to be overrated.

I

It

was the

metaphysical side of Lawrence,

that
I

gathered, that

was not

to his liking,

was "

suspect," I should say.

(And

it

was just

at this
!)

period that

was engrossed in
rate, that

this particular aspect

of Lawrence

am sure,

at

any

my

defense of Lawrence was

weak and

unsustained.

To

be truthful,

view of the
Cendrars

I was much more interested in hearing Cendrars* man than in justifying my own. Often, later, in reading

this

word

" tenderness " crossed

my lips.
Futile

It

would escape
it

involuntarily, rouse

me from my
They
is

reverie.

though

be, I

would then indulge

kinds.

in endless speculation,
are, I

comparing Lawrence's
think,

tenderness with Cendrars*.

now

of two

distinct

Lawrence's weakness

man, Cendrars' men.

Lawrence

longed to
them.

know men better

he wanted to work in

common with
most moving

It is

in Apocalypse that he has

some of

the

passages
real

on the withering of the " " anguish in usfor Lawrence. They make us
societal

instinct.

They

create

realize the tortures

he suffered in trying to be " a

detect

man among men." With

Cendrars

no

hint of such deprivation or mutilation.

as

In the ocean of

humanity Cendrars swims

his narratives

bUthely as a porpoise or a dolphin. In

he

is

always together with men, one with them in

in thought. If he
is

deed, one with

fully

them

a solitary, he

is

nevertheless

and completely a man.

He

is

also the brother

of

all

men.

Never does he set himself up

as superior to his fellow

man. Lawrence
is

diought himself superior, often, often

think that

undeniable

and very often he was anything but. Very often it is a lesser

man who
71

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

" instructs " him. Or shames him. Lawrence had too great a love ** for humanity " to understand or get along with his fellow man.
It is

when we come
rift

to their respective fictional characters that

figures.

we

sense the

between these two

With

the exception of the

self portraits,

given in Sons and Lovers, Kangaroo, Aaron's

Rod and

such

like, all

Lawrence's characters are mouthpieces for his philosophy

or the philosophy he wishes to depose. They arc ideational creatures,

moved about

like chess pieces.

They have blood

in

them

all right,

but it is the blood which Lawrence has

characters issue

pumped into them.

from
his

Cendrars*

from

life

and

their activity stems

life's

moving

vortex.

They

too,

of course, acquaint us with

philosophy of life,

but obhquely, in the eUiptic manner of art.

The

tenderness

of Cendran exudes from

;

all

pores.

He

does not

spare his characters

harshest words, let

neither does

he

revile or castigate

them. His

me

say parenthetically, are usually reserved for

considers spurious. Aside firom

the poets and artists

these diatribes,
others.
faults

whose work he
find
is

you

will rarely find

is

him

passing

judgment upon

What you do
his subjects

that in laying bare the weaknesses or

of

he

unmasking, or endeavoring to unmask,

All the diverse figures

their essential heroic nature.

human
being.

^which crowd

^human,

all

too

his

books are

glorified in their basic, intrinsic

;

They may or may not have been heroic in the face of death may or may not have been heroic before the tribunal ofjustice but they are heroic in the common struggle to assert and uphold their own primal being. I mentioned a while ago the book by Al
they
;

Jennings which Cendrars so ably translated.

The very

choice of this
this

book

is

indicative

of

my

point.

This mite of a man,

outlaw
'*

with an exaggerated sense ofjustice and honor

(but eventually pardoned

who is

'*

up

for life

by Theodore Roosevelt),
vvdth tenderness,
is

this terror

of

man Cendrars would choose to tell the world about, just the sort of man he would uphold as being filled vdth the dignity of life. Ah, how I should like to have been there when Cendrars eventually caught up
the
just the sort

West who welk over

of

with him, in Hollywood of all places Cendrars has written of this ** brief encounter " and I heard of it myself from Al Jennings* own
!

Hps

when

met him by chance

few

years ago

in a

bookshop

there in

Hollywood.

In the books written since the Occupation, Cendrars has

much

to

72

BLAISB CENDRARS
say about the
it

was

less

War the First War, naturally, not only because inhuman but because the future course of his life,
was decided by
preceding
it.

might

say,

He

has also written about

fall

the

Second War, particularly about the

exodus
it.

of

Paris

and the

incredible

Haunting

pages,
St.

reminiscent

of

Revelation.

Equalled in war literature only by

(See the section of his book,

Exup6ry*s

Flight to Arras.

Le

Lotissement du Ciel,

which

first

appeared in the revue, Le Cheval de Troie, entitled:

Patron pour V Aviation.)*

Un Nouveau
so naked,
recoils.

In

all

these recent

books

Cendrars reveals himself more and more intimately. So penetrative,

are these

gUmpses he permits us

that

one

instinctively
it is

So

sure, swift

and deft are these revelations that

Uke

watching a safecracker

at

work. In these

flashes stand revealed the

whole swarm of intimates whose hves dovetail with

Exposed through the
" completion
**

his

own.

lurid searchHght

of his Cyclopean eye they arc

caught in the flux and surveyed fi:om every angle.

Here there

is

omitted or altered for the sake of the narrative. With these books the " narrative " is stepped up,
sort.
is

of a

Nothing

broadened out, the supports and buttresses battered away, in order

that the

book may become

identical

part

of

life,

swim with

life's

currents,

and remain forever

the

with

Hfe.

Here one comes to

grips

with

men Cendrars truly loves, the men he fought beside in the trenches

and whom he saw wiped out hke rats, the Gypsies of the Zone

whom

he consorted with in the good old days, the ranchers and other

South American scene, the porters, concierges, tradesmen, truck drivers, and " people of no account " (as we say),
figures firom the

and

it

is

with the utmost sympathy and understanding that he

!

What a gallery Infinitely more cxdting, in every sense of the word, than Balzac's gallery of " types." This
treats these latter.
is

the real

Human Comedy. No
la

sociological studies, k

Zola.

No
la

satirical

puppet show, i

Thackeray.

No

pan-humanity, ^

Jules

Romains. Here

in these latter books,

though minus the aim and

purpose of the great Russian, but perhaps with another aim which

we

will understand better later, at

violence,

any rate, with equal amplitude, humor, tenderness and rehgious ^yes, reHgious fervor,

Cendrars gives us the French equivalent of Dostoievsky's outpourings in such

\^

works

as

The Idiot, The Possessed, The

1949.

Brothers Karamaxov. \

* Editions DenoSl,

Paris,

73

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

production which could only be realized, consummated, in die

ripe

middle years of life.

Everything
times.

now
?

forthcoming has been digested a thousand

Again and again Cendrars has pushed back

^where

into

what deep well

the

multiform story of

his life.

This heavy,

molten mass of experience raw and

digested and predigested, a torpid

refined,

subde and crude,

his entrails like

which had been lodging in

and amorphous dinosaur idly flapping

cargo destined for eventual delivery
place,

its

rudimentary
time

wings,

this

at the exact

and the exact

demanded a touch of dynamite

s'est

to be set off.

From

June,

194.0, to
silent.
is

the 21st of August, 1943, Cendrars remained

tu.

awesomely

II

Chut

Motus

What

starts

him

writing again

a visit fi^om his friend

Edouard

Peisson, as he relates

oVHomme Foudroyi. En memory of a certain night in 1915, at the front

in the opening pages
j'ai

passant he evokes the

**

la plus terrible

que

v&ue." There were other occasions, one suspects, before the critical visit of his friend Peisson, which might have served to
detonate the charge.

But perhaps on these occasions

the fuse

burned

out too quickly or was

damp

or smothered under by the weight of

useless speculations.
.
.

world

events.

But

let us

drop these

Let us
.

dive into Section 17 of Uiw Nouveau Patron Pour V Aviation

This brief section begins with the recollection of a sentence of

R^my
where
a

de Gourmont's

"

And

it

shows great progress

cud

that,

women
lines

prayed before, cows

this

few

comes

now chew the from Cendrars* own mouth

..."

In

Beginning on May loth, Surrealism descended upon not the works of absurd poets who pretend to be such and who, at most, arc but sou-realistes since they preach the subconscious, but the work of Christ, the oiily poet of the sur-real If ever I had faith, it was on that day that grace should have touched me
earth
:
. . . .
.

Follow two paragraphs dealing in turbulent, compressed fury

with the ever execrable condition of war. Like Goya, he repeats
**fai vu**

The second paragraph ends

thus

The sun had stopped. The weather forecast announced an ami-cyclone lasting forty days. It couldn't be For
!

74

BLAISE CBNDRARS
which
reason

everything

went

wrong

gear-wheels

would not

lock,

machinery everywhere broke

down

the dead-point of everything.

The next

five lines vdll ever

remain in

my mempry

humanity was far from adequate Above, the sky was like a backside with gleaming buttocks and the sun an inflamed anus. What else but shit could ever have issued from it ? And modem man screamed with fear .
loth,
I

No, on May

to the event.

Lord

This

man of August
least
tea.

the 21st, 1943,

who

is

exploding in

all

directions at once,

had of course already delivered himself of a wad

of books, not
day, being the

among them, we

shall

probably discover one

volumes of Notre Pain Quotidien which he com-

posed intermittently over a period of ten years in a chateau outside

Paris, to

which manuscripts he never signed

his

name, confiding the

chests containing this material to various safety vaults in different

parts

of South America and then throwing the keys^away.

("Je

voudrais rester

VAnonymey* he

says.)

In the books

begun

at

Aix-en-Provence are voluminous notes,

I

placed at the ends of the various sections.

Bourlinguer (the section

will quote just one,

constitutes

fiom

on Genoa), which
French

an everlasting

tribute to the poet so dear to

men of letters
crowd, night-

Dear Gerard de Nerval, man of the

of the
Capital's small theatres
:

walker, slang-ist, impenitent dreamer, neurasthenic lover

and the vast necropoli of of Solomon's Temple, translator of Faust, personal secretary to the Queen of Sheba, Druid of the ist and 2nd class, sentimental vagabond of the fle-deFrance, last of the Valois, child of Paris, lips of gold, you hung younelf in the mouth of a sewer after shooting your poems up to the sky and now your shade swings ever before them, ever larger and larger, between NotreDame and Saint-Merry, and your fiery Chimearas range this square of the heavens like six dishevelled and terrifying comets. By your appeal to the New Spirit you for ever disturbed our feeling today and nowadays men could not go on living wimout this anxiety
the East
architect
: :

The Eagle has me ... (Horus,

* '

already passed
str.
Ill,

the

New

Spirit calls

v.

9)

75

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

On
the

following

page 244, in the same body of notes, Cendrars states the " The other day I was sixty and it is only today, as I reach
:

end of the present

.
.

tale,

that

begin to believe in
it,

my vocation of

writer
thirty

/*

Put that in your pipe and smoke

you lads of twenty-five,

and forty years of age

who
your

are constandy belly-aching because

you have not

yet succeeded in establishing a reputation.

life, still

Be

glad that
still

you

are

still

alive, still living

fiiiits

garnering experience,

enjoying the bitter

I

of isolation and neglect

would have Hked

to dwell

on many

singular passages in these

recent books replete with the most astounding facts, incidents,

Hterary and historic events, scientific and occult allusions, curiosa

hterature, bizarre types

of

of

men and women,

feasts,

drunken bouts,

humorous
individuals,

escapades, tender idylls, anecdotes concerning remote

places, times, legends, extraordinary colloquies

with extraordinary
fantasies,
I

reminiscences

of golden days, burlesques,

myths, inventions, introspections and eviscerations ...

would

have liked to speak

singular

at

length of that singular author and even

more

man, Gustave Le Rouge, the author of 312 books which

the reader has most likely never heard of, the variety, nature, style

and contents of which Cendrars dwells on con amore ;

have given the reader some
Httle flavor
is

would like

to

of the closing section.

Vendetta,

from VHomnte Foudroyi, which

direct firom the hps

of Sawo the

Gypsy

would
finish a

like to

have taken the reader to La Comue, chez

Paquita, or to that wonderful hideout in the South

of France where,

hoping to
the page
line or

book

in peace

and tranquiHty, Cendrars abandons

into the typewriter after writing a

which he had sHpped

at
it

two and never looks

again but gives himself up to pleasure,

idleness, reverie
least

and drink ; I would like to have given the reader at an inkling of that hair-raising story of the " homuncuU " which

Cendrars recounts at length in Bourlinguer (the section called " G^es "), but if I were to dip into these extravaganzas I should

never be able to extricate myself

I shall

jump
La

instead to the last

book

received

from Cendrars,

the

one

called

Banlieue de Paris, published

by La Guilde du

Livre,

Lausanne.
sincere,

It is illustrated

with 130 photographs by Robert Doisneau,

moving, unvarnished documents which eloquently supple-

ment
76

the text.

Dc nouveau unc
!

belle collaboration.
is

(Vive

les

collaborateurs, les vrais

The

text

fairly short

fifty large pages.

BLAISE CBNDR
But haunting pages, written sur
le vif.

A R

(From the 15th of July to

of a night
at Saint-Denis

the 31st of August, 1949.) If there

were nothing more noteworthy

in these pages than Cendrars' description

on

the eve of an aborted revolution this short text

would be worth

preserving.

But

there are other passages equally

sombre and arresting,

or nostalgic, poignant, saturated with atmosphere, saturated with the

pullulating effervescence

of the sordid suburbs. Mention has often

been made of Cendrars* rich vocabulary, of the poetic quaUty of his

prose,

of

his abiHty to incorporate in his rhapsodic passages the

mon-

trous jargon

and terminology of science, industry, invention. This

is

document, which

a sort of retrospective eltgy,

is

an excellent

example of

his virtuosity.

In

memory he moves
as if

in

on the suburbs
a

from

East, South,

North, and West, and,

armed with

magic

wand,

resuscitates the

drama of hope, longing,

failure, ennui, despair,

frustration,

misery and resentment which devours the denizens of this

one compact paragraph, the second in the section called " Nord," Cendrars gives a graphic, physical summary of all that
vast belt. In

makes up the hideous suburban

ravages

terrain.

It is

a bird's-eye

view of the

which follow

in the

wake of industry.

A Httle later he gives

of the interior of one of England's war plants, " a shadow factory," which is in utter contrast to the foregoing. It is a
us a detailed description

masterful piece of reportage in which the cannon plays the role of vedette.

But

in paying his tribute to the factory, Cendrars

stands.
etre
It is

makes

it

clear
for.

where he
**

the one kind of work he has

is

no stomach

Mieux vaut

un vagabond,"

his

dictum. In a few swift lines

he volplanes over the eternal bloody war business and, with a cry of

shame
figures

for the

Hiroshima " experiment," he launches the staggering

war's havoc tabulated

of the

last

by

a Swiss review for the use

and the benefit of those

death.

who

are preparing the

coming

carnival

of

They belong,

these figures, just as the beautifiil arsenals belong

and the hideous banHeue.

And
:

finally, for

he has had them in mind

?

throughout, Cendrars asks

they
us
i

"
?

Whence do they come

What of the children Where are they going "

?

Who

are

Referring

back to the photos of Robert Doisneau, he evokes the figures of

David and GoUath

have in store for

to

let us

know what
It is

indeed the Httle ones

may

us.
this

No

mere document,

book.

something

should Hke to

77

THE BOOKS
own
It

IN

MY

LIFE
carry with

in a breast-pocket edition, to

me

should
. .

I
.

ever

wander

forth again.

Something to take one's bearings by

has been

these God-forsaken precincts

my lot to prowl the streets, by night as well as day, of of woe and misery, not only here in my
In their
spirit

own country but in Europe too.

all alike.

of desolation they are

of the earth are the

Those which ring the proudest

cities

worst.

They stink like chancres. When I look back on

lots,

my past I can
of

scarcely see anything else, smell anything else but these festering

empty
lom,
and

these filthy, shrouded streets, these rubbish heaps

jerries indiscriminately

mixed with the garbage and

refuse, the for-

utterly senseless household objects, toys,

pisspots

broken gadgets, vases

helpless

abandoned by the poverty-stricken, hopeless,

In

creatures

who make up the population of these districts.

have threaded

moments
a

of high

fettle I

my way
I

amidst the bric-a-brac and

:

shambles of these quarters and thought to myself

What

poem

What a documentary film

by cursing and gnashing

Ofin
teeth,

recovered

my sober senses only

fiitile

my

by
I

flying into wild,

rages,

by

picturing myself a benevolent dictator

who would
I

eventually

" restore order, peace and justice."

have been obsessed for weeks

have never succeeded

and months on end by such experiences. But

in

making music of it. (And

to think that Erik Satie,

whose domicile

Robert Doisneau gives us in one of the photos, to think that this man ** also made music " in that crazy building is something which makes

my scalp itch.) No,

insensate material.
still

have never succeeded in making music of this

tried a

have

number of times, but

I

my spirit

is

too young, too filled with repulsion.

lack that abiHty to recede, to

skill.

assimilate, to

pound the mortar

and that
!

with' a chemist's

But Cendrars
Salut, cher
!

has succeeded,

is

why

take

my hat off to him.

!

Blaise Cendrars

You

are a musician. Salute

And glory be

We
sort.

have need of the poets of night and desolation

as

well as the other

We

as vitrioHc diatribes.
thirst

have need of comforting words and you give them as well When I say " we " I mean all of us. Ours is a
unquenchable for an eye such
as yours,

an eye which condemns

without passing judgment, an eye which wounds by

and

heals at the

its naked glance same time. Especially in America do " we ** need

your historic touch, your velvety backward sweep of the plume. Yes,

we need it perhaps more than anything you have to offer us.

has passed over our scarred, terrains vagues at a gallop.
It

History
left

has

us

78

BLAISE CENDRARS
a

few names,

bric-a-brac.

did

a few absurd monuments and a veritable chaos of The one race which inhabited these shores and which not mar the work of God was the redskins. Today they occupy

the wastelands.
sort

For their

**

protection "
has

we have

organized a pious

of concentration camp.

It

no barbed wires, no instruments of

.
.

torture,

no armed guards.
camiot end on
secret
is

We simply leave them there to die out

dolorous note, which
is

But

this

only the backfire

of those

rumblings which begin anew whenever the past crops

up. There

always a rear view to be had from these crazy edifices

tenaciously.

which our minds inhabit so

back

The view from

in the
**

Satie's

window is

the kind

mean. Wherever

zone " there is a

cluster

of shabby buildings, there dwell the

Uttle people, the salt

of

the earth, as

wc

say, for

without them
is

we would

be

left

to starve,

without them that crust which

thrown

to the dogs

and which

we

pounce on Uke wolves would have only the savor of death and revenge.

Through
I

those oblong

windows from which

the bedding

hangs

can see

my pallet in the comer where I

have flopped for the

night, to be rescued again in miraculous fashion the next

sundown,

always by a " nobody," which means,

when we

get to understand

human speech, by an angel in disguise. What matter if with the coflfee one swallows a mislaid emmenagogue What matter if a stray roach
?

clings to one's tattered garments

Looking

at Hfe

from the
still

rear

window one

can look

down

at one's past as into a

mirror in

which the days of desperation merge with the days of joy, the days
of peace, and the days of deepest friendship.
this

Especially

do

I feel

way, think
all

this

way, when

look into
**

my

French backyard.
a pattern.
I

There

the meaningless pieces of

It is all as

my hfe fall into

sec

no waste motion.
fiend.

clear as

The Cracow Poem "

it is
:

to a chess

" Sweet

The music it gives oflf is as simple as were AUce Ben Bolt " to my childish ears. More,
H. Rider Haggard
says in his autobiography

the strains

of

beautiful,

for as Sir

" The naked

truth

is

always beautiful, even

Cendrars,
all

when

it tells

of evil."

My dear
in

you must

at times

have sensed a kind of envy

digested,

me

for

that

you have Hved through,

and vomited
a child

forth transformed, transmogrified, transubstantiated.

As

you

played by Virgil's

tomb
in the

as

a mere lad

Russia, Asia, to stoke the furnace in

as a

you tramped across Europe, some forgotten hotel in Pekiu ;

79

young man,

bloody days of the Legion, you elected to

THE BOOKS IN MY LIPB

remain a corporal, no more
in
;

as a

war victim you begged

for alms

your

own

dear Paris, and a litde later

you were on
.

the

bum

in

New
far,

York, Boston,

New

Orleans, Frisco

You

have roamed
the candle at

you have

idled the days away,

you have burned

to be silent,
in

both ends, you have made &iends and enemies, you have dared to
write the truth,

you have known how

stiU

you have pursued

stiU

every path to the end, and you are

castles in the
air,

still

your prime,

building
to

breaking plans, habits, resolutions, because

are living

Hue

is

your primary aim, and you

flesh

and will continue to

live

both in the

and in the roster of the illustrious ones.

How fooHsh,

how

absurd of

me

to think that
for

might be of help to you, that by

there, as I said before, I

putting in

my Htde word

you here and

would be advancing your

us, all

cause.

You

have no need of my help or

automatically aid

of anyone's. Just Uving your of us, everywhere where

I

life as

you do you

to you.
I

bow in reverence.
I

Once again I doff my hat I have not the right to salute you because
life is lived.

am

not your peer.

prefer to remain

your devotee, your loving

grasp

disciple,

your

spiritual

brother in der Ewigkeit.

that

You always close your greetings with " ma main amie." I warm left hand you proffer and I wring it with joy,
and with an everlasting benediction on

with

gratitude,

my

Hps.

80

IV
RIDER HAGGARD
Since mentioning Rider Haggard's name, his book, She, has fallen
into

my

hands.

have

now

read about two-thirds of

it,

my

first

glance at the
I feel

book

since the year 1905 or 1906, as best I

remember.

impeUed

to relate, as quietly
I

and restrained

as I can, the extra-

ordinary reactions which

this

am now
I

experiencing as a result of

second reading.

To

begin with,

must confess

that

not until

came

to Chapter 11. "

recollection

of reading

The Plain of K6r," did I have the faintest a word of this startling book before. I was

certain, nevertheless, that the

creature called

Ayesha (She)

moment I encountered that mysterious my memory would come ahve. It

As with The Lion of the North, which first
with a " femme
fatale."

has fallen out just as

I anticipated.

referred to earUer, so in She I rediscover the emotions

overcame
{The

me upon coming
!)

face to face

femme fatale

Ayesha, the true

name of this
in

ageless beauty,*

this lost soul

who
a

refuses to die until her

beloved returns to earth

again,

occupies

position

at

least,

my

mind

comparable
Troy
is

to the

Sim

in the galaxy

of immortal

lovers, all

of them cursed

with a deathless beauty.

but a pale moon.

In this starry firmament Helen of

I

Indeed, and only today can

real to

say

it

with

certitude,
is

Helen was never

real,

me. Ayesha is more than

real.

She

superthe

in every sense of that

maHgned word. About her personage

proportions that
it

author has spun a

web of such
is

almost deserves

the appellation " cosmogonic."

Helen

is

legendary, mythical

de

la htt^rature.

Ayesha
She
is

of the eternal elements, both discamate

and
race
I

incarnate.

of the dark mothers, of which mysterious

we

get hints and echoes in

Germanic

Hterature.

But before
dates firom

babble on about the wonders of

this narrative,

which

the next to the last decade of the Nineteenth Century, let

me

speak

of

certain revelations concerning

my own

character

and identity

which

are connected with

it.

* Also the name of Mahomet's second and favorite wife. 81

THE BOOKS IN MY LIPB

As
I

write this
as

book

keep jotting

down
It is

the

titles

of books

have read,

they return to

memory.

game which

has taken

complete possession of me. The reasons for

perceive. identity

it I

have already begun to

The primary one is that I am rediscovering my own which, unknown to me, had been smothered or stifled
of certain books.

in the pages

That

is

to say, in finding myself,

intermediaries,
this
I

through certain authors

(without knowing

who

acted as

my

had

also

it) lost

myself

And

must have happened

over and over again.

this
:

For,

what happens

to

me

every day

now

is

the

mere

recollection

of a forgotten
of

tide brings to life not

only the aura of the book's untouchable personaHty but the

knowledge and the

that

reality

my

former

selves.

need not add

is

something approaching awe, dread, consternation

hold of me.
I

beginning

to take

am coming
It is I

to grips with myself in a wholly

I

new and unexpected way.

that

almost as if

were embarked on
I

journey to Tibet
less

have so frequently alluded to and which

as times goes

have

and

less

need to make

on and

myself go on,

crab-wise, as seems to be

my

destiny.

Not

for naught,

perceive

more and more profoundly, have

;

clung to childhood memories

not for naught have

attached

such importance to "the boys in the street," our Hfe together, our gropings for truth, our struggle to understand the perverse order of
society in

which we found ourselves enmeshed and firom whose grip

of human knowledge, two kinds of
in

we

vainly sought to free ourselves.

Just as there are tv/o orders

wisdom, two

traditions,

to realize that there

two everything, so were two sources of

boyhood we came
:

instruction

the one

which we discovered ourselves and secredy strove

the other which

to guard, and

we

learned about in school and which impressed

fiitile,

us as not only dull and

but diaboUcally

false

and perverted.

The one kind of instruction nourished us, the other undermined us. And I mean this " literally and in every sense," to use Rimbaud's
expression.

Every genuine boy

is

a rebel and an anarch.

If

he were allowed
inclinations,

to develop according to his

society

own

instincts,

his

own

would undergo such a

radical transformation as to

make

the adult revolutionary

cower and

cringe.

His would probably

not be a comfortable or benevolent pattern of organization, but

82

RIDER HAGGARD
it

would

reflect justice,

splendor and integrity.

abet and

It

would

accelerate

the vital pulse

of

life,

augment

life.

And what
?

could be

more
"

terrifying to adults than such a prospect

bas I'histoire

"

(Rimbaud's words.)
?

Do you

begin to see

the pregnancy

of them

The books which we recommended

the books

to

one another on the

q.t.,

which we devoured

stealthily at all
!

hours of the day and

night

and in the weirdest places sometimes these books which

empty
dug
lot,

we

discussed in the

or on a street comer under an arc

light,

or at the edge of a cemetery, or in an icehouse of our

own
of

construction or a cave
gathering, for
bers

into a hillside, or in any secret place

as a clan, as

we

always met

of a secret order
!

^The Order of Youth Defending the Traditions

and our
spiritual training.

blood brothers,

as

mem-

of Youth

these

books were part of our daily

instruction, part

of our Spartan

discipline

They were
if

the heritage of anterior orders, inconspicuous groups like ourselves,

who from
our
elders,

earUest times fought to keep aHve

and to prolong,

possible, the

golden age of youth.

at least,

We

were not aware then

this

that

some of them

looked back on
;

hallowed
suspicion

period of their Hves with envy and longing

that

we had no
as

our glorious dynasty would be referred to

" the period of

conflict."

We

did not

know

that

we were

htde primitives, or

archaic heroes, saints, martyrs, gods or demigods.

We

knew

that

we were

and that was

affairs
:

sufiicient.

We wanted a voice in the governnor mother were objects

opposed
it

ment of our
adults.

we
less

did not want to be treated as embryonic

For most of

us, neither father

of veneration, much
authority as best
saying.

of

idolatry.

We

their

dubious

we

could
it

and

at great odds,

goes without

Our
by

law, and

was the only voice of authority

Hfe.

we

truly

respected,

was the law of

the games

That

we

understood

this

law was

revealed

them and the

inferences

entered into them.

we played, that is, by the way we played we drew from the way the various players We estabHshed genuine hierarchies we passed
;

judgment according

to our various levels

of understanding, our
as

various levels of being.

as

We

were conscious of the peak

well

of the base of the pyramid.

We

had

faith,

reverence and disfitness.

cipline.

We created our own ordeals and tests

of power and

We

abided by the decisions of our superiors, or our chief.

He
83

"

The books in my life

was a king

who

manifested the dignity and the power of his rank

ruled a day

and he never
I

beyond

his

time

speak of these &cts with some emotion because

I

it

amazes

me
all

that adults should ever forget them, as

sec they do.

We

experience a

thrill

when, having put the

the

past behind us,

we suddenly

find ourselves

among
man.

primitive

early

merit

it permits us to " primitive peoples has respect, deep respect, for these " ancestors

** I mean now the true primitives." The study of anthropology has one great Uve again as youths. The true student of

who

exist side

finds that

inferior

grow up.** He man in the early stages of his development is in no wise to man in the later stages some have even found early
by
side

with us but

who do

not

**

man
**

to be superior, in

late

man. ** Early ** and " are here used according to the vulgar acceptation of the

most

respects, to late

terms.

We

know

nothing, in truth, about the origin of early

or whether, indeed, he was

httle

young or

decadent.

about the origin of "

homo

sapiens,**

man And we know though we pretend

and

much.

There

is

a gap between the farthest reaches of history

the rehcs and evidences of prehistoric

man, branches of which,

such

as

the

Cro-Magnon,

baffle us

hgence and

aesthetic sensibiHty.

by the evidences of their intelThe wonders which we constantly

are supplied incessantly
refer to

expect the archaeologist to imearth, the links in our very slender

thread of knowledge about our

own species,
**

and in the most amazing ways by those

descendingly as " imaginative
latter for the

whom we
I

con-

writers.

limit myself to these

moment
**

since the others,

still less

or "

esoteric

writers, are

** sometimes termed " occult " accredited. They are for second

childhood"
Rider

(sic).
is

Haggard

one

of those imaginative
streams.

writers

who
as a

undoubtedly fed from

many

We

think of

him now

writer of boys* books, content to

let his

name

fade into obHvion.

Perhaps only

when our

scientific explorers

and investigators stumble

upon

the truths revealed through imagination will

we

recognize

the true stature of such a writer.

" What

is

imagination ?

**

asks
:

his narrative.

And he

answers
it is

Rider Haggard in the midst of " Perhaps it is a shadow of the

!

intangible truth, perhaps

It

the soul*s thought

was

in the imagination that Blake

Hved

entirely.

It

was imagin-

84

RIDER HAGGARD
ation

which led a humble grocery boy (Schliemann),

fired

by

his

reading of

Homer,

to

go

in search of Troy, Tiryns and Mycenae.

?

And what of Jacob Boehme the first white man alive ? What an epic
Caill^,
!

What of

that intrepid

Frenchman,

to enter

Timbuctoo and come out

I first

Curious, but just about the time that

became acquainted

with the mysteries of Egypt, the dazzling history of Crete, the

bloody annals of the House of Atreus, just when

am overwhelmed

by

my

first

contact with such themes as reincarnation, spUt per-

sonality, the

Holy

Grail, resurrection
as

and immortality, and so on,

via such

**

romancers "

Herodotus, Tennyson, Scott, Sicnkiewicz,

Hcnty, Bulwer-Lytton, Marie Corelli, Robert Louis Stevenson

and

others,

many
beUefs
Sir

others, all these so-called legends,

myths and
fact.

superstitious

were beginning to take substance in

SchHemann,

Arthur Evans, Frazer, Frobenius, Annie Besant,

a whole flock of courageous

Madame
another,
defeat

Blavatsky, Paul Radin,

pioneers had been busy unveiling the truth in one realm after
all

interlocked,
paralysis
us.

all

contributory in breaking the spell of

doctrines

and

in

which the

of the Nineteenth

Century held
splendor
;

The new century opens with promise and

present.

the past comes aHve again, but tangibly, substantially,

and with almost greater reahty than the

When I stood amid the ruins of Knossos my thoughts turn to school books, to my
the enchanting tales they told us
I
?

and of Mycenae did

penal instructors and

No.

thought of the

stories
I

had read

as a child

saw the
;

illustrations

of those books

had

thought buried in obHvion

street

thought of our discussions in the

and the amazing speculations

private speculation about

we had
all

indulged

in.

recalled

my own

these exciting, mysterious

themes connected with past and future. Looking out over the plain

of Argos from Mycenae,

Uved over again

and

how

vividly

the

tale

of the Argonauts.
I

Gazing upon the Cyclopean walls

of Tiryns

recalled the tiny illustration

of the wall in one of

my

wonder books
ing me.
to

^it

corresponded exactly with the reaHty confiront-

Never, in school, had a history professor even attempted

for us these glorious epochs
is

make Hving

of the past which every

child enters into naturally as soon as he

able to read.

With what
!

childhke faith does the hardy explorer pursue his grim task

We
85

THI BOOKS IN MY LIPI

Icam nothing from the pedagogues.
adventurers and wanderers, the

The

true educators arc the

men who

plunge into the living

plasm of history, legend, myth.

A moment ago I spoke of the world youth might create,

a chance.
is

if

given

have noticed repeatedly

how

frightening to parents

the thought of educating a child according to their

own

private

notions.

As

write

I recall

momentous

scene connected with

this subject

which passed between the mother of

It

my

first

child

and myself.

was

in the kitchen

of our home, and

it

followed

upon some heated words of mine about

up from
the table and
I

the futility and absurdity

I

of sending the child to school. Thoroughly engrossed,

had gotten

was pacing back and forth

:

in the Httle
'*

room.

heard her ask, almost frantically you begin ? How ? " So deep in thought was

Suddenly

But where would

that the full import

of her words came to head down,

I

me

bien en retard.

Pacing back and forth,

hall

found myself up against the

door

just as her

words penetrated

my
i

consciousness.

And

at that

very

moment
?

my eyes came to rest How would I begin

bellowed.

on a

small knot in the panel of the door

i

Where

"

Why

there !

Anywhere
I

!*'

And

pointing to the knot in the

wood

launched into

a brilliant, devastating
feet.

monologue

that Hterally
fiill

swept her off her

I
I

must have carried on for a

gave

half hour, hardly

knowing

what
up.

was saying but swept along by

it

a torrent of ideas long pent

What
I

paprika, so to speak,

was the exasperation and

of

disgust

which welled up with the

began with
that Httle

recollection

my

experiences
about,

in school.

knot of wood,

how it came
instinct,

what

it

meant, and thence found myself treading, or rushing,

through a veritable labyrinth of knowledge,

intuition

wisdom,

and experience.

Everything

is

so divinely connected,

so beautifully interrelated

how

could one possibly be at a loss

i

to undertake the education of a child

Whatever we touch,
are
It

see,

smell or hear,
It is

from whatever point we begin, we

on

velvet.

like

pushing buttons that open magical doors.

its

works by
is

itself,

creates

own

traction

and momentum.
:

There

no need
kind of

to

**

prepare " the child for his lesson

the lesson
;

itself is a

enchantment.
thirsts.

The

child longs to

And so

docs the adult,

know he Hterally hungers and if wc could but dissipate the hypnotic

thrall

which subjugates him.

86

ftlDJiR
(

ttAGGARD

To what
rise,

lengths the teacher

may

go, to

what heights he may

to turn to the

what powers he may draw on, we have but

story of Helen Keller's awakening to learn.

teacher, this Miss SulUvan.

There was a great

pupil deaf,

dumb and blindwhat

were

a task to confront

The

miracles she accomplished

bom

of love and
all,

patience.

Patience, love, understanding.

But above

patience.

Whoever
came

has not read the amazing Hfe of Helen Keller

has missed one of the great chapters in the history of education.

When
when
Dante
.

to read

of Socrates and of the Peripatetic schools,

the precincts haunted

later in Paris I

roamed through

by

(the university curricula

is

were then conducted out of doors

Notre Dame, named
after

there

a street in this district, near

the very straw they slept on, these ardent students of the Middle

Ages),

when
I

read of the origins of our postal system and the

it

part played in

by

university students
lifelike

(who were
I

the runners),

when

thought of that

education

had unwittingly received

Square, where the

in such places as

Union Square and Madison

forth,

soapbox orators held

when

recalled the heroic roles,

which

in truth were educational roles, played

by such

figures

of the pubHc

square as Elizabeth Gurley Flynn, Carlo Tresca, Giovanitti, Big

Haywood, Jim Larkin, Hubert Harrison and such like, I was more than ever convinced that as boys, on our own, we were on
Bill

the right track

we had

sensed that education was a

vital process,

one acquired
I

in the midst

of Hfe by Hving and wrestling with

Hfe.
all

felt

closer then to Plato, Pythagoras, Epictetus,

Dante and

the ancient illustrious ones than ever before or since.

When my

Hindu messenger boys in the telegraph company told me of Tagore's famous " Shantiniketan," when I read of Ramakrishna's bright
abode,

when

thought of Saint Francis and the

that education as
it is

birds, I

knew

that

the world
is

was wrong and

conducted today

disastrous.

We who have sat behind closed doors on hard benches

eyes, hostile eyes,
les

in foul

rooms under stem

we

have been betrayed,

le plein air
1

stunted, martyrized.

bas

^oles

Vive

Once

again, I say, I plan to read Emile.

What

matter if Rousseau's theories

read the works of Ferrer,

proved a

fiasco

I shall

read
all

him

as I

Montessori, Pestalozzi and

in our present system

the others.

Anything to put a spike

which

turns out dolts, jackasses,

tame ducks,
If needs be,

weathervanes, bigots and blind leaders of the blind.

let us

take to the jungle


THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE
Certainly it shall overtake us, Behold the lot of man and we shall sleep. Certainly, too, we shall awake and Hve again, and again shall sleep, and so on and so on, through periods, spaces, and times, from aeon unto aeon, till the world is dead, and the worlds beyond the world are dead, and naught Hveth save the Spirit that is life
!
.

Thus speaks Ayesha

in the

tombs of Kor.
a phrase as the
If he
last
**

A
as

boy wonders mightily over such

Spirit that

and

naught Hveth save the

is Life.**

was

sent to church

well as to school, he heard

pulpit such talk

much
falls

about the Spirit from the pulpit.

It is

But from the

on deaf ears.

only

when one
the
is

becomes awake

twenty,

thirty, forty years later

that

words

of the Gospel acquire depth and meaning.

The Church

wholly

unrelated to the other activities of a boy's Hfe.

this discipline, this instruction, is the

All that remains of

awesome, majestic sound of

rest is

the English language

when
no

it

was in flower. The

such
as the

jumble and
" savage "

confusion.
receives.

There

is

initiation,

common

Nor

can there be any spiritual blossoming.

distinct

The world
apart.

of the chapel and the world outside are

and utterly

The language and behavior of

until

Jesus

do not conform to
travail,

sense

one has passed through sorrow and

desperate, lost, utterly forsaken
is

until

one has

become
.

and abandoned.

That there

something beyond, above, and anterior to earthly

It is

Hfe,

every boy instinctively divines.

Spirit.

only a few years since

has an identity which

he himself Hved wholly in the

manifests itself at birth.
identity.

He

He

struggles to preserve this prcdous

He

repeats the rituals

of his primitive

forbears,

he rcHves

the struggles and ordeals of mythical heroes, he organizes his

secret

own

orderto

preserve a sacred tradition.

Neither

parents,

teachers

nor preachers play any part in

this all-important

domain

of youth.
a
in

Looking back upon myself

the lost tribe of Israel.

as a

boy,

I feel

exactly like

member of

Some,

like

Alain-Foumier
order of youth.

The Wanderer^ are never able to desert

this secret

Bruised by every contact with the world of adults, they immolate

themselves in dream and reverie.
are they

Especially in the realm of love

Httle

made

to suffer.

OccasionaUy they leave us a

book,

a testament of the true and ancient faith,

which wc read with dim

88


RIDBR HAGGARD
eyes, marvelling

over

its

sorcery, aware, but too late, that

we

are

looking at ourselves, that

we

are

weeping over our

at a certain

own
it

fate.

More

than ever do

beUeve that

age

becomes
Else

imperative to reread the books of childhood and youth.

we

may go

to the grave not

knowing who we

are or

why we

Hved,

A stonyhearted mother is our earth, and stones are the~> bread she gives her children for their daily food. Stones to eat and bitter water for their thirst, and stripes for/
tender nurture.

boy wonders

if it

be truly thus.

Such thoughts

fill

him with
it

anguish and dismay.

He wonders

again

when he

reads that " out

be,

of good Cometh

evil

and out of evil good." Familiar though

coming from the mouth of Ayesha the .thought

troubles him.

Of such
But

matters he has heard Httle that was not

is

mere echo.

He

surmises that he
it is

indeed in some mysterious fane.

terror that she reigns,

imagination

when Ayesha explains that it is not by force but by when she exclaims "My empire is of the
it is

"

then a

boy

is

startled to the core.

The imagination
legislators

He

has not heard yet of

"the undenominated
There
is

of the
some-

world."

Well he has
There

not.

a mightier thought here,

all

thing which hfts us above the world and

question of dominion
!

over

it.

is

the hint

at least for a

boy

that

if

man

only

dared to imagine the dazzling possibiHties Hfe

oflfers

he would

realize

them

to the

full.

There creeps over him a suspicion, even

if fleeting,

that age, death, evil, sin, ugliness, crime

limitations conceived

and

firustration are

but

by man and imposed by man upon himself and his feUow man ... In this fleeting moment one is shaken to the roots. One begins to question everything. The result, needless

to say,

is

that

he
!

is

covered with mockery and

ridicule.

"

Thou

art foolish,

my

son

"

That

is

the refrain.

There will come similar confrontations with the written word,

more and more of them,

shattering,

as

time goes on.

Some

will be even

more

more

impenetrable.

Some

will send

him

reeling to

the brink of madness.

And

ever and always none to ofler a helping

hand.

No,

the farther one advances the

a

more one

stands alone.

One becomes Hke

naked infant abandoned in the wilderness.

89

THE BOOKS IK MY LIPB

Finally one runs amok or one conforms. At this juncture the drama surrounding one's " identity " is played out for good and all. At
this

point the die

is

cast irrevocably.

One joins up

or one

takes

to the jungle.

From boy

to

wage

earner, husband, father, then

judgeit

all

seems to take place in the twinkle of an eye.

One
us by.

does one*s best

that age-old excuse.

Meanwhile

life passes

Our
a

backs ever bent to receive the lash,

we have

only to

murmur

few words of gratitude and our pcrsecuton accept our reverence. Only one hope remains to become oneself tyrant and executioner.

From " The

one
passes

Place of Life,"

where one took

his stance as a

boy,

over into the

Tomb

of Death, the only death which

:

man
**

has a right to avoid and evade

is

liuing death.
feith,

There

one being, one law and one

as there is

only

one race of man," says EHphas Levi

History of Magic.
I

in his celebrated

work, The

would not be
I

rash

enough

to say that a
is

boy understands such

a statement but
it

will say that he

much

nearer to understanding

than the so-called

"wise"

adult.

The boy prodigy, Arthur

Rimbaud

that

sphinx of

modem

literature

we

have reason to

beheve was obsessed by

this idea.

In a study devoted to
I felt

him*

dubbed him " The Columbus of Youth."

that

he had pre-

empted

this

domain.

Because of his refusal to surrender the vision

as

of truth which he had glimpsed

mere boy he turned

his

back

on
*'

poetry, broke with his confreres, and, in accepting a Hfe of brute

Hterally
ani

toil,

committed

suicide.

In the hell of

Aden he

asks

What

I doing here ? "

In

the famous Lettre d*un

Voyant

"It

we have intimations of a thought which Levi has expressed thus may be understood in a day to come that seeing is actually
is

speaking and that the consciousness of light

hfe in being."
days.
Is it

a twilight

of eternal
their

It is

in this singular twilight that

many boys Hve

any wonder then that certain books, originally intended

for adults, should be appropriated

by boys
:

Speaking of the Devil, Levi says

"

We

would point out

that

whatsoever has a name

but in
itself it

exists

speech
it

may

be uttered in vain,

cannot be vain, and

adult finds
the
it

has a meaning invariably."

The ordinary
*
Serialized

difficult to

accept such a statement.

in

annual anthologies, Neti/ DireetioHs

and

New

Directions XI.

90

RIDER HAGGARD
Even
the writer, particularly the
is

"cultured"

writer, for

whom

presumably the " word "

sacred, finds this

thought unpalatable.

boy, on the other hand, if such a statement were explained to

it.

him, would find truth and meaning in

vain "
;

For him nothing

is

" in

neither

is

anything too incredible, too monstrous, for

children are at
I

him

to swallow.

Our

home

in a

world which seems

to terrify and stupefy us.

trend

which has come

to

am not thinking altogether of the sadistic the fore I am thinking rather of the
;

unknown

worlds, microcosmic and macrocosmic,

whose impinge-

ment on our own quaking world of feeble

oppressive and menacing.
prate about the

reality has

now become
scientists,

Our grown-up
beyond the moon.

boys, the

imminent conquest of the

far

moon

our children
are ready, at

have already voyaged

They

a moment's notice, to take off for

Vega

and beyond.

They beg
intolerant

our supposedly superior

intellects

to furnish

them with a new

cosmogony and
If

new cosmology.
said to

They have grown

his heart

of our naive, limited, antiquated theories of the universe.

Rimbaud may be
truly

have broken

with chagrin

because of his failure to

and

modem

^view

win

his

contemporaries over to a
if

new

of man,

he surrendered

all

desire to

estabHsh a

time was not

new heaven and a new ripe. Nor is it yet,

all

earth,

apparently.

we now know why. The (Though we should

obstacles, hindrances

beware more and more of

and
barriers.)

" seeming "

The rhythm of time has been accelerated almost beyond comprehension. We are moving towards the day, and with frightening speed, when past, present and future wiU appear as one. The millennium ahead will not resemble, in duration, any like period in the past. It may be like the wink of an eye. But to return to She The chapter in which Ayesha is consumed in the flame of life an extraordinary piece of writing
. .
.

It

is

burned into

my

being.

was

at this
It

point in the narrative that

came awake
had

and remembered.

was because of this gruesome,

harrowing event that the book remained with

me

all

these years.

That
I

difficulty in

summoning

it

from the depths of memory

it

attribute to the

naked horror which

inspired.

In the brief space

which Haggard

takes to describe her death

It
is

one Hves through the

whole gamut of devolution.

describes but reduction,

is

not death indeed which he

it

One

privileged, as

were, to

assist

91

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

at the spectacle

of Nature reclaiming from her victim the

stolen

secret

which had been

the sense of awe

from her. By observing

at the

the process in reverse

is

which Ues

very roots of our being

enhanced.

Prepared to witness a miracle,

fiasco
let

we

are

made
It is

to participate in a

beyond human comprehension.

at the Place

of

Life,

me remind

the reader, that this unique death takes place.

tells

Life

and death. Haggard

us,

are very close together.

is

What he
and that

probably meant us to understand only once

is it

that they are twins,

given us to experience the miracle of life, only once

:

the miracle

of death

what happens

in

between

is

like the turning

of a wheel, a perpetual rotation about an inner void, a dream that

never ends, the activity of the wheel having nothing to do with

movement engendering it. The deathless beauty of Ayesha, her seeming immortaHty, her wisdom which is ageless, her powers of sorcery and enchantment,
the

her dominion over

life

and death,

as

Rider Haggard slowly but

deftly reveals this mysterious being to us,

might well serve

sustains

as a

description of the soul

of Nature.

That which
her,
is

Ayesha,

and

at the

same time constmies

the faith that she will

eventually be reunited with her beloved.

And what

could the

Beloved be but the holy

suffice a soul

Spirit

No

less

a gift than this could

endowed with her matchless hunger, patience and The love which alone can transform the soul of Nature is divine love. Time counts for naught when spirit and soul are The splendor of neither can be made manifest except divorced. through union. Man, the only creature possessed of a dual nature, remains a riddle unto himself, keeps revolving on the wheel of The drama life and death, until he pierces the enigma of identity.
fortitude.

of

love,

which

is

the highest he

may

enact, carries within

it

the

key to the mystery. One law, one being, one faith, one race of " To die means to be cut oflf, not to cease being." man. Aye
!

In his inabiUty to surrender to

life,

man

cuts himself off.

Ayesha,

seemingly deathless, had thus cut herself off by renouncing the

spirit

which was
time,

in her.

The beloved

Kallikrates, her

twin

soul,

unable to bear the splendor of her soul

the
this
first
is

killed

by Ayesha's
is

when he gazes upon it own will. The punishment

for

for

incestuous

murder

arrestation.
is

Ayesha, invested with beauty,

to wait until her Beloved

power, wisdom and youth,

92

doomed

RIDER
assumes
flesh

HAGGARD
which
pass

once again.

The

generations of time

in the interval are like the period separating one incarnation

from
is

another.

Ayesha's Devachan

is

the Caves of K6r.

There she

as

remote from Hfe

as the soul in

limbo.

In this same dread place

KalHkrates too, or rather the preserved shell of her immortal love,

passes the interval.

His image

is

with her constantly.

Possessive

in

life,

Ayesha

is

equally possessive in death. Jealousy, manifesting

itself in

a tyrannical will, in an insatiable love of power,

bums

in

her with the brightoess of a funeral pyre.

ingly, in

She has

all

time, seem-

which

to review her past, to

weigh her

deeds, her thoughts,

lesson

her emotions.

An

endless time

of preparation for the one

Godlike, she
faith
is is

she has yet to learn

the lesson of love.

Her
It is

yet

more

vulnerable than the merest mortal.

bom

of despair,

not of love, not of understanding.

in cmelest fashion.

a faith

which

will be tested
veil

The

veil

which wraps her round, the

which

no mortal man
will

has penetrated

^her

divine virginity, in short

be removed,

tom from

her, at the crucial

moment.

Then

she will stand revealed to herself

Then, open to love, she will

move forward
the

in spirit as well as soul.

Then

she will be ready for

the miracle of death, that death

which comes but once.

eternal devotion, will

With
be no

coming of
Isis,

this final

death she will enter the deathless realm of

being.

to

whom

she had

sworn

more. Devotion, transformed by love, merges with undentanding,

then death, then divine being.
will be,

That which always was, always

thus swallowed

now

is

eternally.

Nameless, timeless, indefinable, the

is

nature of one*s

tme

identity

up in the manner
of
great

of the dragon swallowing

its tail.

To summarize
is

thus briefly the saHent features

ofler interpretation

this

romance, especially perhaps to

to

of

his

theme,

do an

injustice to the author.

But there

is

a duality in

Rider

Haggard which

intrigues

me

enormously.

An

earth-bound indivi-

dual, conventional in his ways,

orthodox in

his beHefs,

though

fiill

of curiosity and tolerance, endowed with great vitaHty and

practical

wisdom,

this

man who

is

reticent

one might

say, reveals

through

his

and reserved, English to the core, ** romances " a hidden nature,

is

a hidden being, a hidden lore

which

amazing.

His method of

writing these romances

so to speak

at

fiill

speed, hardly stopping to think,

his

enabled him to tap

unconscious with freedom and

93

THE BOOKS IN MY LIPB

depth.
It is as if,

by

virtue of this technique, he found the

way

to

project the living plasm

his tales

of previous

incarnations.

In spinning

he permits the narrator to philosophize in a loose way,

His

thus permitting the reader to obtain glimpses and flashes of his

true thoughts.
story-teller's gift,

however,

is

too great for

him

to allow his deepest reflections to assume the cloying

form and

dimensions which would break the

spell

of the

recital.

With
not

these brief sidelights

on

the author for the reader

let

who may

know

She or the sequel called Ayesha,

me

proceed to expose

some of
his

the mysterious filaments

by which

a boy, this particular

boy, myself, was bound and doubtless formed in ways beyond

knowing.

have said that Helen of Troy was never

I

real to

me.

Certainly I read of her before

relating to the

happened upon She.

Everything

golden legends of Troy and Crete was part of

my

childhood legacy.

Through the talcs interwoven with the legend and romance of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table
had become acquainted with other legendary and
deathless

beauties, notably Isolt.

The awesome deeds of MerUn and

me.
I

other

hoary wizards were

myself in
tales

also familiar to

had presumably steeped

as practiced in

dealing with the

I

rites

of the dead,

Egypt and elsewhere.

fint shock.

mention

all this

to indicate that the collision

with Rider Haggard's subject matter was not in the nature of a

I

had been prepared, if

skill as

may

put

it

that

way.

But

perhaps because of his

a narrator, perhaps because he had

struck just the right tone, the right level of understanding for a

boy, the force of these combined factors permitted the arrow to

reach
its

destined target for the

first

time.

was pierced through

received the mortal

and throughin the Place of Love, in the Place of Beauty, in the

Place of Life.
It

was

at the Place

of Life that

wound.
life,

Just as

Ayesha had

dealt death toiler beloved instead

of

thereby condemning herself to a prolonged purgatorial existence, so had I been dealt a " Htde " death, I suspect, on closing this book

some

forty-five years ago.

Gone, seemingly forever, were

my

visions

of Love, of Eternal Beauty, of Renunciation and

Sacrifice,

of Life Eternal. Like Rimbaud, however, in of the

of
94
poet-seer,
I

referring to the visions

!

may

exclaim

" But I saw them

"

Ayesha,

consumed by the devouring

life,

flame, at the very source and fount

all

took with her into limbo

that

was sacred and precious

HlDEft
to me. Only once
is it given to

HAGGAltD
The import
I
itself,

experience the miracle of

life.

of

this

dawns slowly,

vciry slowly,

upon me. Again and again

revolt against books, against

as

raw

experience, against

wisdom

well as Nature and

God knows what all. But I am always brought

become
I
**

back, sometimes at the very edge of the fateful precipice.

"

Whoever

has not

fully alive in this Ufe will

this to

not become

so through death."*

beUeve

reUgious teachings.
cut off,

To

die," as

be the hidden note in all Gutkind says, " means to be

?

not to cease."

Cut

off

from what

From

everything
all,

from

love, participation,
life.

wisdom, experience, but above

from

the very source of

Youth
is

is

one kind of

aliveness.

It is

not the only kind, but

it

vitally linked to the

world of

spirit.

To

worship youth instead

of hfe

itself is as disastrous as to

worship power.

Only wisdom

is

eternally renewable.
Httle.

But of Ufe-wisdom contemporary man knows

He

has not only lost his youth, he has lost his innocence.

He

clings to illusions, ideals, beHefs.

In the chapter called

"What
life,

We

Saw," which
**
:

affects

me

as

deeply

now

as it

did long ago, the narrator, after watching Ayesha

reflects thus

consumed by the flame of

in her living
lover,

Ayesha locked up

tomb, waiting from age to age for the coming of her

a small change in the order

worked but

of the world. But

Ayesha, strong and happy in her love, clothed with immortal

youth, godlike beauty and power, and the

wisdom of the

centuries,

would have revolutionized society, and even perchance have changed

the destinies of

Mankind."

And
:

which

have pondered long

."

then he adds this sentence, upon " Thus she opposed herself to the
it

eternal law, and, strong

though she was, by

was swept back into

nothingness

One

immediately thinks of the great figures in myth, legend

and history

who

attempted to revolutionize society and thereby

:

alter the destiny

of man

Lucifer, Prometheus,
. . .

Akhnaton, Ashoka,

Jesus,

Mahomet, Napoleon
his

One
Yet

thinks especially of Lucifer,

all.

the Prince of Darkness, the

most shining revolutionary of

all

Each one paid for

I

" crime."

arc revered.
saint.

firmly believe,

is

closer to

God

than the

The rebel, To him is given

dominion over the dark

* The Absolute
Collective,

forces

which we must obey before we

Gutkiiid.

by Erich

95

THE BOOKS IN MY LIfE

can receive the light of illumination.
the only revolution

The
for

return to the source,

is

which has meaning

man,

the

whole goal
This

of man.
is

It is

a revolution which can occur only in his being.

life's

the true significance of the plunge into

stream, of becoming

Rilly alive,
Identity
!

awakening, recovering one's complete identity.

This
is

the

word which, on
It is

rereading Rider Haggard,

has

come

to haunt
as

me.

the riddle of identity

to

which caused

such books

Louis Lambert^ Seraphita, Interlinear

Caheza de Vaca,

Siddhartha^ to exercise

dominion over me.

of
telling the truth

began

my

writing

career with the intention

about myself
fictive

"What

a fatuous task

What
"

can possibly be more

learn nothing

than the story

of one's

life

We

by reading [Winckelman],"
Similarly
I

said Goethe,

"

we

become something."

might say

^we

reveal nothing

of ourselves by
I

telling the truth,

but

we do some-

times discover ourselves.

who had

thought to give something

found that

had

received

something.

Why the emphasis, in my works, on crude, repetitious experience

of life
?

Is it

not dust in the eye

I

Am I revealing myself or finding

alternately to lose

myself ?
myself.

In the world of sex

It
is

seem

and to find
is

all

seeming.
is

The
is

conflict,

which

if

not hidden

certainly smothered,
{Spirit

the conflict between Spirit and Reality.

the
title

and Reality y incidentally,

of a book by a blood brother

For a long time
reality

whom I have discovered only recendy.)

Mother, Chaos.
a
I expatiate

for

me

was Woman. Which is equivalent to sayingNature, Myth, Country,

to the

reader's

amazement, no doubton

romance called She, forgetting that I dedicated the cornerstone of my autobiography to " Her." How very much there was of " She " in
" Her "
black
!

In place of die great Caves of K6r

described the bottomless

pit.

Like " She," " Her " also strove desperately to give
others,

me

hfc,

beauty,

power and dominion over

even

if

only through the

magic of words. " Her's " too was an endless immolation, a waiting (in

how

awfiil a sense

!)

for the Beloved to return.

it

And

if

" Her " dealt

passion, out

me
of

death in the Place of Life, was

not also in blind

fear

and jealousy
fearfiil

What was
others.

the secret of

Her
for

terrible beauty.

Her

power over

Her contempt
i

Her
aime

slavish minions, if
?
I

not the desire to expiate Her crime

The

That she had robbed

me
it.

of my identity
In

at the

very

moment
image

when
96

was about to recover

Her

lived as truly as the

RIDER HAGGARD
of the
In
slaiii

Kallikrates lived in the

mind, heart and soul of Ayesha.

some

strange, twisted
I

way, having dedicated myself to the task

convinced myself that
I I

of immortalizing Her,

was giving Her

past,
!

Life in return for Death.

thought

could resurrect the

Vanity, vanity

thought
I

could

make

it

live again

in truth.

All

accomplished was to reopen the

wound
I

that

had been

inflicted
it

upon me.
the
this,

The wound

still

lives,

and with the pain of

see very clearly that
I

comes

remembrance of what
not
that.

was.
**

was not
I

The "

notness

is

clearer than the

"

isness."
all

see

the

meaning of the long Odyssey

held

made

recognize
father,

the Circes

who

me

in their thrall.

found

my
I

both the one in

the flesh and the unnameable one.

And

discovered that father

:

and son are one.

all is

More, immeasurably more

found

at last that

one.
the grave of Clytemnestra,
I

At Mycenae, standing before

the ancient

reUved

Greek

tragedies

which nourished

me more
I

than did

the great Shakespeare.

pit,

CUmbing down
I

the sUppery stairs to the

which

described in the

book on Greece,
did as a

experienced the

same sensation of horror which

into the bowels

boy when descending

have stood before
a

of Kor.

It

seems to

me

that I

many
that,

a bottomless pit,
is

have looked into

many
is

chamel house.

But what

more

vivid

still,

more
I

awe-inspiring,

the

remembrance

whenever in

my

life

have gazed too long upon Beauty,

I

particularly the beauty

of the female,
Fear,
?

have always experienced

the sensation of fear.

and

touch of horror too.

What

is

the origin of this horror

The dim remembrance of being

of God.

other

than

now am,

of being

fit

(once) to receive the blessings of beaury%

the gift of love, the truth

Why, do we

not sometimes

ask ourselves,

why

the fatidical beauty in the great heroines of love

;

throughout the ages

Why do

they seem so logically and naturally

evil
i

surrounded by death, bolstered by crime, nourished by

There
at the

is

a sentence in She

which

is

strikingly penetrative.

It

comes

moment when

Ayesha, having found her Beloved, realizes

**

that physical

union must be postponed" yet a while.

I

As yet

may

not mate with thee, for thou and

are different,

and the very

brighmess of my being would

thee."
(I
I

bum
to

thee up, and perchance destroy

would give anything

them
as a

know what I made of these words

97

when

read

boy

!)

THE BOOKS
No
matter

IN

MT

LIFB
I

how much

dwell on the works of others

come

back inevitably to the one and only book, the book of myself ** Can I be/' says Miguel de Unamuno, " as I believe myself or
as others believe

me

to be

Here

is

where
Here

these lines

become a
create the

confession in the presence of

my unknown
myself

and unknowable mc
is

unknown and unknowable

legend wherein
I

for

where

must bury myself."

These

lines

appear in the fly-leaf to Black Spring, a book which

to being myself,
I

came nearer

believer~feii
I

any~^ook
was to

have

>y

written before or since.

to create as a

Ilie

book which

had promised mysdf

monument

to Her, the

book
I

in

which

deliver

the

**

secret," I did

not have the courage to begin until about eight

years ago.
five years.

And

then, having

begun

it,

put

it

aside for another

Tropic of Capricorn

was intended

to be the cornerstone

of

this

monumental work.

It is
I

more
this

like a vestibule

or ante-

chamber.

The

truth

is

that

wrote

dread book* in

my

head

when jotting down

work.
I

(in the space

of about eighteen continuous hours)

the complete outline or notes covering the subject matter of this

made

this cryptic skeleton

of the

magnum
I

opus during

a period of brief separation

sessed

fi-om " Her."

It is

was completely poshad no thought

It

and

utterly desolate.
I

now

almost twenty-three years

I

to the dot that

laid

out the plan of the book.

this

whatever then of writing anything but

one grand book.

was to be the Book of My

quest.
it

Life

my
it.

life

with Her.

Of what stupen!

dous, unimaginable detours are our Uves

all is

composed

All
until

is

voyage,

We

are not even

aware of the goal

we

have

reached
is

and become one with

legend.

To employ

the

word

reality

to say

myth and

To

speak of creation means to bury

oneself in chaos.

We
**

know
are.

not whence

we come

nor whither

we
our

go, nor even

who we

We set sail

for the golden shores, sped

on sometimes Hke

arrows of longing," and

we

arrive at

destination in the full glory

of realization

or

else as

unrecognizable

not be deceived by that

certain illustrious
seal

pulp from which the essence of life has been squashed. But let us word ** failure " which attaches itself to

names and which

is

nothing more than the written

and symbol of martyrdom.

When the

good Dr. Gachet wrote

of
art

to brother

Theo

that the expression " love

" did not apply

^

Tlie

Rosy

Crucifixion.

98

"

RIOBR HAGGARD
in Vincent's case, that to his art,
his

was rather

case

of " martyrdom

we

realize
**

with

full hearts that

the

most glorious

failures

" in the history

Proust was
**

Van Gogh was one of of art. Similarly, when

the

Professor

Dandieu

states that

most

living

of the

dead,"

we

understand immediately that

this

" living corpse " had

walled himself in to expose the absurdity and the emptiness of

our feverish

activity.

Montaigne from
the centuries.

his

**

retreat

" throws a

beam of light down

The

Failure,

me
of

enormously and helped to

failure. failure.
is

erase

from

my

by Papini, incited mind all thought

If Life

and Death are very near together, so are success

and
It

our great fortune sometimes to misinterpret our destiny

it is

when

revealed to us.

We

often

accompHsh our ends

despite

ourselves.
tically to

We

try to avoid the

swamps and jungles, we seek

fran-

escape the wilderness or the desert (one and the same),

we attach ourselves to leaders, we worship the gods instead of the One and Only, we lose ourselves in the labyrinth, we fly to distant
shores

and speak with other tongues, adopt other customs, manners,

conventions, but ever and always are

end, concealed

we

driven towards our true

from

us

till

the last

moment.

99

"

V
JEAN GIONO
It

was

in the rue d'Al^ia, in

sell

one of those humble stationery

stores
It

which

books, that

first

came

was the daughter of the proprietor

thrust

across Jean Giono's

^blcss

worb.

her soul

who
!

literally

upon

nic the

book

called

Que majoie demeure

(The Joy of

Mans
for

Desiring).

In 1939, after

making

a pilgrimage to

Manosquc
bought

with Giono's boyhood friend, Henri Fluch^re, the

latter

me Jean

le

Bleu {Blue Boy), which

these French editions
I I

read

on

the boat going to

Greece.

Both

lost in

my

wanderings.

On

returning to America, however,

Pascal Covici,

soon made the acquaintance of

Press,

one of the

editors
all

of the Viking

and through

him

got acquainted with

I

that has

been translated of Giono

not very much,

sadly confess.
I

Between times
with Giono,

have maintained a random correspondence

continues to live in the place of his birth,

who

Manosque.

How

often

have regretted that

did not meet

him
a

on

the occasion of

my

visit to his

home

he
I

was off then on

walking expedition through the countryside he describes with such

deep poetic imagination in
the flesh so have
I

his

books. But if
I

never meet him in

spirit.
I

can certainly say that

have met him in the

And
find,

many

others throughout this

wide world.

Some,

know him

only through the screen versions of his books

Harvest

and The Baker's Wife.

formance of these

No

one ever leaves the

theatre, after a per-

films,

with a dry eye.

No

one ever looks upon

a loaf of bread, after seeing Harvest, in quite the

same way

as

he

used to

nor, after seeing The Baker's Wife, does one think of the
levity.
. .
.

cuckold with the same raucous

But

these are trifling observations

few moments ago, tenderly flipping the pages of his books, I was saying to myself " Tenderize your finger tips Make yourself
:

ready for the great task

For several years 100

now

have been preaching the gospel

of


JBAN GIONO
Jean Giono.
ears,
I
I

do not say

that

merely complain that

that
I

my words my audience

have

fallen

upon deaf
I

has been restricted.

at the

do not doubt
Press in

have made myself a nuisance

I

Viking

New
Giono

York, for

keep pestering them intermittently to

Fortunately
I

speed up the translations of Giono's works.

to read in his

am

able

own
idiom.

tongue and,

at the risk
I

of sounding

immodest,

in his

own

But, as ever,

continue to think of

the countless thousands in

until his

England and America

I feel

who must

wait

books are

translated.

that

could convert to the

ranks of his ever-growing admirers innumerable readers

his

whom

American publishers despair of reaching.

hearts

think

could even
^in

sway the
Austraha,
is

of those

who

have never heard of him

England,

New Zealand and other places where the English language

I

spoken. But

seem incapable of moving those few pivotal beings

who
can
I

hold, in a

manner of speaking,

his destiny in their hands.

statistics

Neither with logic nor passion, neither with

nor examples,

budge the position of editors and pubHshers

I

in this,

my native

land.

shall

probably succeed in getting Giono translated into

I

Arabic,

Turkish and Chinese before

convince his American

publishers to

go forward with the

task they so sincerely began.

Flipping the pages of The Joy of

for the reference to
I

Mans
like

Desiring

was looking

Orion "looking

noticed these words of Bobi, the

Queen Anne's lace** chief figure in the book

:

curious.
*

have never been able to show people things. It's I have always been reproached for It. They say No one sees what you mean.'
I
:

Nothing could
I

better express the

way

I feel at

times. Hesitatingly

add

Giono, too, must often experience

I

this sense

of

frustration.

Otherwise

am

unable to account for the fact that, despite the

incontrovertible logic

of dollars and cents with which

his publishers
this

always silence me, his works have not spread Uke wildfire on
continent.

silenced,

to. I may be am not convinced. On the other hand, I must confess that I do not know the formula for " success," as publishers use the term. I doubt if they do either. Nor do I think a man like Giono would thank me for making him a commercial success.
I

am

never convinced by the sort of logic referred

but

lOI

TM

BOOKS

IN

MY

LIFB
certainly.

He would

like to

be retd more,

What

author does not

Like every author, he would especially like to be read by those

who

see

what he means.

Herbert Read paid him a high tribute in a paper written during the War. He referred to him as the " peasant-anarchist." (I am
sure his publishers are not keen to advertise such a label
!)

do

not think of Giono, myself, either

I

as peasant

or anarchist, though

regard neither term as pejorative.

If

(Neither does Herbert Read,

to be sure.)

Giono
is

is

an

anarchist, then so

were Emerson and

Thoreau.

If

Giono

a peasant, then so

was Tolstoy.

But we do
regarding

not begin to touch the essence of these great

figiures in

them from

these aspects, these angles.

;

Giono ennobles the peasant

of anarchism in
his

in his narratives

Giono

enlarges the concept

philosophic adumbrations.

When
book

he touches a

man
was

like

our

own

Herman
them),

Melville, in the

called Pour Saluer Melville

it

(which

the Viking Press refuses to bring out, though

translated for
is

we come very more important, close

His poetry
is

close to the real

Giono

and, what
is

even

to the real Melville.

This Giono

a poet.

of the imagination and

It
is

reveals itself just as forcibly

in his prose.

through

this ftinction that

Giono

reveals his

power
rank,

to captivate

men and women

This
is

everywhere, regardless of
the legacy left

class, status

or pursuit.

him by

his

parents, particularly, I feel,

by

his father,

of

whom

he has written

so tenderly, so movingly, in Blue Boy.

is

In his Corsican blood there

a strain which, like the wines

of Greece when added to French

vintages, lend

body and tang

to the GalUc tongue.

As

for the soil

in

which he

is

rooted, and for

which
it

his true patriotism

never

fails

to manifest

itself,

only a wizard,

seems to me, could

created his

relate cause

to effect. Like our

terrestrial

own

Faulkner,

Giono has

own

private

domain, a mythical domain

It is

far closer

to reaUty than

books of history or geography.

** **

a region over
It is

which the
a land in

stars

and planets course with throbbing

things

pulsations.

which

happen

to

men

as

aeons ago they happened to the gods.

soil is saturated

Pan

still

walks the earth.

The

with cosmic

juices.

Events " transpire."

Miracles occur.

And

never does the author

betray the figures, the characters,

the

whom

he has conjured out of

womb

of his rich imagination. His men and

women have

their

prototypes in the legends of provincial France, in the songs of the

;o2

JBAN lONO
troubadors, in the daily doings of humble,

unknown

peasants,
present.

an endless

line

of them, firom Charlemagne's day to the very

In Giono's

works we have the sombreness of Hardy's moors, the

settings, the

eloquence of Lawrence's flowers and lowly creatures, the enchant-

ment and sorcery of Arthur Machen's Welsh

medieval mystery plays.
sensuality

freedom

and violence of Faulkner's world, the buffoonery and Hcence of the

And with

all

this a

pagan charm and

which stems from the ancient Greek world.

If we look back on the ten years preceding the outbreak of the war, the years of steep incline into disaster, then the significant figures in the French scene are not the

Gides and the Val^rys, or any competitor for the laurels

of the Acad^mie, but Giono, the peasant-anarchist, Bemanos, the integral Christian, and Br6ton, the These are the significant figures, and they super-realist. are positive figures, creative because destructive, moral Apparendy in their revolt against contemporary values.
they are disparate figures, working in different spheres,

along different levels of

human

consciousness

but in

the total sphere of that consciousness their orbits meet,

and include within their points of contact nothing that compromising, reactionary or decadent ; but contain everything that is positive, revolutionary, and creative
is

of a

new and

enduring world.*
all

Giono's revolt against contemporary values runs through

his

books.

In Refusal

to

Obey, which appeared in translation only

magazine. The Phoenix, so far as
I

in

James Cooney's

Uttle

know,

Giono spoke out manfully

bearing arms.

against war, against conscription, against

Such

diatribes

do not help

to

make an author more

popular in his native land.

is

When

the next
is

war comes such a man

their country's

marked

whatever he says or docs

falsified.

reported in the papers,

exaggerated, distorted,
interest

The men who have

most

at heart are the

very ones to be
is

vilified,

to be called

" traitors," " renegades " or worse. Here

an impassioned utterance

made by Giono in Blue

of his
*
revolt.
It

Boy.
:

It

may throw a little light on the nature

begins

Politics

of the Unpolitical, by Herbert Read, Routledge, London, 19^6.

103

THE BOOKS
I

IN

MY

LIFE

don't

began. At
recall

remember how my friendship for Louis David this moment, as I speak of him, I can no longer

my pure youth, the enchantment of the magicians and of the days. I am steeped in blood. Beyond this book there is a deep wound from which all men of my age are suffering. This side of the page is soiled with pus and
darkness
If
. .
.

you

you had fought

ones.
killed

had only died for honorable things ; if your litde But, no. First they deceived you and then they
(Louis)

for love or in getting food for

you

in the war.
to

What do you want me

you have
!

do with
I

this

France that
l
?

helped,

it

seems, to preserve, as

too have done

What shall we do with it, we who have lost all our friends Ah If it were a question of defending rivers, hills, mountains, skies,
is

winds, rains, I would say, * Willingly. our job. Let us fight. All our happiness in life is No, we have defended the sham name of all that.
I I

That
there.*

When
tree
'

see a river, I say

river

when
I

see a tree,
exist.

say

never say

France.'

That does not

Ah
that

How willingly

would
!

give

away

that false

name

one single one of those dead, the simplest, the most Nothing can be put into humble, might Hve again the scales with the human heart. They are all the time talking about God It is God who gave the tiny shove with His finger to the pendulum of the clock of blood at the instant me child dropped from its mother's womb. They are always talking about God, when the only product of His good workmanship, the only thing that is godhke, the hfe that He alone can create, in spite of all your science of bespectacled idiots, that life you destroy at will in an infamous mortar of slime and spit, with the blessing of What logic all your churches. There is no glory in being French. There is only one
! !

glory

in being alive.

When I read
statements.
\

a passage

hke
I

this I

am inclined
I said

to

make
I I
is

extravagant

Somewhere

beHeve
I

that if

had to choose
have the same
a hundred, a
It

between France and Giono

feeling about

would choose Giono.

Whitman. For me Walt Whitman

thousand, times
great

more America than America

thus

itself

was the

Democrat himself who wrote

:

about our vaunted

democracy
104

JEAN GIONO
have frequently printed the word Democracy. Yet cannot too often repeat that it is a word the real gist of which still sleeps, quite unawakened, notwithstanding the resonance and the many angry tempests out of which its syllables have come, from pen and tongue. It is a great word, whose history, I suppose, remains unwritten, because
I

We

that history has yet to

be enacted.*
a traitor, not even if he

No, a man Hke Giono could never be

folded his hands and allowed the

Maurizius Forever^ wherein

enemy to overrun his country. In devoted some pages to his Refusal to

it

Obey,

put

it
is

thus,

and

repeat

with even greater vehemence

"I

say there

something wrong with a society which, because

it

quarrels with a man's views, can

condemn

liim as an arch-enemy.
is

Giono
its

is

not a

traitor.
its

Society

is

the traitor. Society

a traitor to

fine principles,

empty

principles.

Society

is

constantly looking
spirit."

for victims

and finds them among the glorious in

it

What was
the "
will
first

Goethe

said to

Eckermann

Interesting indeed that

:

European " should have expressed himself thus

clever and

"

Men
time
I

become more

more

acute

but not better, happier,

and stronger in action

or
is

at least

only

at epochs. I foresee the

when God
hour in the

will break

up everything
planned to

for a
this

renewed

creation.

am
are

certain that everything

end, and that the time and

distant fiiture for occurrence

of this renovating epoch

aheady fixed

..."

The

other day someone mentioned in

my

presence

how

curious

and repetitive was the role of the father in authors* hves.

We

had

been speaking of Joyce, of Utrillo, of Thomas Wolfe, of Lawrence,

of C^Hne, of Van Gogh, of Cendrars, and then of Egyptian myths

and of the legends of Crete.
found
their father,

We

spoke of those

who

had never

of those

who were

forever seeking a father.

We
Fort

spoke of Joseph and

his brethren,

of Jonathan and David, of the

as

magic connected with names such

Ticonderoga. As they spoke
for instances
I

the Hellespont and

was

frantically searching

my memory
could think

where the mother played

a great role.

only of two, but they were truly

Vinci.

illustrious

names
I

Goethe and da
tells

Then

began to speak o Blue Boy.

looked for that extra-

ordinary passage, so meaningful to a writer, wherein Giono

what

his father

meant

to him.

* From Democratic

Vistas.

105

TBS BOOKS
If
I

IN

MY

LIPI

have such love for the memory of my father, it I can never separate myself from his inuge, if time cannot cut the thread, it is because in the experience of every single day I realize all that he has done for me. He was the first to recognize my sensuousncss. He was the first to see, with his gray eyes, that sensuousness that made me touch a wall and imagine the roughness like porous skin. That sensuousness that prevented me firom learning music, putting a higher price on the intoxication of listening than on the joy of being skillfiil, that sensuousness that made me like a drop of water pierced by the sun, pierced by the shapes and colors in the world, bearing in truth, like a drop of water, the form, the color, the sound, the
begins, if
sensation, physically in

my

flesh

broke nothing, tore nothing in me, stifled nothing, With the effaced nothing with his moistened finger. prescience of an insect he gave the remedies to the Htde larva diat I was one day this, the next day that he weighted me with plants, trees, earth, men hills, women, grief,
: ;

He

goodness, pride,
in prevision

all

these as remedies,

all

these as provision,

of what might be a running sore, but which, thanks to him, became an immense sun within me.
close

Towards the
says his father,

of the book, the

tree.

fiither

nearing his end, they

I

have a quiet talk under a linden

**

"

Where

made

a mistake,"

was when

wanted to be good and

helpfiil.

You
this.

will

make

a mistake, like me."

Heart-rending words.
I

Too true, too true.

wept when I read

I

weep again
all

in recalling his Other's words.

weep

for Giono, for

who have striven to be " good and helpfiil." For those even though they know in their hearts that it is a mistake." What we know is nothing compared to what we feel impelled to do out of the goodness of our hearts. Wisdom can never be transmitted from one to another. And in the ultimate do we not abandon wisdom for love
myself, for
are
*'

who

still

striving,

There

is

another passage in which father and son converse with

Franchesc Odripano.
*

They had been

talking about die art of healing.

When

a person has a pure breath,*

my

father said,

he

can put out wounds all about him like so many lamps.' But I was not so sure. I said, * If you put out all the lamps. Papa, you won t be able to sec anv more.' At that moment the velvet eyes were still and diey were
looking beyond
io6

my

glorious youth.

JIAN lONO
* the wounds illumine. That Odripono a good deal. He has had experience. If he can stay young amongst us it is because he is a poet. Do you know what poetry is ? Do you know that what he says is poetry ? Do you know mat, son ? It is essential to real^ that. Now listen. I, too, have had my experiences, and I teU you that you must put out the wounds. If, when you get to be a man, you know these two things, poetry and the science of extinguishing wounds, then you will be a man.*
*

That

is

true,*

he

replied,

is

true.

You

listen to

beg the

reader's indulgence for quoting at sudi length

I

from

Giono*s worb. If

thought for one

I

moment

that

most everyone
day

was

familiar

with Giono*s writings

these citations.

would indeed be embarrassed

of mine
said the other
**

to have

made
"
I

friend

that practically
his

everyone he had met

asked.
**

knew Jean Giono.

You mean
" At any

books

At

least

some of them,** he

said.

rate,

they certainly
I

story,"

repUed.

know what he stands for.** "That*s another " You're lucky to move in such circles. I have quite
about Giono.
I

another story to
editors

tell

doubt sometimes that even

the question."

his

have read him.

How

to ready that*s

That evening, glancing through a book by Holbrook Jackson,*

I

stumbled on Coleridge*s four

1.

classes
all

of readers. Let

me

cite
it

them

Sponges,

who

absorb

they read, and return

nearly in

the

same

state,

only a

Httle dirtied.

2.

Sand-glasses,

who

retain nothing,

and are content to get

through a book for the sake of getting through the time.

3.

Strain-bags,

who

retain

merely the dregs of what they read.

4.

Mogul diamonds,
read,

equally rare and valuable,

who

profit

by

what they

and enable others to profit by

it also.

Most of us belong
first

in the third category, if not also in

!

one of the
I

two. Rare indeed are the mogul diamonds

And now

wish

make an observation connected with the lending of Giono*s books. The few I possess among them The Song of the World and Lovers are
to

never Losers,

which

I sec I
all

have not mentioned

have been loaned

become acquainhave wrapped and
as

over and over again to

who expressed
means
that I
visitors

a desire to

ted with Jean Giono. This

to a considerable

have not only handed them

I

number of

but that

mailed the books to numerous others, to some in foreign lands

*The Reading of Books,

Scrihnpr's,

New

yorlc,^i947.

107

"

THE BOOKS
well.

IN

MY
I

LIFB
a response

To no

author

have recommended has there been

such

as hailed the

reading of Giono.
!

unanimous. " Magnificent

usual return.

The reactions have been virtually Thank you, thank you " that is the
!

Only one person disapproved,

said flatly that

he could

make nothing of Giono, and that was a man dying of cancer. I had lent him The Joy of Mans Desiring. He was one of those "successful

" business

to sustain him.

The
of

others,

men who had achieved everything and found nothing I think we may regard his verdict as exceptional. and they include men and women of all ages, all walks
diverse views, the

Ufe,

men and women of the most

aims and tendencies,
all

most con**

flicting

proclaimed their love, admiration

a
select

and gratitude for Jean Giono. They do not represent

audience, they were chosen at random.

they had in

common was

a thirst for

The one qualification which good books

. .

These are

my

private
It is

statistics,

which

maintain are

as

vaHd

as

the pubhsher's.

the

hungry and

thirsty

who wiU
I

eventually

decide the future of Giono's works.

There

is

another man, a tragic figure, whose book

often thrust
is

upon

friends

and acquaintances

Vaslav Nijinsky. His Diary

It tells

in

some
a

strange

way
It is

connected with Blue Boy.

the writing of a

me

something

about writing.
It is

man who is
it is

part lucid, part

it

mad.

communication so naked, so
with
reality,
is

desperate, that

breaks the mold.

We

are face to face

and

almost unbearable. The

technique, so utterly personal,

learn.

one from which every writer can

this

Had he

not gone to the asylum, had

been merely

his

baptismal work,
the dancer.
I
it

we would have had

book because
this
I

in Nijinsky a writer equal to

mention

this

have scanned
it is

it

closely.

Though
I

may sound presumptuous

to say so,
I

book

for writers.

can-

not limit Giono in

way, but

must say

that he, too, feeds the

writer, instructs the writer, inspires the writer. In Blue

Boy he gives

us the genesis

of a writer,

telling

practiced writer.
that
is

One

feels

with the consummate art of a that he is a " bom writer." One feels
it

he might also be a painter, a musician (despite what he says). It the " Storyteller's Story," I'histoire de I'histoire. It peels away the

wrappings in which
being.
It

we mummify writers and reveals

It is

the

embryonic

gives us the physiology, the chemistry, the physics, the

a

biology of that curious animal, the writer.

io8

textbook dipped

JEAN GIONO

in the

magic
all

fluid

of the medium
It

it

expouncts.
it

It

connects us with the

source of

creative activity.
It is

breathes,

palpitates, it

renews the

blood stream.

the kind of
tell

he has
alas.

at least

one story to

book which every man who thinks could write but which he never does,
are telling over

It is

the story

which authors

and over again in

myriad

disguises.

Seldom does

it

come

straight
first.

from

the deHvery
it is

room.
a

Usually

it is

washed and dressed

name.

Usually

given

name which is

not the true

His sensuousness, the development of which Giono attributes to his

father's dehcate nurturing,
is

without question one of the cardinal

features

of his

art.

It

invests his characters, his landscapes, his

tips,

whole

narrative.

" Let us refine our finger

our points of contact with

the

world

..."

Giono has done

just this.

The

result

is

that

we

detect in his music the use

of an instrument which has undergone the

In

same ripening process

instrument are one.

as the player.
is

Giono the music and the

If

That
he

his special gift.

he did not become a

to be a

musician because,

as

says,

he thought

it

more important

good

listener,

he has become a writer

who
as if

has raised Hstening to

such an art that

ourselves.

we

follow his melodies

we had

written

them

We

no longer know,
Giono or

in reading his books,

whether

we

are Hstening to

to ourselves.

We are not even aware that

we are Hstening. We Hve through his words and in them, as naturally as if we were respiring at a comfortable altitude or floating on the bosom of the deep or swooping like a hawk with the down-draught of
a canyon.
trial

The
;

actions of his narratives are cushioned in this terres-

effluvium

the machinery never grinds because

lubricants.

it is

perpetually

laved

by cosmic

Giono

gives us

men,
and

beasts

and gods
to descend

in their molecular constituency.*

He

has seen

no need

to the atomic arena.

He

deals in galaxies

constellations, in
as

troupes, herds,

and

flocks, in biological

plasm

weU

as

primal
hills

magma

and plasma. The names of his characters,

as

well as the

and streams which surround them, have the tang, the aroma, the
vigor and the spice of string herbs.
redolent of the Midi.

They

are autochthonous names,

When we
;

pronounce them

we

revive the

memory of

other times

unknowingly we
that Atlantis

inhale a whifl"

of the

African shore.

We suspect

was not so

distant either in

time or space.
* Et bien
niietix qtC

Osseudowski

109


THE BOOKS
It is

IN

MY

LIFE

little

over twenty years

now since Giono's

by
Brcntano's,

Colline, published

in translation as Hill of Destiny,

New York, made die

his intro-

author

known

at

once throughout the reading world. In

le

duction to the American edition, Jacques

explains the purpose of the Prix BrentanOj to Jean Giono.

Clercq, the translator,

first

which was

awarded

For the French public, the Prix Brentano owes its imporTo begin with, it is the first American Foundation to crown a French work and to insure the pubHcation of that work in America. The mere fact that it comes firom abroad Vitranger, cette " arouses contemporaine a lively interest postiriti
tance to various novel features.

was composed of foreigners gave ample assurance that there could, be no propaganie ae chapetle here, no manoeuvres of cliques such as must necessarily attend French prize-awards. Finally the material value of the prize itself proved of good augur.
again, the fact that the jury

Twenty

years since
firom

new books
first

Giono

And just a few months ago I received two Un Roi Sans Divertissement and No^the

two of

a series of twenty.
thirty years old

series

of " Chroniques" he

calls

them.

He was
in his

when

Colline

won

the Prix Brentano.

In the interval he has written a respectable

number of books. And

of twenty, of which

now,

fifties,

he has projected a

series

several

have already been written. Just before the war started he had
his celebrated translation

begun

of Moby Dicky a labor of several

years, in

which he was aided by two capable

with
his as translators
is

are given along

of the book.

women whose names An immense

as

undertaking, since Giono

in the

not fluent in English. But,

he explains

book which followed Pour Saluer Melville Mohy Dick was his constant companion for years during his walks over the hiUs. He had lived with the book and it had become a part of him. It was
inevitable that
public.
I

he should be the one to make

this translation

it

known
it

to the Frcndi

have read parts of

Melville
is

and

seems to

me

an
has

inspired one.

not one of

my
I

favorites.

Mohy Dick

always been a sort of bete noir for me. But in reading the French
version,
that
I

which

prefer to the original,

have come to the conclusion

will

Melville,

some day read the book. After reading Pour which is a poet's interpretation of a poet " a pure

Saluer
in ven-

ue

JBAN GIONO
tion," as

Giono himself says

it is
!

in a letter
**

was

literally beside myself.

How
own

often

the " foreigner

(I

who

teaches us to appreciate our

authors

think immediately of that wonderful study of

a

Walt Whitman by
the subject.
a
I

Frenchman who
Europe.)
a

virtually dedicated his Hfe to

think, too,

of what Baudelaire did to make Poe's name

all

by-word throughout

Over and over ^ain we

is

see

that the understanding

of

language
always

not the same, as the imderversus

standing of language.
tion.

It is

communion

communica-

Even

in translation

some of

us understand Dostoievsky, for

example, better than his Russian contemporaries

better than
I

or, shall I say,

JJ)^

our present Russian contemporaries.

noticed, in reading the Introduction to Hill of Destiny, that the

translator

expressed

apprehension that
readers.

the
It is

book might offend

curious

certain

" squeamish " American

how

askance

French authors are regarded by Anglo-Saxons. Even some of the good CathoHc writers of France are looked upon as " immoral."
It

always reminds

me of my father's anger when he caught me reading

The Wild Ass' Skin. All he needed was to see the name Balzac. That was enough to convince him that the book was " immoral."
(Fortunately he never caught

me

reading Droll Stories

I)

My father,
a line

of course, had never read a

line

of Balzac.

He had hardly read

The one
!

of any English or American author, indeed.

confessed to reading

writer he

c'est inoui,

mais

c'est vrai

was John Ruskin.

I

Ruskin

nearly

fell

off the chair

when he

blurted this out.

did

not

know how
it

to account for such an absurdity, but later

I dis-

covered that

was the minister

him
was

to Christ
his

who was

responsible.

who had (temporarily) converted What astounded me even more

still
.

admission that he had enjoyed reading Ruskin. That

. .

remains inexplicable to me. But of Ruskin another time

In Giono*s books, as in Cendrars* and so
there are always wonderful accounts

many, many French books,

of eating and drinking. Someit is

times

it is

a feast, as in The Joy of Mans Desiring, sometimes

it

simple repast. Whatever

still

be,

it

makes one's mouth water. (There

remains to be written, by an American for Americans, a cookthe recipes gleaned

book based on
literature.)

from

the pages of French

Every dn^aste has observed the prominence given by

directors

French

fdm

to

eating

and drinking.

It

is

a feature

conspicuously absent in American movies.

When we

have such a
111

THE BOOKS
scene
it is

IN

MY

LIFE
participants. In France,
is

seldom real, neither the food nor the

whenever two or more come together there

spiritual

sensual as well as
at

communion. With what longing American youths look

Often
it is

these scenes.

a repast al fresco.
Httle
**

Then

are

we even more
take food for

moved,

for truly

we know

of the joy of eating and drinking

outdoors.

The Frenchman

loves " his food.

We

nourishment or because

we

are unable to dispense with the liabit.

The Frenchman, even

than the American.

if he is a man of the cities, is closer to the soil He does not tamper with or refine away the products of the soil. He relishes the homely meals as much as the creations of the gourmet. He Hkes things fresh, not canned or refrigerated. And almost every Frenchman knows how to cook. I have never met a Frenchman who did not know how to make such a simple thing as an omelette, for example. But I know plenty of Americans who cannot even boil an egg.

Naturally,

with good food goes good conversation, another

element completely lacking in our country.

tion
it is

To have good conversaAh, the wines

!

almost imperative to have good wine with the meal.

cocktails,

not whisky, not cold beer or

subtle,

ale.

Not The
!

variety
-Ki

of them, the

indescribable effects they produce

beautifiil

And

let

me

not forget that with good food goes

women who,
inspire

in addition to stimulating one's appetite,

women know how to

men
!

good

conversation.

How horrible are our

!

banquets for

only

How we
repels

love to castrate, to mutilate ourselves

is

How we

really loathe all that

sensuous and sensual

beUeve most earnestly

is

that

what

Americans more than immoraHty

five senses.

the pleasure
are not a

to be derived

from the enjoyment of the

We

" moral " people by any means.

We

do not need

to read

La Peau
which

by Malaparte to discover what

ric

beasts are

hidden beneath our chivalI

uniforms.

And when

say " uniforms "

mean

the garb

disguises the civihan as well as that

which

are

men

in

uniform through and through.

neither are

we members of
the sign

a great

democrats, communists,

socialists

nor
are

We We are not individuals, collectivity. We are neither anarchists. We are an unruly

disguises the soldier.
is

mob. And
There
There
is

by which we

known

vulgarity.

never vulgarity in even the coarsest pages of Giono.

characters

may be lust, camaUty, sensuality but not vulgarity. His may indulge in sexual intercourse occasionally, they may

JBAN GIONO
even be said to " fornicate/* but in these indulgences there
anything horripilating
soldiers abroad.
as in Malaparte's descriptions
is
is

never

of American
resort to the

Never

a French writer
a

obhged to

mannerisms of Lawrence in

book such

as

Lady Chatterleys Lover.

Lawrence should have known Giono, with

whom

he has

much

in

common, by
to the

the

way.

He

should have travelled up from Vencc

setting

plateau

of Haute-Provence where describing the

:

o(ColUne, Giono says

village lying in death

" an endless waste of blue earth, village after

the lavender tableland,
!

on

handful of men,

how pitifiiUy

few,

how ineffectual And, crouching amid the grasses,

hill,

wallowing in the reeds the

like a bull."

But Lawrence was

in him, as

then already in the grip of death, able nevertheless to give us The

Man Who Died or The

it

Escaped Cock.

Still

enough breath

were, to reject the sickly Christian image of a suffering

Redeemer
content

and restore the image of

man

in flesh and blood, a

man

just to Hve, just to breathe.

pity he could not have

met Giono

in the early days

able to divert
railing
it

of his life. Even the boy Giono would have been him from some of his errors. Lawrence was forever

gainst the French, though he enjoyed Hving in France,

sick,

would seem. He saw only what was

what was
that first

**

decadent,**

in the French.

Wherever he went he saw

soil,

^his

nose was

too keen. Giono so rooted in his native

wanderlust.

Lawrence so
:

filled

with

Both proclaiming the Hfe abundant

hate.

Giono in hymns

of

Hfe,

Lawrence in hymns of
**

Just as

Giono has anchored

himself in his

region,*' so has

he anchored himself in the tradition

of art.

He has not suffered because of these restrictions, self-imposed.

he has flowered. Lawrence jutted out of his world

On the contrary,

and out of the realm of art.

soul, finding peace

nowhere.

resurrection

of man, but

He wandered over the earth Uke a lost He exploited the novel to preach the himself perished miserably. I owe a great
These observations and comparisons are

debt to D. H. Lawrence.

not intended
indications

as

a rejection of the

man, they

are offered merely as

of

his limitations.

Just because I

am

also

an Anglo-

Saxon,

feel free to stress his faults.

I

We have

all

us a terrible need

of France.
luidl I die.

have said

it

over and over again.

I shall

probably do so

Vive

la

France

Vive Jean Giono

"3

THE BOOKS IN MY
It

f B

was jmt

five

months ago
I

that

put aside these pages on Jean

to hold

Giono, knowing that

off until the right
visit

had more to say but determined

came. Yesterday
I

moment

had an unexpected

from

a literary agent

whom I knew

years ago in Paris.

He

is

the sort

of individual

who on

entering a house goes through your

hbrary
at
is

first,

fingering your books and manuscripts, before looking

you.

And when he

does look

at

you he

sees

not you but only what

I

exploitable in you.

After remarking, rather asininely,

I

thought,

that his

one aim was to be of help to writers,

took the cue and

mentioned Giono's name. " There's a man you could do something

true,"
that
I

for, if

what you say

I

is

said flady.

showed him Pour

Saluer Melville.

explained

Viking seemed to have no desire to publish any more of Giono's

books. " And do

I

you know why

" he demanded.

told him what they had written me. " That's not the real reason," he replied, and proceeded to give me what he " knew " to be the real reason.

"

And even
it,

if

what you say

love

is

true," said
I

I,

" though

don't

beheve
It is

there remains this

I
**

book which
it."

want

to see published.

a beautifiil book.
fact," I

" In
that
it

added,

my

love and admiration for Giono

to

is
is

such
said

doesn't matter a
I

damn

me

what he does or what he

provoke me,

to have done.

He
I

looked

at

know my Giono." me quizzically and,

as if to

asserted

" There are several Gionos, you know."

knew what he was implying

all."

but

answered simply

"I love

them
that

That seemed
he was not

to stop

him

in his tracks.
as

was

certain,

moreover,
be.

as familiar

with Giono

he pretended to
that the

What
certain

he wanted to
period was

tell

me, undoubtedly, was

better than the

Giono of a

much

Giono of another. The "

his

better

"

Giono would, of
small talk

course,

have been

Giono. This

is

the sort of

which keeps Hterary

Colline appeared
it

circles in

a perpetual ferment.

When
this

was

as if the

whole world recognized

man Giono.
It

This happened again when

Que majoie demeure came

rate,

out.
this

probably happened a nimibcr of times. At any

whenever

happens, whenever a

book wins immediate

universal acclaim,

114

JBAN GIONO
it is

somehow
perhaps

taken for granted that the

book

is

a true reflection

of

the author.

It is as
it is

though

until that

Or
not.

admitted that the

exists

moment the man did not exist. man existed but the writer did

Yet the writer

even before the man, paradoxically. The

man would
He dreams
In their

never have become what he did unless there was in him

the creative germ.

He

Hves the

life
it

which he
;

will record in words.

it in

his Hfe before

first

he Hves
"

he dreams

order to live

it.

"

successfiil

work some

authors give such a

later this

full

image of themselves

that

no matter what they say

all

image

endures, dominates, and often obHterates

succeeding ones.

The

same thing happens sometimes in our

individual.
itself in

first

encounter vdth another

register

So strongly does the personality of the other

such moments that ever afterwards, no matter

first

how much
is

the person alters, or reveals his other aspects, this

image
is

the

one which endures.

Sometimes

it is

a blessing that
it
is

one

able to

retain this original full

inflicted

image
love.

other times

rank injustice

upon

the one
is

we

That Giono
That, like
all

man of many facets I would not

he has
his

think of denying.

of

us,

good
it

side

and

his

bad

side, I

would

not deny

either.

In Giono's case

happens that with every book he

produces he reveals himself

sentence.

fully.

The

revelation
is

is

given in every

He

is

always himself and he

always giving of himself

This

is

one of the

rare qualities he possesses,

one which distinguishes

him from a host of lesser writers. Moreover, Hke Picasso, I can well " Is it necessary that everything I do prove a imagine him saying
:

masterpiece

"

Of him,

as

of Picasso,

would say

that the " master-

piece " was the creative

act itself

and not a

particular

work which
as

happened to please a large audience and be accepted

the very

body of Christ.
Supposing you have an image of a

man and

then one day, quite

by

accident,

you come upon him

in a strange

mood, fmd him

way you have never beHeved him capable of Do you reject this unacceptable aspect of the man or do you incorporate it in a larger picture of him Once he revealed himself
behaving or speaking in a
?

you completely, you thought. Are you at fault or is he ?

to
I

Now

you

find

him

quite other.

can well imagine a

man for whom writing is

as

a Hfe's task revealing

baffles

so

many

aspects

of himself,

he goes along, that he

and

"5

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

bewilders his readers.

And

the

more

baffled

and bewildered they are

by

the protean character of his being, the less qualified are they, in

my

opinion, to talk of " masterpieces " or of " revelation."

receptive

mind open and

a

would

at least
it is

wait until the

the nature of

last
little

word had
minds to

been written. That

kill

at least.

But

man
is

off before his time, to arrest his development at that point

which
author

most comfortable for one's peace of mind.

himself a problem which
is

Should an

set

not to the Hking or the under-

standing of your little man,

what happens ? Why, the classic avowal " He*s not the writer he used to be " Meaning, always, " he*s not
!

the writer /il?ou/."

As

creative writers go,

will

Giono

is still

a comparatively

young man.

There
critics.

be more ups and downs, from the standpoint of carping

will be dated

He

and re-dated, pigeonholed and re-pigeonre-resurrected

holed,

resurrected and

until

the fmal dead line.

it

And

those

who

enjoy

this

game,

who
make

identify

with the

art

of

interpretation, vdll

of course undergo many changes themselves

diehards will
sport of

in themselves.

The

him The

until the

very

end.

The

tender idealists will be disillusioned time and again, and

will also find their beloved again

and

again.

skeptics will

always be on the fence,

fence.

if

not the old one another one, but on the

Whatever

is

written about a

man Hke Giono

tells

you more about

of the

the critic or interpreter than about Giono.

For, hke the song

critic

world, Giono goes on and on and on. The

perpetually pivots
tells

around

his rooted, granulated self

Like the girouette, he

which

way the wind is blowing but he is not of the v^nnd nor of the airs. He is like an automobile without spark plugs. A simple man who does not boast of his opinions but who is capable of being moved, a simple man who is devoted, loving and
loyal
is

far better able to tell

critics.

you about

a writer like

Giono than the

man whose heart is moved, the man whose withers can still be wrung. Such men are with the writer when he orders his creation. They do not desert the writer when he moves in
learned

Trust the

ways beyond
instructive.

their understanding.

Becoming

is

their silence

and

Like the very wise, they

know how
I

to hold themselves

in abeyance.

" Each day," says Miguel de ii6

Unamuno, "

beUeve

less

and

less

in

JEAN GIONO
the social question, and in the poHtical question, and in the
question,

moral

and in

all

the other questions that people have invented in

order that they shall not have to face resolutely the only real question
that exists

the human question.

that

So long

as v^e are

not facing

this

question,

all

we

are

now doing is

simply making a noise so that

we

shall

not hear
is

it."

Giono

one of the writers of our time

It

who

faces this

human

question squarely.
has found himself.

accounts for

much of the
on
is

disrepute in

which he

Those

who

are active

the periphery regard

him
that

as

a renegade.

refuse to take

him
that

not playing the game. Some seriously because he is " only a poet." Some admit
In their view he
gift for narrative

he has a marvellous
he
is

but no sense of reaHty.

Some beHcve

writing a legend of his region and not the

to beheve that he
is

story of our time.

Some wish us
and more.

only a dreamer.

He
the

is all

these things

He

is

man who
is

never detaches
Particularly

himself from the world, even

when he

dreaming.

world of human beings. In his books he speaks

sister,

as father,

mother,

brother,

son and daughter.

He

does not depict the

human
family
because

family against the background of nature, he makes the

a part

human
it is

of nature. If there

is

suffering

and punishment,

of the operation of divine law through nature. The cosmos which

Giono's figures inhabit
the irrational elements.
fictive characters
is

strictly

ordered. There

is

room

in

it

for

all

It

does not give, break or weaken because the

it

who compose

sometimes

move

in contradiction

of or defiance to the laws which govern our everyday world.

Giono's world possesses a reality far
durable than the one
the nature

more

understandable, far

more

we

accept as world reahty. Tolstoy expressed

last

of

this

other deeper reaHty in his

work

This then

is

everything that
that

would

like to say

would say
obhged

to

you

we

are living in

an age and under

conditions that cannot last and that,

to choose a new path.

not necessary for

come what may, we are And in order to follow it, it is us to invent a new religion nor to discover
Above
order to explain the meaning of all it is useless to turn back

new
life

scientific theories in

or art as a guide.

again to some special activity ; it is necessary to adopt one course alone to free ourselves from the superstitions of false
Christianity and

of state

rule.

Let each one realize that he has

no

right,

nor even the

117

THE BOOKS
f)ossibility,

IN

MT

LIPI
life

to organize the

of others

that

he should
the present

ead his

own

hfe accordijig to the supreme religious law

this,

revealed to him, and as soon as he has done

order will disappear

the

the order that

now

reigns

among

the so-called Christian nations, the order that has caused

whole world to suffer, that conforms so Uttle to the of conscience and that renders humanity more ruler, judge, miserable every day. Whatever you are landlord, worker, or tramp, reflect and have pity on your No matter how clouded your brain has become soul. through power, authority and riches, no matter how maltreated and harassed you are by poverty and humiUation, remember that you possess and manifest, as we all Why do do, a divine spirit which now asks clearly you martyrize younelf and cause suffering to everyone
voice
: *
:

with
is

whom

you come
call

in contact

?
'

Understand, rather,

who you
own
you

really are,

how
what

truly insignificant

and vulnerable

the being

you

you, and which you recognize in your

extent,

shape, and to
is

on

the contrary, the real

immeasurably your spiritual self and having understood this, begin to live each moment to accomplish your
true mission in Hfe revealed to

you by

a universal

wisdom,

the teachings of Christ,

best

and your

own

conscience. Put the

of yourself into increasing the emancipation of your from the illusions of the flesh and into love of your neighbor, which is one and the same thing. As soon as you begin to Hve this way you will experience the joyous feehng of Hberty and well-being. You will be surprised to find that the same exterior objectives which preoccupied you and which were far from reaHzation, will no longer stand in the way of your greatest possible happiness. And ponder I know you are unhappy if you are unhappy upon what I have stated here. It is not merely imagined by me but is the result of the reflections and beUefs of the therefore, most enhghtened human hearts and spirits realize that this is the one and only way to free yourself firom your imhappiness and to discover the greatest possible
spirit

good
say to

that Hfe can offer.

This then
I

is

what

woula

like to

my

brothers, before

die.*

" Notice that Tolstoy speaks of " the greatest possible happiness " and the greatest possible good." I feel certain that these are the

two
*

goals

which Giono wpuld have humanity

attain.

Happiness
this state

Who,
Ii8

since Maeterlinck has dwelt at

the

any length on

of

The Law of Love and

Law

of Y\olencc.


JBAN ION
being
?

Who

talks

nowadays of " the

greatest

good "

To

talk

of

happiness and of the

good is now suspect. They have no

is

place in our

scheme of reaHty. Yes, there

nothing of moment
plished until the

endless talk

of the poHtical question,

is

the social question, the moral question.

is

There

much

agitation,

but

being accomplished. Nothing will be accom-

looked upon
animal.

as a

human being is regarded as a whole, until he is first human being and not a pohtical, social or moral
last

As

pick up Giono's
list

book

Les Ames Fortes

I

to scan once
I

again the complete

visit I

of his published works,

am

reminded of the

made

to his

home

during his absence. Entering the house

was

instantly

aware of the profusion of books and records. The place

spiritual

seemed to be overflowing with

high up near the
ceiling,

provender. In a bookcase,

were the books he had written. Even then,

eleven years ago, an astounding

again,

number

for a

man of his
title
I

age.

look
last
!

now,

at the list as it

is

given opposite the

page of his
still

work, published by Gallimard.

How many
alone
!

have

to read

And how

eloquent are the

titles

Solitude de la Pitii^
d'Etoiles,

Le Poids
Vraies

du Ciel, Naissance de VOdyssie, Le Serpent

Richesses, Fragments d*un

Les

Dduge, Fragments d'un

Paradis, Presentation

dePan

A secret understanding links me to these unknown works.

when
I

Often, at night,
I

go

into the garden for a quiet smoke,

when
I

look up

at

Orion and the other

constellations, all so intimate a part

of Giono's world,
not read, which
I

wonder about
**

the contents of these books

I

have

promise myself

will read in in

peace and serenity, for to

to Giono. I imagine

crowd them

moments of utter " would be an injustice

his garden, stealing

him

also

walking about in

a look at the
for

stars,

meditating on the

work
he

in hand, bracing himself

renewed
it

conflicts

with

editors,

critics
is

and pubHc.
far

In such

moments
Sur there

does not seem to

me

that

away, in a country

called France.
is

He

is

in

Manosque, and between Manosque and Big

space.

an

aflinity

which abolishes time and

He

is

in that

garden where the

spirit

of his mother

still

reigns,

not far from the

manger
around
the

in

which he was
at the
is

bom

and where

his father

who

taught

him so much worked

it
;

bench

as a cobbler.
is

His garden has a wall

diflerences

here there

none. That

one of the
is

between

Old World and

and

the

New. But
is

spirit

my

own. That

no wall between Giono's what draws me to him the openness

there

119

THE BOOKS
of
his spirit.

IN

MY
feels it

LIFE
the

One

moment one
in,

opens his books.

One

timibles in drugged, intoxicated, rapt.

Giono
and

gives us the

world he Hvcs

a world of dream, passion

suffice to describe
it.

reality. It is

French, yes but that

would hardly
yes,

it. It is

of a certain region of France,

but that does not define

other.
If

It is

distinaly Jean Giono's

spirit

world and none

it

you

are a

kindred

you recognize
you

inmiediately,

no matter where you

does not have to be
spirits as

were

bom or raised, what language you speak, what customs you have
follow.

adopted, what tradition

A man

Chinese, nor even a poet, to recognize immediately such

Lao-tse

and

Li Po. In

Giono's

work what every

able to
this

sensitive,

full-blooded individual ought

is

to be

recognize at

once

" the song of the world." For

gives
endless
refrains
far

me
and

song, of which each

is

new book
of
Songs.**

variations,

far

more
Song

precious, far

more
It
is

stirring,

more

poetic,

than

the "

intimate,

personal,

cosmic,

untrammeled
the

and

ceaseless.

It
;

contains
it

the

notes

of the

lark,

nightingale,

the thrush

contains the whir of the planets and the almost

;

inaudible

wheeling of the constellations

it

contains

the sobs,

cries, shrieks

and wails of wounded mortal souls

as

well

as

the laughter

and

ululations

of the blessed

it

contains the seraphic music of the

angehc hosts and the howls of the damned.

In addition to this
taste,

pandemic music Giono gives the whole gamut of color,

and
feel.

smell

tions.

The most inanimate objects yield their mysterious vibraThe philosophy behind this symphonic production has no
its

name
**

function

is

to Hberate, to keep open

all

the sluices of the

soul, to

encourage speculation, adventure and passionate worship.

art,

Be what thou
French ?

only be

it

to the utmost

" That

is

what

it

whispers.
Is this

I20

VI
INFLUENCES
I

HAVE already mentioned

I

that in

the

Appendix

am

listing allf

the books

can

recall ever reading.

this.

There are a number of reasons

enjoy playing games, and
this is
is

why I am
that
I

doing

One

is
:

that

one of the oldest of games

the pursuit game.

list

better reason

have never once seen a

I

of the books read by any of

for example, to

my
all^
\
1

favorite authors.

would give anything,

know

the

titles

of those books which Dostoievsky devoured, or PJmbaud.

is

BuTthere

more important reason

model

still,

and

it is

this

people are

always wondering what were an author's influences, upon what

great writer or writers did he
inspiration,

himself,

who

offered the
I

most

which ones

affected his style most,

and so on.

intend

presendy to give the line of my descent, in

order
as possible.
I

as strictly
I shall

chronological
include a
I

shall

give specific names and

few

men and women (some of them

as

not writen
this

at all)

whom
(for

regard
all

" living books," raeaing

by

that they

had few

me)

the weight, power, prestige, magic and sorcelry

to the authors

which

are attributed

of great books.

shall also include a

I

**

countries

**
;

they

are,

all

of them, countries

have penetrated only through

reading, but they are as alive for

me
...

and have

affected

my

thought

and behavior

as

much

as if

they were books.

list

But
that
I

to

come back
that
If
I I

to the

wish to emphasize the

fact
I

am listing

both good and bad books. With respect tp some

must confess

am
I

unable to say which were good for

offer

me

and

which bad.

were to

my own

criterion

of good and bad

alive

with respect to books,

would say

those which are

augment
or, to
Ufe.

and those

which

are dead.

Certain books not only give a sense of Ufe, sustain

Ufe, but, like certain rare individuals,

Some
it

authors

long dead are

**

less

dead than the Hving,

put

another way,

the

most aHve of the dead."

little.

who wrote them matters

until

When these books were written, They will breathe the flame of life
discuss which

books are no more.

To

books belong in

this

121

THE BOOKS IN MT LIFI

category, to dispute the reasons pro and con, arc
futile,

in

my
is

opinion.

On

this subject

each

man

is

his

own

best judge.

He

right, for himself.

We
is

need not agree

as to the
it is

source of a man's
to

inspiration or the degree

of his vitaHty

enough

know and

to

^recognize
to

that

he
I

inspired, that he

is

thoroughly aHvc.
be endless speculation
as

Despite what

have just

said, there will

which

authors,

which books, influenced

to arrest these speculations. Just as each

me most. I cannot hope man interprets an author's

on

work

in his

own
list,

limited way, so will the readers of this book,

scanning

my
I

draw

their

own

conclusions as to

my

" true "

influences.

mystery.

pleasure to

The subject is fraught with mystery, and I leave it a know, however, that this list will give extraordinary some of my readers, perhaps chiefly to the readers of a
as it is to recall all the
I

century hence. Impossible

I

books one has read,

at least

am

nevertheless reasonably sure that

I

shall

be able to give

half
I

repeat,

do not regard myself as

a great reader.

The few men

to thirty

know who

have read widely, and

whom I have sounded out on the

their repHes.

extent of their reading, startle

me by
doubt

Twenty

thousand books,

perceive,

is

a fair average for a cultured individual

I

of our time. As for myself,

if I

have read more than five

thousand, though

may

well be in error.
list,

When
appalled

look over

my

which never

ceases to

grow,

am

by

the obvious waste of time

entailed.
It is

which the reading of most

all is grist

of these books
for the mill."

often said of writers that "

Like

all

sayings, this

one too must be taken with a

grain of

salt.

writer needs very Uttle to stimulate him.

The

fact

of being a writer means that more than other

cultivating the imagination.
Life itself provides

men he
less

is

given to

abundant material.

Superabundant material. The more one writes the

late.

books stimuthoughts

One

reads to corroborate, that

is,

to enjoy one's

own

expressed in the multifarious ways of others.

In youth one's appetite, both for
is

raw experience and

for books,

uncontrolled.

Where

there

is

excessive
it.

hunger, and not mere

It is

appetite, there

must be

vital reason for

bfatantly obvious

that
it

our present
I

did

way of Ufe docs not offer proper nourishment. If am certain we would read less, work less, strive less. Wc
substitutes,

would not need

existence.

wc would not accept vicarious modes

all

of

This appHcs to

realms

food, sex, travel, religion,

122

INFLUENCES

with one foot in the grave.

We get off to a bad start. We travel the broad highway We have no definite goal or purpose, nor the fireedom of being without goal or purpose. We are, most of us,
adventure.

sleepwalkers,

and

we

die without ever opening our eyes.

If people enjoyed deeply everything they read there

would be

no excuse
lessly,

for talking this

way. But they read

as

they Hve

aim-

haphazardly, feebly and flickeringly.

If they

are already

asleep,
sleep.

then whatever they read only plunges them into a deeper

If they are merely- lethargic, they

become more

lethargic.

If they are idlers, they

become worse
is

idlers.

And

so on.

Only

the

man who
fi:om
it

is

wide awake
is vital.

capable of enjoying a book, of extracting

what

Such a
I

man

enjoys whatever comes into his

experience, and, unless

am

horribly mistaken, makes

no

distinction

between the experiences offered through reading and the manifold

experiences of everyday Ufe.

The man who thoroughly

enjoys

what

he reads or does, or even what he says, or simply what he dreams or

imagines, profits to the
full.

The man who

I

seeks to profit,
It is

through
I

one form of discipline or another, deceives himself

so firmly convinced of this that
for those

because

am

abhor the issuance of lists of books

life.

who

are about to enter

The advantages

to be derived
to

from

this sort

of self-education are even more dubious,

my way

of thinking, than the supposed advantages to be obtained from ordinary methods of education. Most of the books given on such Hsts
cannot begin to be understood and appreciated until one has hved

and thought for himself Sooner or

has to be regurgitated.

later the

whole

kit

and caboodle

And now here are

I

names for you.

Names of those whose

influence

am aware of and which, through

my
let

writings,

have

testified to

again and again.*

To

begin with,

me

say that everything

which

came within
too.

the field of

my

experience influenced me. Those

that
I

who
them
in

do not fmd themselves mentioned should know

include

As

for the dead, they

their seal

knew
I

in advance, doubtless, that they

it is

would put
order.
First

on me.

mention them only because

of

all

come
tales

the books of childhood, those dealing with

legend,

myth,

of imagination,

all

of them saturated with

ox\

\vritings,

* See Appendix for reference to authors and books touched a$ yi^eU 3S tp complete essays on certain ones.

\n

my
J23

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

mystery, heroism, supematuralism, the marvelous and the impossible,

with crime and horror of all

justice

sorts

and

all

degrees, with cruelty, with

and

injustice,

with magic and prophecy, with perversion,

ignorance, despair, doubt and death. These books affected

being

they formed

my

character,

my way

of looking

at Ufe,

my whole my

attitude towards woman, towards society, laws, morals, government. They determined the rhythm of my Ufe. From adolescence on, the

books

read, particularly those

partially.

adored or was enslaved by,

affected the

aflfected

me

only

That

is,

some

man, some the

writer,

some

the naked soul.

This perhaps because

my

being had already

become fragmented. Perhaps too because

There are exceptions, to be
sure,

the substance of adult

reading cannot possibly affect the whole man, his whole being.

but they are

rare.

At any

rate, the

whole province of childhood reading belongs under the sign of

anonymity
Appendix.
did
I
;

those

who

are curious will discover the tides in the

I

read what other children read.

was not a prodigy, nor

make special demands. I took what was given me and I swallowed it. The reader who has followed me thus far has by this time gleaned the nature of my reading. The books read in boyhood I have
also

touched upon already, signalling such names

as

Henty

first

and

foremost,

Dumas, Bider Haggard, Sienkiewicz and

familiar.

others,

most

of them quite
that
I

Nothing unusual about

this period, unless

read too much.

the specific influences
is,

Where

commence
first

is

at the

brink of

man-

hood, that

fiom the time

dreamed

that

too might one

day become " a writer." The names which follow

then
as the

names of authors who influenced

me

as a

may be regarded man and as a

writer, the

on.

From

early

two becoming more and more inseparable as time went manhood on my whole activity revolved about, or
fact that F

was motivated by, the

thought of myself,

first

potentially,

then embryonically, and finally manifesdy,

as a writer.

And

so, if

my memory
Boccaccio,

serves

me

right,

here

is

my

genealogical

line

Petronius,

Rabelais,

Whitman, Emerson, Thoreau,

Plotinus,

MaeterUnck,
'^^'

Romain

Rolland,

HeracHtus,

Nietzsche,

Dostoievsky (and other Russian writers of the Nineteenth Century),

the ancient Greek dramatists, the Elizabethan dramatists (excluding
Shakespeare), Theodore Dreiser,

Knut Hamsun, D. H. Lawrence,

Oswald
Spengler, Marcel

James Joyce, Thomas Mann,

124

Elie Faure,

INFLUBNC ES
Proust,

Van Gogh,
I

the Dadaists

and

Surrealists,

Balzac,

Lewis

Carroll, Nijinsky,

Rimbaud,

Blaise Cendrars, Jean Giono, Celine,

I

everything

read on

Zen Buddhism, everything

read about China,

India, Tibet, Arabia, Africa,

and of course the Bible, the

the
**

men who
version,

wrote
for
it

it

and

especially the

men who made

I

King James
its

was the language of the Bible rather than

I

message

"

which

got

first

and which

will never shake off.

What were
character,
itself,

the subjects

which made

me

seek the authors

love,

which permitted

me

to be influenced,
life
?

which formed
:

my

style,

my
life

my

approach to

Broadly these

the love of

the pursuit of truth,

wisdom and

understanding, mystery,

the

power of language,

the antiquity and the glory

of man,

eternality,

the purpose of existence, the oneness the brotherhood

love, the
life's

of everything,

self-liberation,

of man, the meaning of love, the

sex,

relation

of sex to
all

enjoyment of

humor,

oddities

and

eccentricities in

aspects, travel, adventure, discovery,

art,

prophecy, magic (white

and black),

games, confessions, revelations, mysticism, more

particularly the mystics themselves, the varieties

of faith and worship,

for
**

the marvelous in

all

realms and under

all aspects,

there

is

only

the marvelous and nothing but the marvelous."

Have
still

I left

out some items

Fill

them

in yourself

was, and

am,

interested in everything.

Even

in politics

^when regarded
from
the

from " the perspective of the bird." But the struggle of the human
being to emancipate himself, that
prison of his
is is is,

to Uberate himself

own

making, that

is

for

me

the supreme subject. That

why
why,
Hfe.
is

I fail,

perhaps, to be completely " the writer." Perhaps that

in

my works, I have given so much space to sheer experience

critics

of

Perhaps too, though the

so often

fail

to perceive

it,

that

why I am
figures,

powerfully drawn to the

life

who
sorts.

have experienced

to the full

men of wisdom, the men and who give life artists,

religious

pathfmders, innovators and

iconoclasts

of

all

And perhapswhy

not say

it

that

is

why

have so

little

respect for literature, so

little

little

regard for the accredited authors, so

appreciation of the transitory revolutionaries. For

me

the only

true revolutionaries are the inspirers

Lao-tse,

and

activators, figures like Jesus,

murtihfe.

Gautama the Buddha, Akhnaton, Ramakrishna, KrishnaThe yardstick I employ is life how men stand in relation to Not whether they succeeded in overthrowing a government, a
:

125

THE BOOKS

IN

MY

LIFE

social order, a religious

form, a moral code, a system of cducaticMi,

an economic tyranny. Rather,

how
;

did they affect

is

life itself?

For,

what

distinguishes the
their authority

men

have in mind

that they did not

impose

on man

on

the contrary, they sought

life,

to destroy authority.
to

Their aim and purpose was to open up

make man hungry for Hfe, to exalt life and to refer all questions back to life. They exhorted man to realize that he had all freedom
in himself, that

he was not to concern himself with the

is
is

fate of

the

world (which

not his problem) but to solve

a question

his

own individual
else.
I

problem, which

of

liberation,

nothing

And now
said that there

for " the

Hving books

"...

Several times

have

were men and

women who came into my experience,

I

at various times,

whom I regard as " Hving books."

in this fashion.
I shall

have explained

why
I

refer to

them

be even more expHcit

as

now. They
at a
as

stay

with me, these individuals,

at will, as I

do the good books.

can open them up

would

a book.

page of their being, so to speak, they talk to

they did

when

met them

in the flesh.

When I glance me as eloquently The books they left me

It

are their Hves, their thoughts, their deeds.

was the fusion of

these Hves singular
I

thought, being and act which

made each of
are, then,

and inspiring to me.

Here they
:

and
Mills,

doubt

that I

have

forgotten a single one

Benjamin Fay

Emma

Goldman,

W.

E.

Burghardt Dubois, Hubert Harrison, Elizabeth Gurley

Flynn,

Jim Larkin, John Cowper Powys, Lou

Jacobs,

Blaise

Cendrars.

curious assemblage indeed.

All but one are, or were,

known
it

figures.

There are

others,

of course,
Hfe,
I

played an important r6le in

for

my

who without knowing who helped to open the

I shall

book of hfe

me. But the names

I

have cited are the ones

indebted
to.

always revere, the ones

feel forever

126

VII
LIVING BOOKS
Lou Jacobs,
book
I

that

one unknown figure,

or

can

recall at will

merely

by saying Asmodeus,

The Devil on Two

Sticks,

Curious that a

never read should be the magic touchstone.

shelf, in his Httle flat.
it

The book
I

was always there on the

it

Several times

picked
forty

up, scanned a page or two, then put

down. For almost

which

years

now I have kept in

to
it,

the back of
shelf,

my head this unread Asmodeus.

Bias,
I

Next
cither.

on

the

same

was Gil

never read

Why do I feel compelled to talk of this unknown man

among
was
other things, he taught

Because,
It

me

to laugh at misfortune.

was

during a period of dire

woe that I made his acquaintance. Everything

black, black, black.

No egress. No hope of egress.

serving a
first
life

was more
of the

a prisoner than a

man

sentence in the penitentiary.*

Living then with

my

mistress, the imoffidal janitor

flat

three-storey house in

which we shared a

with a young

man
star

dying of tuberculosis and a trolley conductor

boarder, strictly surveilled

who was

our

by the

ogress

who owned
talent

the house,
I

without fimds, without work, with no knowledge of what

to

wanted
lines

do or could do, convinced

a pencil

that I

had no

with

were

sufficient to

corroborate the

twelve suspiciontrying
remone
the slave
lost,

to save the Ufe

of the young man,

who was my

mistress' son, hiding

away from
of

fiiends

and

parents, eating

my

heart out with

first

for having surrendered the girl I loved

sex, the girouette
I

(my

love

!),

who

veered with the sHghtest breeze,

utterly lost,

discovered one day

on

the floor

below

this

man

Lou

Jacobs,

who

forthwith became

my

Guide,

my

Comforter,

my

Bright Green Wind.

No

matter what the hour, what the

* " And a night comes when all is over, when so many jaws have closed upon us that we no longer have the strength to stand, and our meat hangs upon our bodies as though it had been masticated by every mouth. A mght comes when man weeps and woman is emptied." (From Btibti of Montparnasse by Charles-Louis Philippe.)
127

"

THE BOOKS IN MY LIPI

occasion,

no matter

if

Death were knocking

at the
*'

door,

Lou Jacobs
your
ills

could laugh and

!

make me laugh with him.

For

all

laughter
I

had then only a furtive acquaintance with Rabelais,

serves

if

my
am

memory
certain.

me

right.
all

But Lou Jacobs was

brought joy
as

his intimate, I
as

He knew
sorrow.

who
"

well

those

who had

known

Whenever he

passed Shakespeare's statue in the

park he doffed his hat.

Why
that

not

" he

would
the

say.

He
?

could

redte the lamentations of Job and give

breath.
("

me

remedy

in the next

What

is

man,

thou

art
?

mindful of him

and the

son of man, that thou

visitest

him

")
at
all.

He
once

always appeared to be doing nothing, nothing

The

door was ever open to any and every one.

instanter.

Conversation began a

Usually he was half-crocked, a state beyond which

His

he never appeared to progress, or degenerate, if you prefer.

skin was like parchment, the face seamed with fine wrinkles, the

abundant head of hair always

eyes.
a

oily,

tousled,

and
I

falling

over
if

his

He might

have been a centenarian, though

doubt

he was

day over

sixty.

His "job " was that of certified public accountant, for which he

was well
of chess,
time
as

paid.
if

He seemed
it,

to have

no ambition of any
as

sort.

A game
the

you wished

was to him

good a way of passing

any other

pursuit.

(He played the most unorthodox, the

most

erratic, eccentric, briUiant

game

imaginable.)
jovial, full

He

slept

little,

was always thoroughly

raillery,

alive

and awake,

of banter and

outwardly mocking but inwardly reverencing, inwardly

adoring and worshipping.

Books
had read

Never

title I

mentioned but he had read the book.

left

And he was

honest.

The

impression he

with

me was

that

he

everything

worth reading.

In talking he always

came

back to Shakespeare and the Bible.

Frank Harris,

In this he reminded

me

of

who

also talked incessantly

Jesus.

of Shakespeare and the

Bible, or rather

of Shakespeare and
in the least

Without being
this

aware of
It

it,

was receiving from

indirect

man my
it

first real

schooling.

was the

method of
" was, and
it

education.

As with the
" was not

ancients, his technique consisted in indicatthis,

ing that "

not

that.

Whatever

**

it

of course
28

it

was the

all,

he taught

mc

never to approach

head

LIVING BOOKS
on, never to

name or

define.
first

The

oblique
last.

method of art

Hnt
never

and

last things.

But no

and no
:

Always firom the center

line,

outward. Always the

spiral

motion

never the straight

sharp angles, never the impasse or cul-de-sac.

Yes,

Lou Jacobs

possessed a

wisdom I am only

begitming to acquire.
as

He had He had

the faculty

of looking upon everything

an open book.
;

ceased reading to discover the secrets of

life

he read for

sheer enjoyment.
entire being,
**

The

essence

of

all

he read had permeated his

his

had become one with

total experience
all

of

Hfe.

There are not more than a dozen basic themes in

Uterature,"

he once said to me. But then he quickly added that each

his

man had
express

own

story to

tell,

and that

it

was unique.
Certainly

suspected that he,

too,

had once endeavored to

write.

no one could

himself better or
that
is

more

clearly.

His wisdom, however, was the sort

it.

not concerned with the imparting of

Though he knew

how
he.

to hold his tongue,

no man enjoyed conversation more than

Moreover, he had a

way of never

closing a subject.

He was
dangle

content to skirmish and reconnoiter, to throw out

clues, to give hints, to suggest rather

feelers, to

than to inform.

Whether
him,

one wished
I

it

or not, he compelled his Hstener to think for himself

can't recall ever once receiving advice or instruction fi:om

yet everything which issued

from

his

mouth
a

constituted advice
it
!

and instruction ...

if

one knew

how

to take

In Maeterlinck's works,

particularly

book such

as

Wisdom

and Destinyt there are inspiring references to great figures of the

past (in Ufe

and in Uterature)

who

weathered adversity with noble

I fear.

equanimity.

Such books are no longer in favor,

We

do

not turn for comfort, consolation or renewed courage to authors

like

Maeterlinck any longer.

is

Nor
is,

to

Emerson, with

whom

his

name
days.

often linked.
!

Their
truth

spiritual

pabulum
of eternal

is

suspect

nowa-

Dommage

The

we

really

have no great authors to

verities.

turn to these days

if

we

are in search

We have

surrendered to the flux.

Our
is

hopes, feeble and flickering, seem to

be completely centered on poUtical solutions.

Men

are turning
**

away from books, which

tuals."

to say,
if

from

writers, fi:om

intellec-

An
!

excellent sign

only they were turning firom books

fear

to Ufe
fear

But

are they

Never was the

fear

of life so rampant. The

of Ufe has replaced the

of death. Life and death have come

129

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

to

mean

the

same

thing.

Yet never did Ufe hold more promise

than now. Never before in the history of man was the issue so clear

the
Butt

issue

between creation and

!

annihilation.

Yes,

by

all

means

throw away your books

Life itself was never

Especially if they obscure the issue.

.it

more an open book than

this present

moment.

cm

you read the Book of Life ?

{**
**

What
I

are

you doing

there

on

the floor

"
t

am

teaching the alphabet to the

ants.**)

It's

a strange thing,

the only gay, youthful spirits

but outrageously noticeable latterly, that among us are the " old dogs.** They

continue blithely with their

dire forebodings poison the
cipally,

work of
I

creation

no matter what

air.

think of certain painters prin-

men who
many
them

already have an

immense body of work behind

them.

Perhaps their vision of things was never

books.

dimmed by

the

reading of

Perhaps their very choice of profession

safeguarded
universe.

against a bleak, sterile,

morbid view of the

Their signs and symbols are of another order from the

writer's or thinker*s.

They

deal in forms

and images, and images

I feel

have a

way of

remaining fresh and vivid.

that the painter

looks at the world

I

more

directly.

At any

rate, these veterans

whom
filled

have in mind, these gay old dogs, have a youthful gaze. Whereas
;

our young in years see with a^dim, blurred vision

they are

with fear and

fright.

The thought which haunts them day and

night iswill this world be snuffed out before

we have had
tell

chance to enjoy
chat

it

And

there

is

no one who

dares to

them

even

if the

world were snuffed out tomorrow, or the day

really

after, it
is

would not
or

mattersince the Hfe they crave

tell

to enjoy

imperishable.
this planet,

Nor
its

does any one

them

that the destruction

of

preservation and everlasting glory, hinges

on

their

own

thoughts, their

own
is

deeds.

The

individual has

now
is

become
sec

identified, involuntarily,

with

society.

Few

are able to

any longer

that society'
?

made up of

individuals.
?

Who

an

individual any longer

if it
is

What is an individual
sum or

And what is society,

no longer
it
i

the

aggregate of the individuals which

constitute
I

remember, more than

thirty years

ago

it

was, reading Carlyle's

Heroes and Hero Worship

on ray way

to

and firom work each day.

130

LIVING BOOKS
It

was

in the elevated train that

read him.

enunciated
the page
I

moved me
I

so profoundly that

One day a thought he when I looked up from

all

had. difficulty recognizing the

too famiHar figures

surrounding me.
thing he had said

^what

was in another world

it

was

but completely. Someno longer rememberhad shaken

I

me
that
I

to the roots

of my being. Then and there

had the conviction

my

fate,

or destiny,

would be

different
!

from those about me.

circle

suddenly saw myself Hfted

outejected
feeling

from the

which
soon

imprisoned me.

momentary

of pride and

exaltation,

of vanity too no doubt, accompanied

vanished, soon gave
resolution,

this revelation,

but

it

way

to a state of quiet acceptance and deep

awakening

at the

same time

a stronger sense

of com-

munion, a much more human bond between myself and my neighbor.

Carlyle
is

another writer of
fustian,"

whom

not

much

is

said

nowadays.

"

Too much

no doubt.
are

Too

fuHginous.

Besides,

we no
it is

longer worship heroes, or, if

to distinguish those

we do make

use of the

word,

who

on

a level with ourselves.

Lindbergh,

for example,

was a tremendous hero

for

a day.

We

have no

permanent pantheon in which our heroes

and reverenced.

may

be placed, adored

Our pantheon

is

the daily rag,

which

is

erected

and destroyed from day to day.

One of the reasons why so few of us ever act, instead of reacting, because we are continually stifling our deepest impulses. I can illustrate this thought by choosing, for example, the way in which
is

most of us
thought,
is

read.

If

it is

book which
it.

excites

and stimulates us to

we

race through
;

We
we

cannot wait to

know what

it

leading to

we want

to grasp, to possess, the hidden message.

Time and

again, in such books,

stumble on a phrase, a passage,

sometimes a whole chapter, so stimulating and provocative that

we

scarcely understand

what we

are reading, so charged

is

our

mind with thoughts and

associations

of our own.

How

seldom do

we

interrupt the reading in order to surrender ourselves to the

luxury of our

own

thoughts

No, wc

stifle

and suppress our

thoughts, pretending that

we

will return to

them when we have

fmished the book.

We
be,

never do, of course.

How much

better

and wiser
if

it

would
few

we

proceeded

at a

how much more instructive and enriching, snail's pace What matter if it took a year,
!

instead of a

days, to fmish the

book

131

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

" But
"
I

haven't time to read books that

I

way

**
!

it

will be objected.

have other things to do.

have duties and

responsibilities."

Precisely.

words

are intended.

Whoever speaks thus is the very one for whom these Whoever fears to neglect his duties by reading
his

leisurely

and thoughtfully, by cultivating

own

thoughts, will

neglect his duties anyway, and for worse reasons.

Perhaps

it

was

intended that you lose your job, your wife, your home.
reading of a

If the

book can
meaning
had

stir

you
you.

so deeply as to

make you

forget

your

responsibilities,

then those responsibilities could not have

for

had much
sibihties.

Then you had higher respon-

If you

trusted

your

own

inner promptings

you would

have followed through to firmer ground, to vantage ground.

But you were

there
!

afraid a voice
this

might whisper
!

'*
:

Turn here

Knock

Enter by

door

"

You were

afraid

of being deserted

and abandoned.
fields

You

thought of security instead of

new

life,

new

of adventure and exploration.

is

This

merely an example of what

may

happen, or not happen,

in reading a book.

Extend

it

to the multitudinous opportunities

it is

which
reads a
to a

life

constantly offers and

easy to see

why men

fail

not

only to become heroes but even plain individuals.

The way one

book

is

the

way one

reads hfe. Maeterlinck,

whom I referred
men and
no death

moment

ago, writes as profoundly and engagingly about

insects, flowers, stars,

even space
is

itself,

as

he does about

women.
anywhere.
years.

For him the world

a continuous, interactive, interbarriers.

changing whole. There are no walls or

There

is

A moment of time is as rich and complete as ten thousand

!

Truly, a luxurious kind of thinking

let

But
off

me

get back to

my

" bright green wind

there

"...

got

on Maeterlinck and Carlyle because

Jacobs' character
I

was something in

Lou

which reminded

me
a

of both these men.

Perhaps

detected beneath his gaiety and bright insouciance a hint

tragic.

of the sombre and the

He was

man,

must

say,

whom

no one knew much about, who appeared

and

to have

no

intimates,

who

never talked about himself

When
home

he

left his office at

four in the afternoon

his feet

no one on God's
before he arrived

earth could predict

for dinner

where

would

lead

him
a

Usually

he stopped off at a bar or two, where he might have regaled himself

by conversing with
133

jockey, a prizefighter, or a broken-down

LIVING BOOKS
pimp.

He was

certainly

more

in his element with such people

dian with the more respectable members of society.

Sometimes

he would wander

down

to the fish market

and

lose himself in

contemplation of the creatures of the deep, not forgetting however

to bring

home an

assortment of oysters, clams, shrimps, eels or

whatever

else pleased his fancy.

Or he might wander

into a secondas to talk to

hand bookshop, not so much

to find a rare old

book

some old crony of a bookdealer,

experiences he

for he loved the talk

of books
firesh

even more than books themselves. But no matter with what

was charged, when you encountered him was

in the evening

after

dinner he was always free, ready to take any stance, and open to

any suggestion.

It

always saw him.

Usually,

when
upon
to be

entered, I found

him

sitting at the

window, gazing down

never

the passing show.

As with Whitman, everything seemed

interest to

to be of equal
ill,

and absorbing

him.

knew him
have
lost
it.

never saw

him

in a

bad mood.

He might just

his last cent,

I

but never would anyone have suspected

chess.

spoke of the

intimidate
I

way he played me more than he. To

player.

Never did an opponent

was not
as

be

sure, I

then, nor
as

am

now,

good

Probably not even

good

Napoleon.

When, for instance, Marcel Duchamp once invited me to play a game with him, I forgot everything I knew about the game because of my imholy respect for his knowledge of it. With Lou Jacobs
it

was wone.

could never arrive

at

any conclusions about

his
his

knowledge of the game.

utter nonchalance.

"

What Would you

defeated
like

me
He

with him was

me
** i

to give

you a queen or

two rooks or
in
it

a knight

and two bishops

his

never uttered these

words but they were implied by

any old
fashion, as
that
;

manner.

He would open

though out of contempt for

my abiHty, though
No, he did
it

was never

he had contempt for no one.

probably merely to enjoy himself, to see what Hberties he could

take, to see

how

far

he could stretch a point.

It

seemed to make

no

diflference to

him whether he were winning

well
as the briUiant ones.

or losing the

game

he played with the ease and assurance of a wizard, enjoying the

false

moves

as

Besides,

what could

it

possibly

mean

to a

man Uke him

i

to lose a
it
!

game of

chess, or ten

games, or a hundred
to be saying.
**

"

I'll

be playing

in paradise," he

seemed

Come

on,

let's

have fun

Make

a bold move, a

133

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

rash

move
I

"

Of
I

course the
suspected

cautious

grew.

more rashly he played the more him of being a genius. And was he

not a genius to thus bewilder and confuse

me

The way he played chess was the way he played the game of hfe. Only the " old dogs " can do it. Lao-tse was one of these gay old dogs. Sometimes, when the image of Lao-tse seated on the
back of a water buffalo crosses

my

mind,

when
his,

think of that

wisdom so Lou Jacobs sitting before me at the chessboard. Ready to play the game anyway you liked. Ready to rejoice over his ignorance or to beam with pleasure at his own tomfoolery. Never mahdous, never petty, never envious, never
steady, patient, kindly, penetrating grin
fluid

of

that

and benevolent,

think of

jealous.

great comforter, yet remote as the

dog

star.

Always

bowing himself out of

closer

the picture, yet the farther he retreated the

he was to you.

All those sayings

from Shakespeare or from

the Bible with

tive

which he sprinkled

his talk,

were they than the weightiest sermon

how much more He never Hfted

a point
;

instruc-

a finger

for emphasis, never raised his voice to

make

everything

of moment was expressed by the laughing wrinkles which cracked

his

parched face

when he

spoke.

The sound of
It

his laughter

only

the " ancient ones " could reproduce.

came from on
by

high, as if

tuned in to our earthly vibrations.

It

was the laughter of the gods,

its

the laughter which heals, which, sustained

own unimpeded

wisdom of hfe,
morahty,
Let
all

splinters

and

shatters all learning, all seriousness, all

pretense and

artifice.

me

leave

him

there,

his face

cracked with wrinkles, his

hell.

laughter echoing through the chandeUers of

Let

me

think of

him
his

as

he stood bowing

me

out of an evening, a nightcap in his

glass, his

hand, the ice faintly dnlding in the

eyes bright as beads,

mustache moist

with whisky,

his breath divinely perfimied

with garhc, om'on, leek and alcohol.

He was

not of

this

time nor

of any time
fool,

that

know. He was the

the
great

perfect misfit, the contented

the

artfiil

teacher,

comforter,

the

mysteriously
all
!

anonymous one.
together.

And he was
!

not any one of these alone but

Hail, bright spirit

What

book of

life

you were

And now
figure.

to speak of another " Hving book," this one a

knoum
rich,

This

man

is

still

alive,

thank the Lord, and Uving a

134

LIVING BOOKS
peaceful
or, as
It

life

in a

comer of Wales.
after

mean John Cnwpcr Powys,

" Prester John."
disappeared out of
lecturer.
I

he dubs himself in

his Autobiography,*

was only a few years

I

Lou Jacobs

my

Ufc that
after

encountered

this

famous author and

met him

one of his
York.

lectures at the

Labour Temple, on Second Avenue

in

New

A
letter

few months ago, having discovered

of homage.
least.

his

whereabouts through
a long-deferred

a fiiend, I acted

upon an impulse and wrote him

It
I

was a

letter I

should have written twenty

years ago at

had

done

so.

For, to get a letter

Ufe.
I

would have been a much richer man today from " Prester John " is something
attended frequently,

of an event in one's
devoured hungrily,
courage
a
I

This man, whose lectures

I

whose books
It

met

just once in the flesh.

took

all

the

then possessed to go up to

him

after the lecture

and say
with

few words of

appreciation, to shake his

I

hand and then

flee

tail

between my legs.

had an unholy veneration for the man. Every

word he
I

uttered seemed to

go

straight to the

mark. All the authors

was then passionate about were the authors he was writing and

lecturing about.

He was

like

an oracle to me.

Now

that I
it is

have found him again,

as if I

now

that

hear from

him
*'

regularly,

had recovered

my

youth.

He

is

still

the

master " to me. His words, even today, have the power of bewitching me.

At

this

very

moment
I

am

deep in

his Autobiography, a

most nourishing, stimulating book of 652 close-packed pages.

It is

the sort of biography

revel in, being utterly frank, truthftil,

trivia

sincere,

and containing a superabundant wealth of

!)

(most

illuminating
one's
life.

as

well as the major events, or turning points, in

the persons

" If

all

who

wrote autobiographies would

dare to put
their
all

down

the things that in their Hfe have caused

it

them

most intense misery,

would be
of public

much

greater

boon than

these

testy justifications

actions," says

the author.

Like Celine,

Powys

has the faculty of telling of his misfortunes

with humor.

Like Celine, he can speak of himself in the most

call

derogatory terms,
a degenerate,

himself a fool, a clown, a weakling, a coward,

**

even a

sub-human"

being, without in the least

1934.

* Published by Johii Lane,

The Bodley Head, London,

135

THE BOOKS IN MT LIFE

HiminkKing
not so
It is

his Stature.

His book

is full

of life-wisdom, revealed
There arc two

much through

big incidents as Uttle ones.

in his sixtieth year that the

book
I
is

is

written.

passages, out

of many, many, that

should like to quote, which

particularly precious to

reveal something of the

man
Yes,

that

me.
It is

Here
thing

is

one

"

What

is it

that

we
;

all lose as

we

get older

something in

life itself

it is

in Ufe,
I

but
it is

it is

much

deeper

^no

not exactly deeper

mean
as
*

of a more precious
as

substance

than
my

what we think of

Hfe

'

we grow
early

older.
I

Now I am
retained to

inclined to think that to a quite unusual extent

sixtieth year the attitude
I

have
;

of

my

boyhood
on

and such being the case

am tempted to hold
if the
less
:

the

view

that the

more
this

obstinately I exploit this childishness and take

childishness

my

stand

the wiser

human

my

mature Hfe will

be."
in

The other runs as follows " My whole life can be divided two halves the first up to the time I was forty and the second
;

after

the time

was

forty.

During the

first

half I struggled desperately

to evoke and to arrange

in

my

feelings according to

what
I

admired

my

favorite

books

but during the second half

struggled to

find out

what

my real feelings were and to refine upon them and to

no
one's

balance thcij^ and to harmonize them, according to

method

but

my ow^."
to get back to the

But
It

man

know^firom

the lecture platform.

was John Cowper Powys, descendant of the poet Cowper, son of

his veins

an English clergyman, with Welsh blood in

and the

fire

and magic which

invests all the Gaelic spirits,

who

first

enlightened

me
his

about the horrors and sublimities connected with the House of

I

Atreus.

remember most

vividly the

way he wrapped

himself in

gown,

closed his eyes and covered

them with one hand, before

of eloquence which
left

launching into one of those inspired

flights

me diz2y and speechless. At the time I thought his

sensational, the expression perhaps

pose and gestures

of an over-dramatic temperament.
this

(He

is,

of course, an aaor, John Cowper Powys, but not on

he himself points out.
oftener
I listened

stage, as

He

is

rather a kind

of Spenglerian

aaor.)

The

to him, however, the

more

read his

workS^ the
I

less critical I

became. Leaving the

hall after his lectures,

often

felt as if he

had put a spell upon me.

A wondrous spell it was,

Emma Goldman

too. For, aside firom the celebrated experience with

136

LIVING BOOKS
in San Diego,
it

was

my first intimate experience, my first real contact,

of those few
say,

with the Hving

spirit

rare beings

who

visit this earth.

Powys, needless to
raved about.
I

had his own select luminaries whom he use the word " raved " advisedly. I had never before

heard any one rave in public, particularly about authors, thinkers,

philosophers.

Emma

Goldman, equally

inspired

on

the platform,

and often Sibylline in utterance, gave nevertheless the impression of

radiating

from an
fire

intellectual center.

Warm

and emotional though

she was, the

she gave off was an electrical one.

Powys fulminated
which
cradle the

with the
soul.

fire

and smoke of the

soul, or the depths

Literature

was

for

him

like

manna from

above.

He

pierced

the veil time and again. For nourishment he gave us wounds, and

the scars have never healed.

Fatidical, if I

remember
mention
it

rightly,

was one of his

favorite adjectives.
it

Why I should
significance for

now

don*t

know,

unless

was charged

with mysterious sunken associations which once had tremendous

me. At any

rate, his

blood was saturated with

feats

racial

myths and legends, with memories of magical

exploits.
Jeffers,

and superhuman

His hawk-like features, reminiscent of our

gave

own Robinson me the impression of confronting a being whose ancestry

more
obscure,

was

different than ours, older,

more pagan, much

he seemed preis

more pagan than our

eminently
at

historical forbears.

To me

home

in the Mediterranean world, that

the pre-

Mediterranean world of Atlantis. In short, he was " in the tradition." Lawrence would have said of him that he was an " aristocrat of the
spirit."

That

is

why, probably, he
I

stands out in

my memory

as

one

of the few men of culture

" democratic "

have
in

known who

could also be called

democratic
interest to

Whitman's

sense

of the word.
a superlative
vital

What he had
tions

in

conmion with
him.

us inferior beings

was

regard for the rights and privileges of the individual. All

ques-

broad yet passionate curiosity which enabled him to wrest from '* dead " epochs and " dead " letters the universal human qualities which the scholar
It

were of

was

this

and pedant
porary,
spirit to
I

lose sight

of To

sit

at the feet

of a Hving man, a contem-

whose thoughts,

feelings

and emanations were kindred in

those of the glorious figures of the past was a great privilege.

this

could visualize

representative

of ours discoursing ably and

familiarly with such spirits as Pythagoras, Socrates, or Abdlard

137

THEBOOKSINMYLIFB
I

could never thus visualize John Dewey, for example, or Bertrand

I

Russell.

could appreciate and respect the

I

intricacies

of this mind,

something

am incapable of when it comes to Whitehead or Ouspensky. My own limitotions, undoubtedly. But, there are men who convince me in a few brief moments of their roundedness
know no
better

word

to describe that quality

all

which

beHeve
in us.

embraces, sums up, and epitomizes

that

is

truly

human

John Cowper Powys was

the cosmos itself
sense

rounded individual.
it
**
*'

He illumined whatwhich nourish

ever he touched, always relating

to the central fires

He was

an

interpreter

(or poet) in the highest

of the word.

There are other more gifted

perhaps,

men of
this

our time, more

brilliant

more profound,

possibly, but neither their proportions

nor
in

their aspirations

conform with

thoroughly
his being.

human world
glancing
at,

which Powys

takes his stance

and has
I
is

On the closing page

there

of the Autobiography, which

stands this paragraph

could not

resist

which

so revelatory of the inner, essential

is

Powys
the

"

The astronomical world

not

all

there

is.

We

are in

touch with other dimensions, other

levels

of Hfe.

And from among

up one
nor

powers that spring from these

all

other levels there rises

it

Power,

the
is

more

terrible because

refuses to practice cruelty, a

Fascist,

Power

that

neither CapitaUst, nor

Communist, nor
at all,

Democratic, nor Nazi, a Power not of this world

inspiring the individual soul with the

but capable of

wisdom of the

serpent and the

harmlessness of the dove."

It is

not

at all surprising to

me

to discover that in the declining

years
as

of his Hfe Powys has found time to give us a book on Rabelais

as a

weU

book on Dostoievsky, two

poles
spirit

of the human

spirit.

It is

an unusual interpreter of the

human

who

can weigh and

it is

balance

two such

diverse beings. In the

whole realm of Hterature

difficult for

me

to think

of two greater extremes than Rabelais and

I still
;

Dostoievsky, both of

whom

worship.
reveal
I

No

writers could be

more mature than

eternal

these
spirit.

two

none

more eloquently

the
this

youth of the
I

Curious that

should think of it at

moment, but
terious

doubt that Rimbaud, the very symbol of youth, ever

is

heard of his contemporary, Dostoievsky. This

one of the mysCentury

and anomalous

features

of the

modem age which boasts of its

It is

extended means of communication.

138

in the Nineteenth

LIVING BOOKS
particularly, this century so rich in

demonic, prophetic and extremely

individualistic figures, that

we

are often astounded to learn that

other's existence.

one

great figure did not

know of the

Let the reader

confirm

this fact for himself. It is

undeniable and of vast significance.

Rabelais, a

man of the

Renaissance,

knew
all

his contemporaries.

The

men of

the Middle Ages, despite

imagined inconveniences,

communicated with one another and paid attendance upon one another.

The world of

learning then

formed a huge web, the filaments of

which were durable and

electric.

Our

writers, the

men who

should

be expressing and shaping world trends, give the impression of

being incommunicado. Their significance, their influence, at any
is

rate,

virtually nil.

The men of intellect,

the writers, the

artists

of today,

are stranded

on

a reef which each successive breaker threatens to

pound

into annihilation.
to that breed

John Cowper Powys belongs

extinguished.

of man which

is

never

He

belongs to the chosen few, who, despite the

in the

cataclysms

which rock the world, always find themselves

established

Ark.

The covenant which he

with

his

fellowmen

constitutes the warrant

and guaranty of
this secret

his survival.
!

How

few

there are

who

have discovered

The

secret, shall I say,

of incorporating oneself in the living spirit of the universe. I have referred to him as " a Uving book." What is that but to say he is all
flame,
all spirit
?

The book which comes aUve

spirit as

is

the

book which

has

been penetrated through and through by the devouring heart. Until

it is

kindled

by a
is

flamingly alive as the one which gave

it

birth a

book

dead to

us.

Words

divested of their magic are but

dead hieroglyphs. Lives devoid of quest, enthusiasm, of give and

and barren as dead letters. To encounter a man whom we can call a living book is to arrive at the very fount of creation. He makes us witoess of the consuming fire which rages
take, are as meaningless

throughout the universe entire and which gives not warmth alone

nor enlightenment, but enduring

courage.

vision,

enduring strength, enduring

139

VIII
THE DAYS OF MY LIFE
I

HAVE

just received

from

my

friend

Lawrence Powell the two

I

volumes of Rider Haggard's autobiography,* a work

awaiting with the greatest impatience.
I

have been

no more than unwrapped

the volumes, hurriedly scanned the table of contents,

when

I sat

down with

feverish expectancy to read Chapter

Ten

on

King

Solomons Mines and She.

During the few weeks which have elapsed

since reading She

my
I

thoughts have never ceased to revolve about the genesis of this

" romance."

Now

that I

have the author's

own words
:

before

me

am

hterally astounded.

Here

is

what he

says

remember
its

that

when I sat down

to the task

my ideas as

development were of the vaguest. The only clear notion that I had in my head was that of an immortal woman inspired by an immortal love. All the rest shaped
to
itself

my

round this figure. And it came it came poor aching hand could set it down.

faster

tnan

This is virtually all he has to say about the conception of this remarkable work. " The whole romance," he states, ** was completed
in a Httle over six weeks.

Moreover,

it

was never

rewritten, that
it

and the

manuscript carries but few corrections.

at white heat,

The

fact

is

was written
contain a

almost without rest, and that is the best way to compose."

I

But perhaps

should add the following, which

may

surprise for the lovers

of this extraordinary

tale

Well do
office
it

I recall

taking the completed manuscript to the

*

Mr. A. P. Watt, and throwing There is what I shall be on the table with the remark remembered by.' Well do I recall also visiting Mr. Watt at his office, which was then at 2 Paternoster Square, and finding him out. As the business was urgent, and I did
literary agent,
:

of my

* The Days of My Life, Longmans, Green & Co.,

An

Autobiography, by Sir H. Rider Haggard

Ltd.,

London, 1926.

140


"the days op my lipb
not wish to have to return, I sat down at his table, asked for some fookcap, and in the hour or two that I had to wait wrote the scene of the destruction of She in the Fire of Life. This, however, was of course a little while it may have been a few days ^before I deUvered the

manuscript.
It

was twenty years

later,

Haggard points out

" the time that

had always meant to elapse"

The Return
of She,
title,

that
**
:

the sequel called Ayesha, or

was

written.
is

As

for the

She, so evocative, so utterly unforgettable, here

the origin of it, in his

own words

She, if I

remember

aright,

was

taken from a certain rag doll, so named, which a nurse at

Bradenham

used to bring out of some dark recess in order to terrify those of my

brothers and
sisters

who were

in her charge.**
thrilling, at

Could anything be more disappointing, or more

same time, than
are concerned
I

the

these bald,

meagre

facts

Where imaginative works

If time permits, I intend to

suppose they are

'*

classic.

run

down

the " facts

about other great works of the imagination.

I

Meanwhile, and particularly because

been a revival of
interest in

am

informed that there has

I

Rider Haggard*s works,

think

it

pertinent to quote a letter written to the author

by no

less

a person

than Walter Besant. Here

it is

12,

Gay ton

Crescent,

Hampstead
January
2, 1887.

My

dear Haggard,

While I am under the spell of * Ayesha,* * which I have only just finished, I must write to congratulate you upon a work which most certainly puts you at the head a long way ahead of all contemporary imaginative writers. If fiction is best cultivated in the field of pure invention then you are certainly the furst of modem novelists.

Solomons Mines is left far behind. It is not only the central conception that is so splendid in its audacity, but it is your
logical

and

pitiless

working out of the whole thing

in

its

with astonishment. I do not know what the critics will say about it. Probablv they will not read more than they can help and then will let you off with a few general expressions. If the critic is a woman she will put down this book with the remark
inevitable details that strikes

me

* Meaning She.

141

THB BOOKS IN MY LIFE

it is impossible almost towards the marvellous.

that

all

women

have

this feeling

Whatever else you do, you will have She always behind you for purposes of odious comparison. And whatever critics say the book is bound to be a magnificent success.
Also it will produce a crop of imitators. And all the Httle conventional storytellers will be jogged out of their grooves imtil they find new ones
. .
.

The book was indeed

his publisher testify,

a great success, as the reports

letters

of sales firom
in

not to speak of the

parts

which poured

on
in

the author firom

all

of the world, some of them from well-

known

figures in the literary world.

it

Haggard himself says

that

**

America

was

pirated

by

the hundred thousand."

thirtieth year,

She was written in his

some time between

was

the

beginning of February, 1886, and the i8th of March, that same year.

He

began

it

about a month

after finishing Je55.

:

It

a remarkable

creative period, as the following indicates

It would seem, therefore, that between January, 1885, and March 18, 1886, vsrith my own hand, and unassisted by any secretary, I wrote King Solomons Mines, Allan Quatemiain, Jess and She. Also I followed my own profession, spending many hours of each day studying in chamben, or in Court, where I had some devilling practice, carried on my usual correspondence, and attended to the affairs of a man with a young family and a certain landed

estate.

As I have often
the thousands

bitterly
I

complained about the burden of answering

receive, I think the following observations
interest
**

of letters

by Haggard may not be without

to

all

and sundry "

A Uttle later on the work grew even harder, for to it was

added the

me by
I

may
for
all

toil of an enormous correspondence hurled at every kind of person from all over the earth. If judge by those which remain marked with a letter

seem to have done my best to reply of them, even down to the autograph hunter, a task which must have taken up a good part of every day, and this in addition to all my other work. No wonder that my health began to give out at last, goaded as I was at that period of my life by constant and venomous attacksanswered,*
I

to

these scribes, hundreds

143

"the days of my life"

In The Rosy Crucifixion,

where

dwell at length on

my

relations

with Stanley,

my first firiend,

there are frequent

and usually mocking

of romances. It was nothing less than a good " romance " which Stanley always hoped to write one day.
references to Stanley's love

At

this

point in time

am

better able to understand

I

and appreciate
as

his heart-felt desire.

Then

merely looked upon him

another

Pole
I

full

of romantic nonsense.

don't seem able to recall any discussion with

I

him about BJder

Haggard, though

do remember

that

we

spoke

Marie

Corelli.

Between

the ages of ten and

now and then of eighteen we saw almost

discussion "

nothing of each other, and before that the

**

of books

must have been altogether negUgible.

Balzac

It

was when Stanley discovered

all

The Wild Ass* Skin

writers,

first

of

and

soon

after

other

European

such

as

Pierre

Loti,

Anatole France, Joseph

earnest.

Conrad, that
I

we

began to

talk books,

and in

To

be honest,

doubt

if I

then imderstood clearly what

Stanley

meant by
all

"romances."
that
this
is

To me
I

the

word was

associated

with claptrap, with

*'

unreal.

never suspected the part that

reaUty " played in

realm of pure imagination.

is

There

most

interesting

dream,
It

a recurrent one,

which Rider

Haggard

describes at

some

length.

ends thus

a:^I scci.

myself, younger than I am now, wearing of white garments and bending over the desk at work, with papers spread before me. At the sight a kind of terror seizes me lest this fair place should be but a
.
.

some

sort

scented purgatory where, in

payment
I

for

my

sins,

am

doomed
*

to

write fiction for ever

' e

and a day

At what do I work who, shining steadily, stands

*

You
'

world

of the guide, and shows me all. write the history of a world* (or was it othe I am not sure), is the answer
ask, alarmed,
at

my side

A world
is,

or the world, what difference does

hints in
liis

it

make

The

point

as

WiUiani James
**

Introduction to Fechner's Life After

Death, that

God

has a history."
this

The imagination makes of

divine.

all

worlds one, and in

role, for

world of ReaHty man plays the

of his

central

here

man and God are one and all is

which
I

When Haggard

voices the

hope

that in another life the subject

to be not fiction but history ("

love "),

toil may prove when he adds that

143

THEBOOKSINMYLIFB
" in (and
all

the worlds above us there

must be much history

is

to record

much good work to

is

do)," he

saying,

feel,

that the proper

subject for a writer

the endless story of creation.

the history of

The

history of

man
is

is

bound up with
I

God, and the history of God

**

the revelation of the eternal mystery of creation.

"I think

am

right," says
first-class
life

Haggard,

in saying that

no one has
example,

ever written a really

romance dwelling

solely, for

upon

the utterly alien

of another world or planet with which

human

beings cannot possibly have any touch."

not,
it is

True or

nevertheless indisputable that certain authors

as to

have made such use of the imagination

our world, seem incredible. Perhaps

make

the reaUties of this,

visit distant

it is

not necessary to

worlds in order to grasp the

understand
its

essentia] truths

of the universe, or to

to great hterature,

order and fimctioning. Books which do not belong books which do not command " the grand style,"
life.

often bring us closer to the mystery of

fimdamental experience of man,

nature, in quite another

of

his

They treat of the " unalterable " human

classical writers.

way from

that

of the

They

speak of this

common

ftmd which binds us not only to one another

but to God. They speak of man as an integral part of the universe and not as a " sport of creation." They speak of man as though to

him

alone

it

were given to discover the Creator. They link man's

destiny with the destiny

of all creation ; they do not make him a victim of fate or an " object of redemption." In glorifying man they
glorify the
as I

whole universe. They may not speak in the grand manner,

said.

have just

They are

less

interested in language than in subject

more interested in ideas than in the thoughts which clothe them. As a consequence, they often appear to be poor writers, they lend themselves to ridicule and caricature. Nothing is easier to make
matter,

sport of than the yearning for the sublime.

Often, be

it

noted, this
is

yearning

is

masked or concealed

often the author himself

states in veiled fashion.
i

not

aware of what he seeks or what he

the

What is the subject matter of these oft despised books Briefly, web of life and death the pursuit of identity through the
;

drama of

identification
;

the terrors of initiation

;

the lure of

indescribable visions

the road to acceptance

the redemption of
;

the creature world and the transformation of Nature

loss

the final

of memory, in God. Into the texture of such books

is

woven

all

144

"THB days op my IIPB

thac
is

symbolic and everlastingnot

;

stars

and planets but the deeps

between them

not other worlds and their possibly fantastic in-

habitants but the ladders that reach to

them

not laws and principles

hierarchies

but ever unfolding

constitute them.

circles

of creation and the

which

As

to the

drama which informs

society,

with the individual versus

these works, it has nothing to do nothing to do with the " conquest

conflict

of bread," nor has

it

even ultimately to do with the

do with freedom.
I

between

good and

evil.

It has to

For not a line could have

if

been written by the

men
is

have in mind
it.

man had

ever

known

freedom or even what

meant by

Here truth and freedom are

one which may be

synonymous.

In these works the

drama begins only when man

said

voluntarily opens his eyes. This act, the sole

to have heroic significance, displaces
cal substance.
all

the sound and fury of historiat last able to

Outward bound, man

is

look inward

with grace and certitude.

plane,

No

longer looking at Ufe from the world

:

man

ceases to

be the victim of chance or circumstance

he

"

"to follow his vision, to become one with the imagination. From this moment on he begins to travel all previous voyages
elects
;

were but circumnavigation.

The names of these precious books ? I will answer you in the words of Gurdjieff
pensky
given by OusUfe,

" If you understood everything you have read in your

already
is

as

you would

know what you

are looking for

now."*
It

This statement

one to be pondered over again and again.

reveals the true connection

between books and

at

life.

It tells

one how

to read. a

It

proves

to me,

any

rate

something

have reiterated
is

number of times,
As

to wit, that the reading

that that
is

of books

for the joy

of corroboration, and
books.

the final discovery

we make

about

for true reading

a procedure which never endsthat

:

can be done with anything

hoof, the eyes of a child
the

a blade

of

grass, a flower, a horse's

when

smitten v^th

wonder or

ecstasy,

mien of a

real warrior, the

form of

a pyramid, or the serene

composure graven on the

faculty
is

statue

of every Buddha. If the questioning

is

not dead, if the sense of wonder

not atrophied, if there

be

real

hunger and not mere appetite or craving, one cannot help

Inc.,

* In Search of the Miraculous, by P. D. Ouspensky ; Harcourt, Brace New York, 1949. Routledge & Co., Ltd., London.

& Co.,
145

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

but read
as

he runs. The \^^ole universe must then become an open

book.
This joyous reading of life or books does not imply the abatement

of the

critical faculty.

On

the contrary.

To make

full

surrender to

author or Author impHes the exaltation of the critical faculty. In railing against the use of the word " constructive " in connection

with Hterary critidsm, Powys writes thus

How, in the name of the that word * constructive mystery of genius, can criticism be anything else than an an idolatry, a worship, a metamorphosis, a love affair !*
*
!

Ever and again the moving finger points to the inmost

warning but in love.

self,
is
it.

not in

The handwriting on

the wall

neither

mysterious nor menacing to the one

fall

who
and

can interpret

Walls
last

away, and with them our

fears

reluctances.
in.

But the

wall to give

way is

the wall

which hems the ego

at
all.

Who reads not

with the eyes of the Self reads not

The

walls, deciphers all scripts, transforms all

inner eye pierces all " messages." It is not a

It

reading or appraising eye, but an informing eye.

light

does not receive

from without,
is

it

sheds Ught.

light and joy.

for

Through Hght
it is
:

and joy

the

world opened up, revealed

what

inefifable

beauty, imending creation.

Visions

and Reuisions, by John

Cowpcr Powys

G. Arnold Shaw,

New
146

York, 191 5.

IX
KRISHNAMURTI
Someone
men."
If

has said that

we

could

have " a biography

the world has never known her greatest know their Hves and works we might indeed of God on eardi."
**

Beside the inspired writings, of which there

creations

is

an abundance, the

of the poets seem

pale.

First

come
is

the gods, then the

heroes

(who

incarnate the myth), then the seers

and prophets, and

then the poets. The concern of the poet

to restore the splendor

and magnificence of the ever reviving

past.

The poet

senses almost

beyond endurance the enormous deprivation which afflicts mankind. For him " the magic of words " convey something which is totally
lost to the

ordinary individual. Ever a prisoner of the realm from

is

which he

springs, his province

one which the ordinary

man

never

explores and
lity

from which he seems debarred by birth. The immorta-

which is reserved for the poet is the vindication of his unswerving

allegiance to the Source

from which he

derives his inspiration.

In the midst of the Listen to Pico della Mirandola world, the Creator said to Adam, I have placed thee, so thou couldst look aroimd so much easier, and see all that is in it. I created thee as a being neither celestial nor earthly, neither mortal nor immortal alone, so that thou shouldst be thy own free moulder and overcomer ; thou canst degenerate to animal, and through thyself be reborn to godlike existence .
: . .

Is this

not the essence and purpose of

human

existence in a nut-

shell

In the midst of the world the Creator placed

sad, learned
dreck.

man.

The
is

" anthropocentric " viewpoint, say our

men. Looking
Ufe
a

round and about them they

tale told

see

nothing but

To them

by an

idiot, signifying

nothing. Indeed, if we follow their

thought to the end, the very substance of our mother, the Earth,
is

nothingness.

Stripping the cosmos of

spirit,

they have finally

succeeded in demolishing the very ground on which they take their

M7

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

Stand
:

solid matter.

They speak
spirit, its

to us through a void
**

of hypothesis

and conjecture. Never will they understand that

generalized

the

world

is

form of the

symboHc
tale

picture."*

Though they
wrinkled and
;

speak as if " every rock has a

written
is

on

its

weathered face,"
their

they refuse to read what

written

they impose

own feeble stories of creation upon myths and legends embedded

and reaHty. They reckon in Hght
caste,

in truth

years,

with the signs and

symbols of their priesdy

but they are alarmed

when

it

is

asserted that a superior order

of men, superior orders of civilisation,

flourished as recent as
is

one hundred thousand years ago. Where man

concerned, the ancients have accorded

him

a greater antiquity, a
Httle faith

greater inteUigence

and understanding, than our men of

whose vanity
All this
those

is

bolstered

by

pretentious learning.

by way of saying

that the

books

most enjoy reading arc

which put
Nothing
for

me

in rapport

with the incredible nature of man's

being.

attributed to the

power and glory of man

is

too

much

me
I

to swallow.
it

Nothing which concerns the story of our

is is

earth and the marvels

holds

too preposterous for me.

called " history
I

The more

disgusted

grow with what

" the more exalted

my

opinion of

man
In

becomes. If

individual

artists,

in whatever field, I

am passionate about the Hves of am still more passionate about

man as a whole.
I

my brief experience as reader of the written word

have been given to

if these
is

Even

assist at marvels which surpass all understanding. were but the " imaginings " of inspired writers, their

reaUty

in

no way impugned.

We are this day on the threshold of a

in the past,
it

world in which nothing

fruition.

men dare to think or beUeve is impossible of

were.)

(Men have thought the same in certain moments

but only as in a dream, firom the deeps or the unconscious, as

We are being told every day, for example, that the prosaic, practical
minds which
direct the affairs

of certain departments of our governto perfect the

ment

are seriously

working

means of reaching the

fifty years.

moonand

even planets more distant

!

within the next

?

What Hes behind these plans and projects Are we " thinking of defending the planet is another matter. Or are we Earth or of attacking the inhabitants of other planets
(A very modest estimate
)
**

thinking of abandoning
* Novalis.

this

abode in which there seems to be no

148

KRISHNAMURTI
solution to our
ills i

Be

assured,
is

whatever the reason, however

daring our plans, the motive

not a lofty one.

is,

This effort to conquer space

heretofore " impossible dreams "
to explode.

however, only one of

many

which our men of science promise

The

readers

of the daily newspaper or of the popular

science magazines can discourse eloquently

on

these subjects,

though

they themselves

know

next to nothing of the elements of science

which he
plans

at the root

of these once wild and incredible

of Nicolas Flamcl
discovery of
this

theories,

and

projects.

Woven
Abraham

into the Hfe

is

the story of the

the Jew.

The
it

book and

the effort

Book of made

to penetrate the secret

highest order. "
[Flamel]

contained

is

a tale of earthly adventure of the

says

At

the

same time,"
to

Maurice Magre,* " that he

material,

was learning

how

make gold out of any

it

he

acquired the

wisdom of despising
is

in his heart."

As

in

any chapter

on

the

famous alchemists, there

in this

one

also astounding and, if

I

we were
reverse

open-minded, most illuminating statements.

wish to

quote just one paragraph, if for no other reason than to suggest the

of what

insinuated above.

The

passage concerns
;

two
if

eminent alchemists of the Seventeenth Century the reader may, he likes, choose to regard them as " exceptions."
It is probable that they attained the most highly developed state possible to man, that they accompUshed While still Uving they the transmutation of their soul. were members of the spiritual world. They had regenerated their being, performed the task of man. They were twice bom. They devoted themselves to helping their fellowmen ; this they did in the most useful way, which does

not consist in healing the ills of the body or in improving men's physical state. They used a higher method, which in the first instance can be applied only to a small number, but eventually affects all. They helped the noblest minds to reach the goal which they had reached themselves. They sought such men in the towns through which they They had passed, and, generally, during their travels. no school and no regular teaching, because their teaching was on the border of the human and the divine. But they knew that a word sown at a certain time in a certain soul

* Magicians,

Seers and Mystics,

by Maurice Magre

E. P. Dutton

&

Co.

New

York, 1932.

149

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

would bring results a thousand times greater than those which could accrue from the knowledge gained through
books or ordinary
science.
all sorts.

The marvels
practices

speak of are of
;

Sometimes they are

just

thoughts or ideas
;

sometimes they arc extraordinary beUefe or

sometimes they are in the nature of physical quests

feats

sometimes they arc sheer

systems
;

of language

sometimes they are

;

sometimes they are discoveries or inventions

;

sometimes

they are the record of miraculous events

sometimes they arc the

is

embodiments of wisdom, the source of which

times they take the form of Utopias

suspect

sometimes
;

they are accounts of fanaticism, persecution and intolerance

;

some-

sometimes they arc super-

human

feats

of heroism
;

sometimes they are deeds, or things, of

all

unbehevable beauty
monstrous, evil

sometimes they arc chronicles of

have in mind
:

that

is

and perverted.
I
I

To

give an inkling of what

am stringing
Gilles

together

pell-mell a series of touchstones

Joachim of Floris,

de Rais,

Jacob Bochme, the Marquis de Sade, the I-Ching, the PiJace of

Knossos,
the
Albigensians, Jean-Paul

Richter,

the
St.

Holy

Grail,

Heinrich ScUiemann, Joan of Arc, the Count of

Germain, the

Summa

Theologica the great

Uighur Empire, ApoUonius of Tyana,

of
Assisi, the

Madame
Island,

Blavatsky,

St. Francis

legend of Gilgamesh,

Ramakrishna, Timbuctoo, the Pyramids, Zen Buddhism, Easter

the great Cathedrals, Nostradamus, Paracelsus, the
Atlantis

Holy

Bible,

and Mu, Thermopylae, Akhnaton, Cuzco, The

Isolt,

Children's Crusade, Tristan and

Deserta,

Ur, the Inquisition, Arabia

King Solomon, the Black Death, Pythagoras, Santos

Alice in Wonderland, the

Dumont,
gistus,

Naacal Library, Hermes Trismethe

the

White Brotherhood,
a
is

atom bomb, Gautama

the

Buddha.
There
to
all
is

name

have withheld which stands out in contrast

suspect,

that

secrer,
is

confusing, bookish and enslaving

Krishnamurti. Here
a master of reaUty.

man of our time who may be said to be He stands alone. He has renounced more than
one
of,

any

man

can think

except the Christ. Fundamentally he

it is

is

so

simple to understand that

easy to

comprehend the confusion

entailed.

which

his clear, direct

words and deeds have

is

Men

are

reluctant to .iccept
150

what

easy to grasp.

Out of a

perversity deeper

KRISHNAMURTl
than
all
:

Satan's wiles,

man refuses to acknowledge his own God-given

leaders, systems, rituals.

rights

he demands deliverance or salvation by and through an

;

intermediary

he seeks guides, counsellors,

He looks
all,

for solutions

which

are in his
art

own breast. He

puts learning

above wisdom, power above the

of discrimination. But above

he refuses to work for his own liberation, pretending that first " the world " must be Hberated. Yet, as Krishnamurti has pointed
out time and again, the world problem is bound up with the problem

of the individual. Truth

is

ever present. Eternity

is

here and now.

to save
i

And

salvation ?
?

What
soul

is it,
?

man,

that
?

you wish
Lose
it

Your

petty ego
yourself.

Your

Your

identity

and you will find

Do

not worry about

God

God knows how to take care

nor to remember,

of Himself. Cultivate your doubts, embrace every kind of experience,

keep on desiring,

strive neither to forget

but assimilate and integrate what you have experienced.

Roughly,

this is

Krishnamurti's
all

way of

speaking.

It

must be

revoltiug at times to answer

the petty, stupid questions

!

which

people are forever putting to him. Emancipate yourself

he urges.

No

one

else will,
is,

because no one else can.

This voice fiom the

wilderness

of

course, the voice

of a

leader.

But Krishnamurti

has renounced that rdle too.

It

was Carlo Suar^* book on Krishnamurti* which opened

my
I

eyes to this

phenomenon in our
it

midst.

I first is

read

it

in Paris and since

then have reread

several times.

There

hardly another
it

book

have read so
Collective.
I

intently,

marked

so copiously, unless
I

be The Absolute

After years of struggle and search

this

found gold.

do not beUeve
I

do

book has been translated into English, nor know, moreover, what Krishnamurti himself thinks of it. I
is

have never met Krishnamurti, though there

I

no man Uving
he.

whom
own.

would consider

it

a greater privilege to

meet than

His place of

residence, curiously

enough,

is

not so very far from

my

me that if this man stands for anything it is for the right to lead his own life, which is surely not to be at the beck and call of every Tom, Dick and Harry who wishes to make
However,
it

seems to

his acquaintance or obtain

from him

few crumbs of wisdom.

replaced

Editions Adyar, Paris, 1932. This work has now been ; another, entitled Krishnamurti et Vuniti humaine ; Lc Ccrclc du Livre, Paris, 1950.
Krishnatnurti

by

151

THE BOOKS IN MT LIFE

You can never know me," he says somewhere. It know what he represents, what he stands for in being
This book by Carlo Suar^
Krishnamurti*s
is

"

is

enough to
with

and essence.
replete

invaluable.

It

is

own words culled from speeches and writings. Every

development (up to the year the book was

phase of the
published)
is

latter's

set forth

^and lucidly, cogently, trenchantly.

Suarb
to
let

discreetly keeps in the

background.

He

has the

wisdom

Krishnamurti speak for himself.

In pages ii 6 to 119 of Suar^*
the text of

book the

reader

may find for himself

.
. .

which

herewith give the substance

After a long discussion with a

man

in

Bombay,

the latter says to

Krishnamurti

What you

speak of could lead to the creation of

supermen,

men

capable of governing themselves, of establishing

order in themselves,

But what about

on

external

men who would be their own masters absolute. man at the bottom of the ladder, who depends authority, who makes use of all kinds of crutches, who is
the
reahty, not suit

obHged to submit to a moral code which may, in

him

Krishnamurti answers

See what happens in the world.

The

strong, the violent, the powerfiil ones, the

men who
at the

usurp and
are the

wield power over others, are at the top

bottom

weak and

gentle ones,

who

struggle and flounder.

By

contrast
its

think of the tree, whose strength and glory derives from

deep

and hidden roots

in the case

of the most

tree the

top

is

crowned by
In

delicate leaves, tender shoots, the society, at least as

it is

fragile branches.

human
it is

constituted today, the strong and the powerful

are supported

by

the weak. In Nature,

on

the other hand,

the

strong and the powerfixl

persist in

who
of
.

support the weak.

As long

as

you

viewing each problem with a perverted, twisted mind you

aflfain. I

will accept the actual state

look

at the

problem from

another point of view

result
ities
;

Because your convictions are not the

of your own understanding you repeat what is given by author-

you amass

citations,

you

pit

one authority against another, the

have nothing to
is

andent against the new.

To

that I

say.

But

if you

envisage Hfe from a standpoint which

not deformed or mutilated

by

authority, not bolstered

springs

by

others*

knowledge, but from one

which

from your own

sufferings,

culture, your understanding, your love, then

from your thought, your you will understand what

152


KRISBNAMURTI
I

say

**

car la meditation

du coeur

est

rentendement

"...

Per-

sonally,
belief

and

hope you
to

will understand
I

what

say

now, I have no
this attitude

and I belong
life.

no tradition.*
life

have always had

towards

It

being a fact that

varies

from day
if I

to day, not only

let

arc behefs

and

traditions useless to

me, but,

were to

myself

be enchained by them, they would prevent

life
.

me from

understanding
are or

You may

attain Hberation,

no matter where you

means
all,
is

what

the drcmnstances surrounding you, but this

is,

that

you

must have the strength of genius. For genius

to dehver oneself from the circumstances in the abiHty to free oneself to

after

the abiHty

which one
. .

enmeshed,
say

from

the vicious circle

is

You may

meI

have not that kind of strength. That

my

point of view

exactly. In order to discover

in yoUf

your

own

strength, the

power which

is

you must be ready and

willing to
is

kind of experience.

And
is

that

just

come to grips with every what you refuse to do

!

This sort of language

naked, revelatory and inspiring.

It

pierces

the clouds of philosophy

the springs of action.

which confoimd our thought and

restores

It levels

the tottering supentructures of the

Instead of an

verbal gymnasts and clears the ground of rubbish.

obstacle race or a rat trap,
it

makes of daily

life

a joyous pursuit.
said
:

In a conversation with his brother Theo,

Van Gogh once

furniture or

" Christ was so

infinitely great because

no

any other

stupid accessories ever stood in his

way."
in his

One

feels

the

same way

about Krishnamurti. Nothing stands

way. His career, unique in

the history of spiritual leaders, reminds one

epic.

of the famous Gilgamesh

Hailed in his youth as the coming Savior, Krishnamurti

all disciples,

renounced the r6le that was prepared for him, spumed

rejected all mentors

and preceptors.

He

initiated

no new

faith or

dogma, questioned everything,

cultivated

doubt

(especially

in

moments of exaltation),

and,

by dint of heroic struggle and

persever-

ance, freed himself of illusion

and enchantment, of pride, vanity, and

every subtle form of dominion over others.

source of Hfe for sustenance and inspiration.
snares

He went to the very To resist the wiles and

of those

eternal vigilance.

who sought to enslave and exploit him demanded He Uberated his soul, so to say, firom the underit
**

world and the overworld, thus opening to

Is it

the paradise of heroes."

necessary to define this state

mine.

Italics

153

"

THE BOOKS IN MY
There
is

LIFfi

something

about

Krishnamurti's

utterances

which
is

makes the reading of books seem

utterly superfluous.

There

ako another, even more

as

striking, fact

connected with

his utterances,

Suarh

aptly points out, namely, that

"the

clearer his

words

the

understood." " I am going to be vague expressly Krishnamurti once said

less his
is
:

message

could be altogether expUdt, but

is

it is

not

For, once a thing

defined,

it is

dead

my intention to be so. "... No, Krishnamurti

He
throws

does not define, neither docs he answer Yes or No.

the questioner back
in himself.

upon

himself, forces
:

him

to seek the answer

Over and over he repeats ** I do not ask you to believe what I say ... I desire nothing of you, neither your good opinion, your agreement, nor that you follow me. I ask you not to believe
but to understand what
I

say."

Collaborate with

life !

that

is

what

he
he

is

constantly urging.

Now

and then

it

is

a veritable lashing
asks,

inflicts

upon
?

the self-righteous.
all

What, he

have you
labels,

accomplished with

your

fine words,

your slogans and

'*

your books

How many

individuals have
i

you made happy, not

so on.
It's

in a transitory but in a lasting sense

satisfaction to give oneself titles,

And

a great

names, to

isolate oneself fi:om

!

the

world and think oneself different firom others

is
?

But, if

all

that

you say

true,

have you saved a single fcUow creature from sorrow

and pain

All the protective devices

social,

moral, religious

^which give
may
life.

the illusion of sustaining and aiding the

weak

so that they

be guided and conducted towards a better hfe, are precisely what

prevent the
Instead

weak

firom profiting

by

direct experience

of

of naked and immediate experience,

men

seek to

use of protections and thus are mutilated.

These devices

make become

the instruments of power, of material and spiritual exploitation.

(Suar^*

own One of the

artists

interpretation.)
salient differences

between a

man
is

like

Krishnamurti

and

in general lies in their respective attitudes towards their

roles.

Krishnamurti points out that there

artist

a constant opposition
his ego.

between the creative genius of the

imagines, he says, that
it is

and
is

The

artist

his

ego which

great or sublime.

This

ego wishes to

utilize ot its

own
it

profit

and aggrandizement the

with the
eternal,

moment of
154

inspiration

wherein

was

in touch


KRISHNA MURTI
a

moment,

precisely, in
its

which the ego was

absent, replaced

by

the residue of

own

living experience.
sole guide.

It is

one's intuition, he

maintains,
all artists,

which should be the

As

for poets, musicians,

indeed, they should develop anonymity, should

become
just the

detached from their creations.

contrary

But
their

for

most

artists it is

they

want

to

see

signatures
artist clings

attached

to

their

creations.

In short, as long as the

to individualism,
his creative
is

he will never succeed in rendering his inspiration or

power permanent.
first

The

quality or condition

of genius

but the

phase of deliverance.

am

not a translator

have had

difficulty transcribing
reflections.
as

and

condensing the foregoing observations and

I

Nor am
revealed

attempting to give the whole of Krishnamurti's thought

I

in Carlo Suar^' book.

fact that,

was led to speak of him because of the

in reality,

however soUdly Krishnamurti may be anchored

he has unwittingly created for himself a myth and a legend. People

simply will not recognize that a
forthright

man who has made

himself, simple,

and truthful

is

not concealing something

much more

complex,

much more
is

mysterious.

Pretending that what they

most ardently wish

ties

to extricate themselves

from

the cruel difficulis

in

which they find themselves, what they

difficult,

really adore

to

make everything
is

obscure and capable of realization only

their difficulties are

in a distant fiiture.

That

of

their

the last thing they will admit usually. Reality, if for one
it exists

own making moment

as that

they allow themselves to be persuaded

is

in everyday Ufe
spoken of
say, a soft,

always referred to

as

**

harsh

**

reaHty.

It is

which

stands opposed to divine reality, or,

we might we

hidden paradise.

The hope

that

we may one

day awaken to a
experience

condition of Hfe utterly different from that which

daily

makes men willing victims of every form of tyranny and

suppression.

Man

is

stultified

by hope and

fear.

The myth which

escape

he

lives

from day

to

day

is

the

myth

that

he

may one day

from the prison which he has created

attributes to the machinations

for himself

and which he

of othen. Every true hero has made

reaHty his own.

In liberating himself, the hero explodes the

to past and fiiture.

myth

which binds us

This

is

the very essence

of myth

^that it veils

the
I

wondrous here and now.

discovered on the shelf another

This morning

book on Krish?55

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

namurd which
to
I

had forgotten

that

possessed.
I

It

had been given

me by

a fiiend

on

the eve of a long journey.

it.

had put the book

away without ever opening

This preamble

is

to thank

my friend

for the great service he has rendered

meand
is

to inform the reader

who
(**

does not

know
life

French of another excellent interpretation of

Krishnamurti's

and work.
Hberator
**),

The book

called Krishnamurti

Man

is

his
it

own

by Ludowic R^ault.*

Like the

Suar^ book,

too contains abundant citations from Krishnamurti's

The author, now dead, was a member of "whose tendencies," he states in the preface, " I am far from approving, but to whose grand tenets of Evolution, Reincarnation and Karma I heartily subscribe." And
speeches and writings.
the Theosophical Society,

then there comes

that
I

this

statement

"
I

wish to inform

my

readers

am
I

not for Krishnamurti,

am

with him."

Since

and fecundating, since

know of no Uving man whose thought is more inspiring I know of no living man who is more free
and, because I find

of opinion and prejudice,

that he
is

from penonal experience

constantly being misquoted, misinterpreted, misunderit

stood,

regard

as

important and opportune, even at the risk of

boring the reader, to linger longer on the subject of Krishnamurti.

In Paris,

where I first heard of him, I had a number of.friends who were forever talking about " the Masters." None of them, to my
sect.

knowledge, were members of any group, cult or

just earnest seekers after the truth, as
artists.

They were
all

we

say.

And

they were

The books which they were reading were at that time unfamiliar to me mean the works of Leadbeater, Steiner, Besant, Indeed, hearing them Blavatsky, Mabel Collins and such like.

^I

quote from these sources,

day,
sense
I

often laughed in their faces.

Steiner's

(To

this

must

confess,

Rudolf

language
I

still

excites

my

of

ridicule.)

In the heat of argument

was

now

and then

termed " a spiritual bum." Because I have not the makings of a " follower," these friends, all ardent souls, all consumed by a desire to convert, regarded me as " their meat." In anger, sometimes,
I

would

teD

them never

to

come

near

me

again

unless

they could talk about other things.

But the morrow would find

must say

them at my door, as if nothing had happened. The one quaHty which they had in common,
* Christopher Publishing House, Boston, 1939,

156

KRISHNAMURTI
immediately, was their utter helplessness.

They were out

Here
I

to save
that

me, but they could not save themselves.

later on,

must confess

what they

talked about,

what they quoted from the books,

what they were

me, was not
any means
!

striving

with might and main to make

as I

known

to

as silly

and preposterous

once thought.
**

Not by
from

But what prevented

I

me from

seeing things in the

right light'* was, as

this

say, their peculiar inability to profit

vdsdom they were

I

so eager to impart.
I

was
it

merciless with

them, something

have never regretted.

think
It

may have done

after they

some good
in
**

to remain as adamant as I did.

was only

ceased bothering
all this

me

that

was

truly able to

become

interested

nonsense."

(Should any of them happen to read these

that, despite everything, I

lines

they will

know

am

indebted to

them.)
'*

But the truth remains

that they

were doing exactly what

of no value," says Krishfiill fiill

the Masters " discountenanced.

"

It is

namurti, "

who

is

speaking, the value Hes in the

Naturally, to understand the

significance

of what of what

is is

said."
said, to
I recall
**
:

significance

make
it

it

one's

own, depends
"

entirely

on

the

individual.

an English teacher in school

your

who was

forever

shouting at us

Make
that

own

He was

a vain, pretentious

coxcomb, a
little

real jackass, if
all

ever there was one.

Had he made one

litera-

thing of

he had read and pompously recommended

to us " his
ture
truly
:

own "

he would not have been teaching English

it,

he would have been writing humble, he would,

as teacher,

or assmning that he was

mentor, guide and what not,

have inspired in us a love of Hterature

did not

which he
is

most

certainly

But

to

come back

to " the Masters

"...

In the International Star

Bulletin

of November, 1929, Krishnamurti

quoted thus

**
:

You

are all

immensely

interested in the

Masters, whether they exist or

I

not,

and what

my

view

is

with regard to them.

Uttle

will tell

you

my
the

view.

To me

it is

of very
exist,

importance whether they exist or

whether they do not

because

when you have

to

walk to

camp or

to the station

from

here, there are

people ahead of you,

nearer the station, people

who
"
?

have started
sit

important

to
is

get to the station or to

earlier. What is more down and worship the

man who
In his

ahead of you

book on Krishnamurti, R^hault

points out that Krish-

J57

THE BOOKS

IN

MY

LIFE

namurti's attitude towards, or vision of, the Masters never altered

essentially.

What had changed was

them
familiarity."
**
:

"

his

outlook on those

who

seek the Masters and invoke

in season

and out with a ridiculous

and unseemly

He
all

quotes an earUer statement (1925)

exist, that

of Krishnamurti's

We

beUeve that the Masters

;

they are somewhere, and are concerned about us

is

but

this belief

not living enough, not

is

real

enough, to make us change.

us

The

goal of evolution

to

make

Uke the Masters

I

who

arc the

apotheosis, the perfection

are a reality.

of humanity. As

have

said, the

Masten

For

me

at least

they are one."

The tremendous
attitude towards

consistency between these apparently clashing

is

references to the Masters

life.

typical
shift

of Krishnamurti's ever evolving

fact

His

of emphasis from 'the

is

of the

Masters* existence to the purpose of their existence

tion

a demonstrato icomc

of

his vigilance, alertness

and indefatigable

efforts

to grips with essentials.

do you bother about the Masters The essential you should be free and strong, and you can never be free and strong if you are a pupil of another, if you
?

Why

is

that

free
I

have gurus, mediators, Masters over you. You cannot be and strong if you make me your Master, your guru.
don't
a

want

that

Only

few months

after

making

this

definitive,

unequivocal

statement (April, 1930), badgered again for an answer to the " It is unessenquestion " Do Adepts, Masters exist i " he replies
:

tial

to me.

am

not concerned with

I

it

...

am

not trying to
In evolution

evade the question ...

there
tured.

do not deny
to the

that they exist.

must be a

difference

between the savage and the most culit

But what value has

?
. .
.

man who

is

held in the walls

of a prison

should be foolish to deny the gamut of

call evolution.

experience which
the

is

what you

You

care

more about
are willing

man who

is

ahead of you than about yourself

far

You
it,

to worship

someone

away, not yourself or your neighbor.

I

There

may be

Adepts, Masters,
it

do not deny
as

but

cannot

understand what value

has to
is

few

years later he

an individual." " Do not desire reported as saying

:

you

happiness.

Do

not seek truth.

falsifiers,

Do
is

not seek the ultimate." Except

the eternal

to quibblers
158

and

there

no variance here from

KRISHN AMURTI
issue

which he has marked

out.

"

You

seek truth/* he says again,

are."
incite

"

as if it

were the opposite of what you

If such clear, forthright

will.
**

words do not
"

and awaken, nothing

Man
by

is

his

own

liberator !

Is this
it

not the ultimate teaching

It

has been said again and again, and

great
life,

has been proved again and

again

espoused

world figures. Masters ? Undoubtedly. Men who not principles, laws, dogmas, morals, creeds. " Really

great teachers

do not

lay

down

laws, they

want to

set

man

free."

(ICrishnamurti.)

What
of the

distinguishes Krishnamurti,

even from the great teachers

is

past, the masters

and the exemplars,

his absolute nakedness.

is

The one
being. the
spirit,

r61e

he permits himself to play

frailty

^himself,

human
it is

Clad only in the

of the
flesh.

flesh,

he reHes entirely upon

to

which

is

one with the

illusions

If

he has a mission

strip

men of their

and delusions, to knock away the

false

supports of ideals, beliefe, fetishes, every kind of crutch, and thus

render back to

man

the full majesty, the full potency, of his

humanity.
If any

He

has often been referred to as " the

merits the
is

World

Teacher."

man Uving

title,

he does. But to

me

the important

thing about Krishnamurti

as a teacher,

that

he imposes himself upon us not

nor even

as a

Master, but as a man.

Find out for yourself, he says, what are the possessions and ideals that you do not desire. By knowing what you do not want, by elimination, you will unburden the mind, and only then will it understand the essential which is
ever there.

159

X
THE PLAINS OF ABRAHAM
" When you're
I

ready, Gristvold, fire

"*
!

THINK
I

it

was

in the

book

called

With Dewey
if

at

Manila Bay,
serves

which
right,

spoke of

earlier

and which,

my memory

me
:

appeared about the same time that the Spanish-American

War
think

ended
it

(the

poor Spaniards, they never had a chance

!)

was

right out of
i

Dewey's mouth
this

or could
sprang,

it

have been

Admiral Sampson's

that

command
you

to stay with
but,
!"

me

until I

go

to the grave.

An

idiotic thing to

remember,

like that other

one

" Wait

until

see the whites

of their eyes

^it

remains.

Of course

a great deal

more remains
But
it

(of the reading

of a book) than what the memory

curious

releases.

remains eternally
forgets.

what one person remembers and another

if

The remains ... As

I

wc were

talking

of cadavers
in a whirl

awoke

the other morning,

cflfort

my

mind

still

&om

the

continuous

to recall

titles,

authors,

names of

places, events

and the most seemingly

I

and what do you suppose The Plains of Abraham Yes, my mind was foil of Montcalm and Wolfe fighting it out up there towards the roof of the world. The French and Indian War, I
insignificant data,
i

found myself dwelling on

behcve

we

call it.

Seven long years of fighting.

It

was probably

this battle

on

the Plains of

Abraham, which
of Quebec,
I

my

weak memory
this

places

somewhere

in the vidnity

that decided the fate

of the French in North America.

must have studied

I

bloody
i

war

in detail, in school. In fact, I'm sure

did.

And what

remains

The Plains of Abraham, To be more accurate, more precise, it boils down to a clump of images which could be put in the hollow of
a
shell.

I sec

Montcalm dying
his

or was

it

Wolfe

^in

the open

air,

surrounded by

bodyguard and a

cluster

of Indians with
the

* According to Gregory Mason, author of Remember

Maine, Dewey's

words were l6o

*'
:

You may

fire

when

ready, Gridley."

THE PLAINS OF ABRAHAM

bald knobs from which a few feathers protrude, long feathers,

buried deep in the scalp.

is

Eagles* feathers probably.

Montcalm
country."

as
I

"I

making

a dying speech, one

I

of those

historic

**

last

words," such

regret that

have but one Hfe to give for

his

my

" The
But

no longer remember
tide
is

words but

it

seems to

me

he was saying
?

going against us."

What
of

matter,
history.

anyway

In a

few moments he

will be dead, a thing

And

Canada,
!

except for the Eastern sHver, will be EngUsh

worse luck for us

his shoulder

how

is it

that

visualize a
ill

huge bird perched on

?

Whence

that bird

of

omen

Perhaps

it is

the

same bird which

There

got caught in the netting over the cradle in which lay the infant

James Ensor, the bird which haunted him

at

all his Hfe.

it is,

any

rate, large as Hfe

and dominating the infinitude of backFor some obscure reason the

site
:

ground in
of
this

my

imaginary picture.

famous battleground makes a woeful impression upon

me

the sky seems to press

down on

it

with

all its

impalpable weight.

Not much

space there between land and sky.

The

heads of the

brave warriors seem to brush the cloudless vault of heaven.

battle over, the

The

French will descend the steep face of the promon-

tory

by rope
As
for

ladder.

They

will take to the rapids in canoes, a handful

at a time, the

EngHsh above raking them

mercilessly with grapebirth,

all

shot.
his

Montcalm, being a nobleman by

and a general,
the honors of

remains will be removed from the scene with

war.

Night

falls

rapidly, leaving the helpless Indians to look out

for themselves.

The

British,

now

having a clear

field,

romp

all

over Canada. With stakes and cord the border is marked out. " " have nothing to fear any more our neighbors arc our

We

own

kith and kin

If this battle isn't included in the fifteen decisive batdes

of the

world
I

it

should be. Anyway,

could think of nothing

this

morning
at the

speak of but batdes and

his

battlefields.

There was Teddy,

;

head of

Rough

Riders, storming San Juan Hill

bits

there

was

poor old Morro Casde being pounded to

by our heavy guns,

a rusty old
his rebel forces

and the chain which locked the Spanish

iron chain.

fleet in just

Yes, and there

was Aguinaldo leading

(Igorotes largely) through the

a price

upon

his head.

swamps and jungles of Mindanao, With Admirals Dewey and Sampson goes

Admiral Schley,
L

who

remains in

my memory

as a kindly, sensible

161


THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE
sort

of man, not too bloodthirsty, not too great a

strategist,

but

"just right."

The

opposite extreme from John

man of Ossawatomie and

his

Harper's Ferry,

Brown the Liberator, the man who attributed

grand

fiasco to the fact that

he had been too considerate of

the enemy.
stars
in.

A chivalrous fanatic, John Brown. One of the brightest

whole firmament of our brief
history.
I

the

Our

nearest

of

kin to the incomparable Saladin.

[Saladin

All during the

last

war

thought of Saladin.

What

a gracious prince,

compared to
is it

the " butchers "

on both

sides in this last

?)

forgotten

all

about him

Imagine, if

we have we had two men of the

war
!

How

Brown and Saladin fighting the corruption of the Would we need more John Brown swore that with the right men two hundred would be enough, he said^he could lick the whole United States. He wasn't far firom the mark, either, when he made that boast.
cahbre of John

world

Yes, thinking of the lofty, solenin ground of the Plains'of Abraham,

I

got to thinking of another battleground

Platea.

This
it

last

saw with

my own

eyes.

But

at the

time

forgot that

was

there

the Greeks had put to the

Persians.

sword over three hundred thousand

!

A
it

considerable number, for those times

perfect for " mass slaughter."
level
it

As

recall

the spot,
it,

was

When I came upon

barley,

from Thebes, the

ground was sown with wheat,

resembled a huge

oats.

From

a distance
as in the

game

board.

In the

dead center,

Chinese game of chess, the king was pinned.

over.

Technically the

comme

game was
I

But then followed the slaughter

be without slaughter
afield.
I recalled

d'hahitude.

What would war

Places of slaughter

My

mind roamed

our

own

War Between

the States,

now known
had

as the Civil
;

War.

Some of
heart,

these terrible scenes

of

'/)attle I

visited

'some

knew by

having heard and read about them so often.

Yes, there was Bull

Run, Manassas,
Gettysburg.
in history.

the Batrle of the Wilderness, Shiloh, Missionary

Ridge, Antietam, Appoiiatox Court House,

Pickett's charge
:

and of course

the maddest, most suicidal charge

So one

is

always told.

The Yankees
(as

for their courage.

And

waiting

always) until

cheering the Rebels ** we " came

just a Uttle closer, until they could see the whites

I

of " our "

eyes.

thought of the Charge of the Light Brigade" On rode the six hundred ! " (To the tune of forty-nine verses and everlasting death.)
162


THE PLAINS OF ABRAHAM
I

thought of Verdun, the Germans climbing over their

own

dead

piled
as if

man
on

high and higher. Marching in

full regalia, in strict order,

parade.

The General

Staff not caring

it.

how many men

Another "
tactics.

it

took to capture Verdun, but never capturing

error," as they say so gUbly in

strategic

books on mihtary
!

What

a price

we

have paid for these errors

All history

now. Nothing
Just blunders.

accomplished, nothing gained, nothing learned.

And
out.

wholesale death.

Only

generals

and generaUssimos are perStill,

mitted to

make such horrible " mistakes."

tire

Never

of making new generals, new admirals

say.
I

we keep turning them or new wars.

" Fresh wars,"

If

we

often

wonder what

is

" fresh " about war.

celebrated conjust revive

you wonder sometimes why some of our

fitfiilly,

temporaries are unable to sleep, or sleep

some
dirty
;

of these bloody

battles.

Try

to imagine yourself back in the trenches

;

or clinging to an overturned man-of-war

try to picture the

**

" coming out of their hiding places aflame from head to foot Japs
try to recall the bayonet exercises, first

with stuffed sacks and then

with the

soft resistant flesh

flesh.

of the enemy,
foul

who

is

au fond your
all

brother in the

Think of all the

words in
all,

the tongues

of Babel, and when you have mouthed them

in the thick of
it

ask yourself if

you were

able to

summon

of conveying what you were experiencing.

Red Laugh, The Red Badge of Courage, and in the reading of them derive a certain
despite the horripilating nature
strange, strange things about the written

word capable One can read The Men in War or J'ai Tue^
a single
aesthetic

enjoyment
is

of these books.

This
that

one of the
live
feel

word,

you can

the dread thing in

your mind and not only not go

often healed.
artists as

mad

but

somewhat
Cendrars
I

exhilarated,

Andreyev, Crane, Latzko,

as

these men were

For

well

murderers.

Somehow,
possibly,

can never think of a general

as

an

artist.

(An admiral

but a general never.)

me
. .

a general must have the hide

of

rhinoceros, otherwise he

would be nothing more than an

.

adjutant
officer

or a commissary sergeant.
in the French

Pierre Loti,

was he not an

Navy

Strange that he should pop into

my

head.

But
httle

the

Navy,

as I said, offers

one a thin chance of preserving the

Loti, in the

humanity which

is left us.

image which

is

pre-

served
a bit

from youthful

readings, seems so cultured, so refined

of a gymnast

also, if I

remember

rightly.

How

could he
163


THE BOOKS
possibly kill
t

IN

MY

LIFE

To

be

sure, there wasn't

I

much

guts in his writings.

as

But he

left

one book which

day a

cannot put aside

:

mere romantic

balderdash, though possibly

that just the other

mean Disenchanted. (To think Dominican monk, who came to visit me,
it is

had met in the

flesh the

**

heroine

**

of

this

tender romance

!)

Anyway, with
like the

Pierre Loti goes Claude Farr^re, both relics

now,

Monitor and the Merrimac.

I recall

Thinking of Thermopylae, Marathon, Salamis,

tion in a juvenile

an

illustra-

book

read long ago.

It

was a picture of the

brave Spartans, supposedly on the eve of their

their

(or

last stand, combing They knew they would die to the last man, yet because of this fact) they were combing their hair. The long

long

hair.

strands fell to the waist

and they

were

plaited, I believe.

This,

in

my

childish

mind, gave them an effeminate appearance.

The

impression remains.

On my
or

expedition through the Peloponncsos,

I

with Katsimbalis (the " Colossus ")

that not nesos.

was dumbfounded

to learn

one poet,

artist

scientist

had come out of the Pelopon-

Only

warriors, lawgivers, athletes

and

obedient clods.
is

Thucydides* History of the Peloponnesian

masterpiece.
It is

War

admittedly a
finish,

book

have never been able to

but

esteem

it

nevertheless.

It is

one of those books which should be

read with attention at this

moment
it

in history. to pass,

" Thucydides

is

pointing out what

imless

war

is,

why

comes

what

it

does, and,

men

learn better ways,

must continue

to do."*

Twenty-seven years of war

gained.

and nothing accomplished, nothing

(Except the usual destruction.)

The Athenians and the Spartans fought for one reason only ^because they were powerful, and therefore were compelled (the words are Thucydides* own) to seek more power. They fought not because they were different democratic Athens and oligarchical Sparta but because they were alike. The war had nothing to do with differences in ideas or with considerations of right and wrong. Is democracy right and the rule of the few over the many wrong ? To Thucydides the question would have seemed an evasion of the issue. There was no right power. Power, whoever wielded it, was evil, the corrupter of men. f

* The Great Age of Greek

Literature,

by Edith Hamilton

W. W.

Norton,

New
164

York, 1942.

tTbid.

THE PLAINS OF ABRAHAM

In the Opinion of this author, " Thucydides was the
to see, certainly to put into words, this
to
first

probably

new

doctrine

which was
doctrine,

become

the

avowed

doctrine of the world."

it is

The

namely, that in power poUtics

not only necessary, but right, for

the state to seize every opportunity for self-advantage.

As

for Sparta,

how modem
:

is

the description of this State seen

through Plutarch's eyes

In Sparta, the citizens* way of Ufe was fixed. In general, they had neither the wi\l nor the abiHty to lead a private
life.

They were hke

selfless

community of

bees,

clinging

together around the leader and in an ecstasy of enthusiasm

and

ambition belonging wholly to their country.

ready ^ Griswotd, fire
!

When you

re

Three thousand,

five thousand, ten

thousand years of history

is

and

the readiness and ability to

make war

still

the supreme

annihilating day-to-day fact

of our Uves.

We
as

have not advanced

a step, despite
diatribes

all

the sound, irrefutable, analytical treatises

and

on

the subject.

Almost

as
is

soon

we

are able to read,

It is

the history of our glorious country

put in our hands.

a story

written in bloodshed, telling of

secution, intolerance, theft,

lust,

greed, hatred, envy,

per-

murder and degradation.

As children

we
the
first

thrill

to read

of the massacre of the Indians, the persecution of

Mormons,

the crushing defeat of the rebellious South.

heroes are soldiers, usuaXiy generals, of course.

is

Our To the Northerner,

Robert E.
and wisdom.
for the

Lincoln

almost a Christ-Hke figure.

To

the Southerner,

Lee

is

the

embodiment of

grace,

chivalry, valor

Both men
right.

led their followers to slaughter.

Both fought
is still

The Negro, who was

the cause of the trouble,

a slave

and a pariah. " Everything

we

are taught

is

false," said
as

Rimbaud. As always,

he meant Hterally everything. As soon

into

one begins to look deeply

is

any subject one

realizes

how

very Uttle

known, how

very,

very

much

is

conjecture,

hypothesis,

surmise

and speculation.

Wherever one

penetrates profoundly

one

is

confronted

by

the

triple-headed spectre
it

of

prejudice, supentition, authority.

When

comes

to vital instruction, almost everything that has

been written

for our edification can be junked.

165

THE BOOKS
As we grow

IN
older

MY
we

LIFE
learn

how

to read the myths, fables and

legends which entranced us in childhood.

We

read biography

more and more

itself.

and the philosophy of history rather than history

medium,
all
is

of the imagination and

We care less and less for facts, more and more for pure flights intuitive apprehension of the truth. We
the only true

discover that the poet, whatever his

inventor.

Into this single type are

merged

the heroes

we

at

one time or another worshipped.

real

We

observe that man's only

(all

enemy
by

is

fear,

and

that

all

imaginative acts

heroism) are

inspired

the desire and the unflinching resolve to conquer fear

it

^in

whatever form

manifests itself

The

hero-as-poet epitomizes

the inventor, the pioneer, the pathfinder, the truth seeker.

it is

He
That of

who

slays the

dragon and opens the gates of

paradise.

we

persist in situating this paradise in a

beyond

is

not the

fault

the poet.

majority

The same beUef and worship which inspire the vast are mirrored by an inner absence of faith and reverence.
:

The
for
is

poet-as-hero inhabits reaHty

he seeks to establish

this

reaHty

all

mankind. The purgatorial condition which prevails on earth

;

the caricature of the one and only reaUty

and

it is

because the

poet-hero refuses to acknowledge any but the true reaHty that he

is

always
I

slain,

always

sacrificed.

said a

moment ago
is

that our first heroes are soldiers.

In a large

we mean by " soldier " one who acts on his own authority, one who fights for the good, the beautiful and the true in obedience to the dictates of his own conscience.
sense this
true.

True, if

In

this sense

even the gentle Jesus could be called

figures

**

good

soldier."

So could Socrates and other great

whom we

never think
as

of

as soldiers.

The
this

great pacifists

must then be ranked

mighty

soldiers.

But

conception of the soldier derives from attributes

formerly reserved for the hero.

speaking,
is

The only good

" in
his frailty
this is

soldier, strictly

the hero.

The

rest are tin soldiers.

then

The

incarnation of

man

is the hero " battling against

What

insuperable odds.
lefi;

To

be more exact,

a residual impression

us through the heroic legends.

When we
and

examine the Hves of

that order

of heroes known

as saints

sages,

we

perceive very
is

clearly that the

society, that the

odds are not insuperable, that the enemy

not

gods are not against man, and, what

is

more

important,

we

perceive that the reaUty

which the

latter strive to

i66

THE PLAINS OP ABRAHAM

assert, establish

and maintain

is

not

at all a wishful rcaHty

but one

which

is

ever present, only hidden

by man's

wilful blindness.

we come to adore such a figure as Pichard the Lionwe have already been enthralled and subjugated by the more subHme figure of King Arthur. Before we come to the great Crusader we have had for company, in our rarest moments, the very real, very vivid personages known as Jason, Theseus, Ulysses,
Before

Hearted

Sinbad, Aladdin, and such like.

historical figures

We

are already famiHar

with

such

as the great lions'

Daniel

who

braved the

King David, Joseph in Egypt, den, and with lesser figures such as

Robin Hood, Daniel Boone, Pocahontas.

under the
spell

Or we may have
such
as

fallen

of purely Hterary

creations,

Robinson

Crusoe, GulHver, or AUce

for AHce, too, was in quest of reaUty and

glass.
all

proved her courage poetically by stepping through the looking

Whatever

their

provenance,

these

early spellbinders

were
to

also " spacebinders."

Even some of

the historical figures

space.

seem

possess the faculty

of dominating time and

All were sustained

and

fortified

by miraculous powers which they

faith.

either wrested

from

the gods or developed through the cultivation of native ingenuity,

cunning or
that

The moral underlying most of

he only begins to use
possesses

these stories
his

is

man

is

really free, that

God-given

powers when the beUef that he

them becomes unshakable.

as basic quaHties

Ingenuity and cunning appear again and again

of the
is

intellect.

Perhaps
it

it is

only one

Uttle trick

which the hero

obvious.

given to know, but

more than

suffices for all

he does not know,

is

never will know, never need know.

The meaning

To jump
must
for
act.

clear

of the clockwork

we must employ
**

whatever means
:

are in our possession.

It is not enough to beUeve or to know we And I mean act, not activity. (The acts " of the Apostles, example.) The ordinary man is involved in action, the hero

acts.

An immense

difference.

Yes, long before

we

are filled

with adoration for the incarnations

we have been impregnated with men in whom intellect, heart and soul were welded in triumphant unison. And how can we overlook,
of courage and stout-heartedness
the spirit of

more sublime

types,

in mentioning these truly masculine figures, the regal types

womanhood that were attracted to them Only back in past do we seem to find women who are the equal and
i

this

of dim
167

counter-

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

part

of the great

in spirit.

What

disillusionment awaits us as
I

we

advance into history and biography

Alexander, Caesar, Napoleon

can we compare these conquerors

King Arthur, or Saladin
That
i

with

men

like

King David,
of our

the great

How fortunate we are to taste the supernatural

at the threshold

and the supra-sensual

terrible episode in
is it

institutional Hfe

European

history,

known

as the Children's

Crusade,

not being

enacted over and over

by

those

whom we

bring into the world

i

without thought or concern for their true welfare

Almost from

the start our children abandon us in favor of the true guides, the
true leaders, the true heroes.

They know

instinctively that

we

are
flee

their jailers, their tyrannical masters,

at the earhest
call

from

whom
"

they must

moment
times.

or

else slay us aHve.

them some

Yes, but one might also say

all. For not beHeving " their " falsehoods we are relentlessly and mercilessly punished ; for not accepting " their " vile surrogates we arc

" Httle wizards," " Uttle warriors." " Everything we are taught is false."

" Or, tout court "

Yes, but that
is

Little primitives,"

wc

Httle saints,"

little

martyrs."

not

humiHated, insulted and injured ; for struggling to free ourselves from " their " strangling clutches we are shackled and manacled.

O,
fly,

the tragedies that are enacted daily in every

home

and they

tell

us that only angels have vdngs.

We beg to We beg to offer

!

ourselves
truth, the

on

the altar the

of

truth,

and they
if,

tell

us that Christ

is

the
to

way and

life.

And

accepting

Him, demanding

follow
jeered

Him
at.

Hterally

and to the

bitter end,
is

we

are laughed
us.

and

At every turn

fresh confusion

heaped upon

Wc

know

not where

we
why.

stand nor

why we
is

should act thus instead

of so. For us the question

to ask the reason

why

ever evaded.

Ours to obey, not

We begin in chains

and

Stones for bread, logarithms for answers.

In despair

we end in chains. we turn to

not beseech

books, confide in authors, take refuge in dreams.

Do
aid,
I

not consult me,

miserable parents
!

Do
It

my

forlorn and abandoned youths

suffer

know you

are suffering.

know how you

is

and

why you

suffer.

has been thus since

the beginning of time, or at least since

we know
is

anything about

man. There
paUiation.

no

redress.

Even
his

to be creative

but alleviation and

One must

free himself unaided.

"

children."

Every one bows

head in

silence

To become as little when this utterance

168

THE PLAINS OF ABRAHAM

,'

is

repeated.
last

But no one

truly believes

it.

^d parents will always

predicted

be the

to believe.

The autobiographical novel, which Emerson grow in importance with time, has replaced the
It is

would

great confessions.

not a mixture of truth and

fiction, this
It is

genre of Hterature, but

an expansion and deepening of truth.

veridical, than the diary.
It
is

more

authentic,
facts

more
which

not the flimsy truth of

the authors of these autobiographical novels offer but the truth of

emotion, reflection and understanding, truth digested and assimilated.

The being
That
Portrait
is

revealing himself does so

on

all levels

simultaneously.

why

books

like

Death on

the Installment Plan

and the

of the Artist as a Young

Man

catch us in the very bowels.

The
As

sordid facts of miseducated youth acquire, through the hate,

rage and revolt of

to the disgust

men Hke
which

Celine and Joyce, a

new

significance.
first

these

books inspired when they

appeared,
letters.

we

have the testimony of some very eminent

men of

Their reactions are also significant and revelatory.

they stand as regards truth. are certain that

We

know where
the

Though they
is

speak in

name of Beauty, we
more

Beauty

not their concern.

Rimbaud, who took Beauty upon

is

his knees

and found her ugly,

a far

reHable criterion.
in

Lautr^amont,
times,

who

blasphemed

more than any man

than those

modem

was much

closer to

God

who

shudder and wince

at his blasphemies.

As

for the

great Hars, the

invent and fantasticate,

men whose who

every

word

is

flouted because they

could be more staunch and eloquent

?

advocates of truth than they

Truth

is

stranger than fiction because reaHty precedes

and includes

imagination.

What

constitutes reaHty

is

unlimited and undefinable.

;

Men

of

Httle

imagination

name and
For the
tell

classify
latter,

the great ones are

content to forego this game.

suflSce.

vision and experience

felt,

They do not even

is

try to

what they have seen and

for their province

the ineffable.

The

great visions wliich have

come down

to us in

words

are but the pale, jeweled reflections

of indescribable happenings.

Great events

may
is

be

soul-stirring,

but great visions transfix one. As a saint

sinner struggling with his
as a

that to conscience Augustine

say, as a
is

wretched
;

magnificent

theologian he
is

is

dull,

overwhelmingly duU.

As teacher and
his

lover Ab^lard

magnificent, for in

both realms he was in

169

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

element.
a

He

never became a saint

is

he was content to remain

man. H^loise

the true saint, but the

is

Church has never admitted

which often mistakes the

it.

The Church

human

institution

criminal for the saint and vice versa.

When we come to Montezuma we are in a totally different world.

Again

we

have

lustre

and inner radiance.

imagination,

Again there
and

is

splendor,

magnificence,

beauty,

dignity

true

nobiHty.

Again the awesome bright ambiance of the gods.

is

What
They

a ruffian

Cortez

Cortez and Pizarro

they make our hearts bleed vwth

touches nadir.
stand out
usually

disgust.
as the

In their exploits

man
all

supreme vandak of

time.

Prescott's

monumental work,* which we

is

happen upon

in adolescence,

one of those terrifying and illuminating creations

of doom on our youthful dreams and
aspirations.

which put the

seal

We
only

of

this continent,

we

adolescents

who had
by

been drugged and

hypnotized by the heroic legends of history books (which begin

after

the bloody preface written

the Conquistadores),

we
"

learn with a shock that this glorious continent

was forced open

of youth

with inhuman violence.

is

We

learn that the " fountain

a pretty

symbol masking
is

a hideous story

of lust and greed.

empire of the

The

lust for

gold
rests.

the foundation

on which

this

New

World
mists

Columbus followed

a dream, but not his

men, not

the swashbuckling bandits

(The

who followed after him. Through the of history Columbus now seems Hke a quiet, serene madman. What all unwittingly he set in reverse of Don Quixote.)
calls

motion, what one eminent British writer

" the American

horror," f has the quaUty and content of nightmare.

With every

* The Conquest of Mexico and

t "
It is

Peru.

a very hard thing to escape the American horror ; and quite impossuppose, to explain to those who don't see what it is that the victims of it see. The horror can be very big. But it can also be very small. Most things of this sort can be detected by their smell ; and I think this particular horror is usually found ^like the inside of an American coffin after the embalming process has run its course to smell of a mixture of desolate varnish and unspeakable decomposition. The curious thing about it is It is more that it is a horror that can only be felt by imaginative people. than a mere negation of all that is mellow, lovely, harmonious, peaceful, It is a terrifying positive. organic, satisfying. It is not a negation at all I think at its heart lies a sort of lemur-like violence of gruesome vulgarity. " danse macabre V of frantic self-assertion. It certainly loves to dance a sort of It has something that is antagonistic to the very essence of what the old training to us ten thousand years." (John Cowper have for cultures been Powys in his Autobiography.)
sible, I

170

THE PLAINS OP ABRAHAM

new
boatload came fresh vandals, fresh
assassins.

Vandals and
rape and
the earth

assassins

who were
it,

not content simply to plunder,

pillage,

exterminate the living, but like devils incarnate

itself,

fell

upon
it,

violated

annihilated the gods

who own

protected

destroyed
their

every

last trace

of culture and refinement, never ceasing in

depredations until confronted

by

their
(in

frightening ghosts.
that
is

The

story of Cabeza de

Vaca

North America), and

why
It is

speak of it over and over, breathes the magic of redemption.

a heartbreaking story as well as an inspiring one. This scape-

goat of a Spaniard really expiates the crimes of his predatory predecessors.

Naked, abandoned, hunted, persecuted, enslaved, for-

saken even by the

driven to the

God he had
The

perfunctorily worshipped, he

is

last ditch.

miracle occurs when, ordered

by

his
ills

captors (the Indians) to pray for them, to heal

them of

their

or die, he obeys.

It is

a miracle indeed

which he performs
is

at

the bidding of his captors.

He who was

as

dust

Hfted up, glorified.

The power

to heal

and

restore, to create

peace and harmony, does

not vanish. Cabeza de Vaca moves through the wilderness of what

is

now

Texas

like the risen Christ.

Reviewing

his

life

in Spain,

as

a " European," as a faithful servant of his Majesty the Emperor,

Hfe.

he reahzes the utter emptiness of that

Only

in the wilderness,
face to face

abandoned to a cruel
his

fate,

was he able to come

with
"in

Creator and his fellow creatures.

Augustine found

Him

the vast halls of his

memory."
had taken

De
its

Vaca, like Abraham, found

Him " in the direct conversation."

If only our history

direction at this crucial point

that

If only this Spaniard, in all the

might and the glory

was revealed
!

unto him, had become the forerunner of the American to come

But no,

this inspiring figure,

this true warrior, is

is

almost buried

from

sight.

Ringed
very few.

in light, he

nevertheless absent

from the

chronicles our children are given to read.

A few men have written

of him.

One of these,
historic

for us de Vaca's

own
The

document.

Haniel Long, has interpreted ** It is an Interlinear " of

the

first

order.

true

and

essential narrative has

been exhumed
it

and rendered widi poetic Hcence.

illumination

Like a powerful beacon,

sheds

upon

the bloody confusion, the atrocious nightmare,

this

of our beginnings here in

land of the red Indian.

171

XI
THE STORY OF MY HEART
Some few
with
years before sailing for Paris
I

had occasional meetings

my

old friend Emil Schnellock in Prospect Park, Brooklyn.

Wc used to stroll leisurely over the downs in the summer evenings,

talking

of the fundamental problems of Ufe and eventually about

books.

authors, such as
a

Though our tastes were quite divergent, there were certain Hamsun and D. H. Lawrence, for whom we had common enthusiasm. My friend Emil had a most lovable way
his

of deprecating

knowledge and understanding of books

pre-

tending to be ignorant or obtuse, he

would ply me with

I

questions

which only a sage or

this short

a philosopher could answer.

it

remember
and

period vividly because

was an

exercise in humility

self-control

on

my

part.

The

desire to

be absolutely truthful with

I

my

friend caused

me

to realize

how

very Httle

knew,

how
I

very

Httle I

could reveal, though he has always maintained that

was

a guide

and a mentor to him.

that
I

In brief, the result of these

all

com-

munions was
granted.

began to doubt
I

that

had bHthely taken for

The more
I.

endeavored to explain

my

point of view the

more

floundered.

He may
parting

have thought

acquitted myself well, the inner

but not

Often,

on

from him,

would continue

debate interminably.
I

suspect that
I

was

rather arrogant

and conceited

at this time,

that

had
all

all

the makings of an intellectual snob.

Even

if I did

not

have

the answers, as

we

say, I

must have given the

illusion

of

being thus endowed. Talk came easily to

a glittering

me

could always spin

web.

Emil's sincere, direct questions, always couched

spirit,

in the

most humble

punctured

my

vanity.

There was some-

thing very artful about these innocent questions of his.

clear to

me

but that
read far
a result,

They made knew a lot more than he pretended he sometimes knew much more than I did myself. If he less than I, he read with much greater attention and, as he retained much more than I ever did. I used to think
that

he not only

172

"THE STORY OF MY HEART

his
it

memory
which

astounding, and

it

was indeed,

but, as

discovered

later,-

was the

fruit
I

of patience, love, devotion.

He
is

had, moreover, a

gift

only learned the value of

much

later,

namely, the

abihty to discover in every author that which

valuable and lasting.

By

comparison
I

was

ruthless

and

intolerant.
:

There were certain

authors

absolutely could not

stomach
years,

ruled

them out

as

being
later,

beneath one's attention.

I

Ten

perhaps twenty years

that
I

might confess to

my
by

good

friend

Emil

had found something

surprise

of merit in them, an admission which often took him by

because, influenced

my

dogmatic

assertions,

he had in the mean-

time

come

to suspect that
this

he had overrated these authors.

decalage

There

was always

amusing and sometimes bewildering

where

our opinions of authors were concerned.

There was one author

whom

he recommended to

me

with great

warmth

it

must have been ^ good twenty years ago. Knowing

Httle book he had written, never having made a mental note of it and passed on.
it

nothing about him or the

heard the

name

before, I
at the

For some reason,

impression that
Hearty
it it

time Emil mentioned

to

me,

got the

was

was

called,

The Story of my and the author was English. Richard JefFeries,

to

a " sentimental " narrative.

no

less.

Meant nothing

me.

would read

it

some day

^when

had nothing
It is

better to do.

strange

have touched on
title

this before, I

know

that even

if

one does forget the

and author of a book once recommended

one does not forget the aura which accompanied the recommendation.

Httle

word

or phrase, an extra touch of

warmth or

zeal,

keeps a certain vague remembrance aUve in the back of one's head.

We
we

ought always to be

alert to these

smouldering vibrations.

No
Emil

matter if the person recommending the

book be

a fool or an idiot,

should always be ready to take heed.

a fool

Of course my friend

was neither

nor an

idiot.

He was of an unusually warm nature,

tender, sympathetic

and beHeving. That something " extra " which

this

he had imparted on

occasion never ceased working in me.

Here
been on

let

me

digress a

moment

to speak
It

of something which has

my

mind

frequently of late.

has to
I

do with the

recollec-

tion of a certain " fat boy,"

whose name

hke to think was Louis,

because there
this

is

something about the name Louis which describes

(" Je

type to a

tec.

me nomme

Louis Salavin

")

Now Louis,
173


THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE
I recalled just

the other day,

was the one who

if I

usually presided over

lot at the

our discussions of life and books in the vacant

comer.

He
to

was

a fat boy, as
I

I said,

and

were to search
diclassi.

for the

word

categorize him,
lander.")
I

would choose

(Or,
all

let

us say

" out-

mean

that this Louis, like

his

tribe,

had neither

background nor milieu, neither home,

customs or fixed
habits.

parents, relatives, traditions,

apart,

Detached and
to a

he mingled with the

It

world only in obedience

subHme kind of condescension.

gift.
I

was

natural that he should possess the oracular

can see

this

Louis

of ours

all

over again, perched like a stuffed vulture atop the fence

lot.
It is

which closed off the

bonfire
is

the

month of November and

huge

blazing.

We

have

all

contributed our mite to the feast

chippies,

raw
off.

potatoes, onions, carrots, apples, whatever could be

grabbed
bit

Soon we wiU be standing by

Louis* feet,
is

munching our

and ^warming up for the discussion which

I

certain to ensue.

This particular day

remember

that

we

touched on The Mysteries of

Paris*

It

was a strange world for us

said,

kids, this

world of Eugene Sue

who,

it is

was one of Dostoievsky's

favorite authors.

We were

much more
an
It

at

home

in the imaginary worlds

of the writers of

romance. Louis hstened benignly and directed the discussion with

invisible

wand.

Now and
that

then he put in a cryptic

word

or two.

was
I

as if

Moses spake. Nobody ever questioned Louis*

veracity.

"

have spoken "

was the tone of his "

is

dicta.**

What
remains

precisely Louis said

is

completely

lost

to

me.

All that

the tone

of authority, the

certitude behind his words.

like grace,

There was an additional quaUty, almost

which Louis

conveyed to us in these moments. It was approval or benedic^on, " Continue your meanderings,** he seemed to say. if you Hke.
" Follow out every clue, every gossamer thread.
will know.'* If we

Eventually you

had doubts, he urged us to

cultivate them. If we

passionately, blindly beheved, he also approved.

he seemed to insinuate. Just

alone
;

as

de Sade says

" It's your show," " Your body is yours

you

are the only person in the

world

who

has a right to

take pleasure

from

it

and to permit whoever you will to get pleasure

from
It

it

"f
in.

was the mind Louis was interested

(See the end of this chapter for a note Philosophie dans le boudoir.

Not " our " minds, or any

*
174

on Eugene Sue.)

tLd

"THE STORY OP MY HEART

particular

mind, but Mind.

It

was

as

though Louis were reveaHng

to us the essential nature

of mind. Not thought, but mind. There

was mystery attached to mind.

but mind
. .

.?

So

it

Any one could grapple with thought, mattered not to Louis what the " truth " might
we were
then confronting for the
first

be

as regards the

problems
lives.

time in our young

that
it

Louis was trying to

was

all

a game, so to speak.

make us understand very high game too. His

for us
all

repUes, or observations, cryptic

though they were, had

the

import of revelation. They gave an importance hitherto unknown

to the questioner rather than the question.

Who

is

it

that asks ?

Whence comes

this question ?

Why

by

Divine or die such was the terrible dilemma proposed the sphinx to the candidates for Theban royalty. The
is

reason
life
;

that the secrets

of science are

actually those

of

the alternatives are to reign or to serve, to be or

not to be. The natural forces will break us if we do not put them to use for the conquest of the world. There is no mean between the height of kinghood and the abyss of the victim state, unless we are content to be counted among those who are nothing because they ask not why or what they are.*
It

now

seems undeniable to

me

that Louis,
secret

even

as a

mere youth,
of a fulbess

had divined some extraordinary

about him. Just to be in
indescribable.

of

life.

The pleroma was

his presence

was

to partake

He
age.

never pretended to be the possessor of great

knowledge or wisdom.
boys
his

He

preferred our

company

to that
!

of the

own

Did he know
lost,"
least

it

seems quite possible

?

that

these latter
rate,

were already "

abandoned to the world

it,

At any

without in the

suspecting

Louis had assumed the role

of hierophant.

How much more we learned from Louis than from our appointed I realize it now when I think of another boy my own age, whom I liked exceedingly, and who used to go out of his
instructors
!

way every day

his

to

walk home with

me firom school.

Joe Maurer was

name.

had tremendous

respect for his intellect as well as his

character.

He and

the French boy, Claude de Lorraine,

whom

* The History of Magic, by Eliphas Levi (Alphonse Louis Constant) William Rider & Son, Ltd., London, 1922.

175


THE BOOKS IN MY LIPB
have spoken of elsewhere, were virtually models for
this period.

me

throughout

One day

made

the mistake of introducing

my

friend

Joe Maurer to Louis. Until that

that in the very being

moment I had not

the least suspicion

flaw.
It

of Joe Maurer there existed a grave

was while Ustening

I

to Louis,

who had gone

:

into a

monologue,
I

that

saw written

all

over Joe Maurer's face

doubt. Then

was made

wimess of a dreadful event

skeptic.

the incineration of

my

dear

young
crisp.

In that flood-Hke smile

of compassion which Louis could

Joe Maurer consumed to a

summon on

occasion

saw

Httle

Louis had put the torch to that petty, vaunting intellect which had so

impressed me.
there

He had

turned on

him

the full

power of Mind

^and

was nothing

left (for

me) of my comrade's

intellect, character

or being.

Seeing Louis now, in

my

mind's eye, astride the fence billeted

flaming
posters

with announcements

^huge

of

coming

events

(Rebecca of Sunnyhrook Farm,

Way Down

East,

The Wizard of Oz,

Bamum &

Bailey's Circus,

Burton Holmes* Travelogues, Houdini,

Gendeman Jim
lad

Corbett, Pagliacci,

Maude Adams

in the eternal Peter

Pan, and so on), seeing Louis perched there Hke a rotund wizard, a

of sixteen yet so immeasurably superior to

us, so distant

and yet

so close, so serious and yet so carefree, so absolutely sure of himself

and yet so unconcerned about

his

own

person, his

own

fate, I

ask

myselfu'/id/
to

ever became of Louis ?

Did he

disappear

from our ranks

become
he,
I

the

dominant character of some

strange, occult

book
at

Has

under the cloak of anonymity perhaps, written works

which

have read and marveled over

Or

did he take
disappear

off",

an

early age, for Arabia, Tibet, Abyssinia

to
I

from " the

world "

Such

as

Louis never meet with an ordinary end.

as

A moment ago he was

much
alive.
It

aUve to

me
all

as

when

was a boy of ten

he
is still

standing in the vacant lot at the comer.

am

certain

very

would not be
at

at

remarkable if one day he

lads I played
I

announced himself here

with and

Big Sur. All those other

it

who were so

very, very close to me,

I

then seemed,

never

expect to hear

of Once

thought

it

strange that our paths should

are a handful

never cross again.

with you always

" even unto the end of the world."

in that grotesque
it
?

Not any more. There

who
i

remain

But Louis

what was he doing

body

Why

had he assumed such a disguise

176

Was

to protect himself against

"the StOHY
fools

Ql
I

MY HEART
to

and ignoramuses

Louis, Louis,
!

what

would not give

know your

real identity

My friend
How
this

Emil,

it is

high time to acknowledge

I

my

debt to you.

in the

name of heaven could

?

possibly have avoided reading

?

book

for so long

Why did you not shout the title in my cars

insistent
i

Why were you not

inmost thoughts.
fully reveal.

more

Here

is

man who

speaks

my

he

He is the iconoclast I feel myself to be yet never He makes the utmost demands. He rejects, he scraps, What a daring seeker When you annihilates. What a seeker
!

read the following passage

wish you would try to

recall those talks

we had
nature of

in

Prospect

my

Park, try to remember, if you can, the fumbling answers to those " deep " questions you
->

propounded ...

and able to understand everything there is no hmit to its understanding.* The limit is the Uttleness of the things and the narrowness of the ideas which have been put for it For the philosophies of old time past and to consider. the discoveries of mooem research are as nothing to it. They do not fill it. When they have been read, the mind The utmost of them, the passes on, and asks for more. whole together, make a mere nothing. These things have been gathered together by immense labor, labor so great that it is a weariness to think of it ; but yet, when all is summed up and vmtten, the mind receives it all as easily as the hand picks flowers. It is like one sentence ^rcad and gone.f
is

The mind
is

infinite

that

brought before

it

Emil, reading Richard

forgive
are

Jcfferics, I
^ycs,

suddenly

recall

me
It

if I call it
i

that
are

my

sublime

all

my

subUmc impatience.
time ?

What
of me.

we
i

waiting for

Why

we marking
I

Was

not that me
tolerant

over

used to annoy you,

ask

know, but you were

and
I

You would

me
I

a question

would

reply with a bigger one.

For the hfe of me

could not understand, and would not understand,

why we
That
is

did not scrap everything immediately and begin afiesh.

I

why, when

came

across certain utterances

from the
:

lips

of

" Nothing is * Curious that Lautrdamont said almost the same incomprehensible." fThis and other citations are taken from the Haldeman-Julius r|)rint

of JefFeries* Story of My Heart.

177


THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE
Louis Lambert
another Louis
!

nearly jumped out of

my skin.

was
I

suffering then exactly as

he had suffered.

am

not altogether convinced that there are

many who

suffer

for the reasons intimated

tells

and

to the degree

which Louis Lambert

is

us he suffered.

Time and

again

have hinted that there

tyrant in

me which

continues to assert that society must one day

be governed by its true masters. When I read Jefferies' statement " In twelve thousand written years the world has not yet built
itself a

own
up

House, nor filled a Granary, nor organized itself for its comfort " this old tyrant which refuses to be smothered rises

again.

Time and again, touching on certain books, certain authors,

the

recalling

tremendous impact of

their

utterances

men

Hke

Emerson,
especially

Nietzsche,
^I

Rimbaud,

Whitman,

the

Zen

masters

think with fury and resentment

(still !)

of those early

teachers into

whose hands we were

entrusted.

There was our of vanity

principal at " dear old 85," for example.

What

a bundle

and conceit

He

walks in one day, while we're studying arithmetic,

to let

begs the teacher

him

take over,

and in the space of a few

minutes goes to the blackboard and draws the figure eight lying on " he asks. An impressive silence. its side. " What does that signify ?

No one knows,
**

of course. Whereupon he announces sententiously

the sign for infinity
its
!

Boys, that

is

" Nothing further said about

it.

An

egg lying on

side

^nothing more.
A
!

Uttle later, in

High

School, comes Dr. Murchisson, another mathematician and an ex-

commander of
bird.
**

the

Navy.
!

Hving monument to
That's

discipline, this

Never ask why

I

Obey "

One day
(It
tells

plucked up the courage to ask

Commander Murchisson, why we studied geometry.

For answer he

seemed an

utterly senseless, useless study to me.)

me
you
I

that
i

it is

good

discipline for the

mind.
for

Is

that

an answer,

ask

Then, by

way of punishment
whole

my

temerity and im-

pudence, he makes

me memorize

a speech he has written for me,

school.
It is

which

am

to dehver before the

about battlecarry,

ships, the various types there are, the kinds

of armament they

their varying speeds

and the

effectiveness

of their broadsides.

Do you

wonder

that

I still
**

Then

there

was

nourish a healthy contempt for this old master ? om first Bulldog " Grant, the Latin teacher
. . .

Latin teacher.

Anyway,
178

the

(Why I chose to study Latin is still a mystery to me.) man was an absolute conundrum to us. One moment

"the story of my heart"

he would be apoplectic with rage, positively beside himself, " hopping mad,"
as

we

say, the veins standing out like cords at the

temples, the perspiration rolling

down

his puffed red-apple cheeks.

Why

Because some one had used the wrong gender or employed

the ablative instead of the vocative.

The next moment he would be

one
usually.

wreathed in

smiles, telling us a joke, a risque

Every day

he began the session by calling the

tant thing
rise,

roll, as if it

were the most impor-

on God's

earth.

Then, to
at the
. . .

warm

us

up he would bid
**
:

us

clear
.

our throats, and yell

huius, huius,

top of our lungs

huic, huic,

Hie, haec,
right

hoc

huius

huic

..."

through to the end. This and the conjugation of the verb "
are
all I

amo
what

"
!

retain

of the

first

three years of Latin.

Instructive,

Later,

under another Latin teacher named Hapgood, a good egg, by

the

way, one

receive a surprise visit

To

this

day,

who had a real love for his bloody Vergil, we used to now and then from the principal. Dr. Paisley I tell you, the latter remains for me the symbol incarnate
filled

of the pedagogue. In addition to being a blunderbuss and dunderhead

he was an arch-tyrant. Just to be near him was to be
terror

with

fear,

and dread. Bloodless he was, with a heart of stone. His

this
!

Httle

game

get

was to break in on us
room on
his

at

some unexpected moment,

pretending that he

march

to the head of the

tiptoes, and,

wished to keep

hand

in,

beg dear Professor Hapgood (who had

no choice

in the matter) to let

him

take over for a

few minutes.

Plunking himself in the master's

Aeneid) which he undoubtedly

chair,

he picks up the book (the

heart, scans
it

knew by
riffles

intently as

though puzzling

it

out, then quietly asks the professor (with his eyes

on

us)

where we were.

Hm

He

the pages, chooses a passage

us to rattle off the

which he

reads to himself, then picks

on one of
as

translation.
ability his

Naturally, terrified of

him

we

all

were, what Httle

poor victim had vanished hke smoke. But Dr. Paisley

at all surprised

seemed not
as

or displeased
blankness of

on

the contrary, he reacted

though

this

this utter

mind

^were entirely natural

his version

and customary. All he was waiting for was to give us

the translation.

of

He would do
text.

it

falteringly, as i groping his

way

through the bloody

Sometimes he would look up, and

addressing the air above us,

this

rendition to

that.

preted the passage.

if we didn't perhaps prefer None of us gave a fuck which way he interAll we were praying for was that he would leave

would ask

179

THE BOOKS IN MY LIPB

as

soon

as possible.

He

gave off the odor,

must add, of camphor,

.
. .

He was the very corpse of learning TTicre is one more I must mentionDoc Payne. He was a testy chap but likable in a way, especially out of class. He smoked a lot, we observed, and was as eager for the class to be dismissed as we ourarnica

and embahning

fluid.

selves.

It

meant a few

puflfs

on

the sly for him.

Anyway, he taught
after another, just

us ancient, medieval and

like that.

modem

history

one

To him history was

generals, statesmen, diplomats

"

dates, battles, peace treaties,

all

names of

the rats," so to speak. Because

he was more
sions."

of a

human than the rest I can't forgive him for the " omisWhat do I mean Just this. Never once, at the beginning semester, did he give us a bird's-eye view of what we were
f

in for.

Never once did

it

occur to

him

to " orient " us in this vast

muddle of dates, names, places, etc. If he expatiated at all, it was on some campaign long forgotten, some " decisive battle " of the world. red, white and I can sec him all over again, with chalk in hand

blue

designating by chicken
Very important

tracks the positions

of the opposing

armies.

the cavalry

some other
leaders

know why at a certain moment was unleashed, or why the center gave way, or why fool manoeuvre took place. He never enlarged upon
for us to
conflicts.

the character, temperament, genius (miUtary or otherwise) of the

of these great

He

never gave us his

own

pr^ds of

the causes
us,

of the various wars.

any
ideas

We

followed the books he handed

and

if

we had

of our own,

we

smothered them.

It

was

more important

to have the right date, the exact terms

of the

treaty

under discussion, than to have a wide, general, integrated picture of

the whole subject.

He might have

said,
I

on opening

the

book of
:

ancient history, for example, and here

**

take the Uberty

of adHbbing

Boys, young men, in the year 9,763 B.C. the world found

itself

in a pecuUar state of stasis.

Iriwaddy were virtually

their oats,

were on the

The grass and grains on either bank of the The Chinese, just beginning to feel march. The Minoan civilization of Crete and
extinct.

her colonies presented no threat to the other up-and-coming nations

of the world. The rudiments of every invention

already in existence.
for

now known
as

were

The

arts flourished

everywhere,

they had

unknown

ages in the past.

The

principal reHgions

were such and

such.

No

one knows

why

at this precise

moment

in history certain

definite

movements began

to take place.

In the East there was such

iSo


"THE STORY OP MY HEART
and such an alignment offerees
figure appeared
;

in the

West
;

another.

Suddenly a
is

named Hochintuxityscy
mean.

almost nothing

known
"
. . .

about

this great figure,

except that he initiated a

wave of new Ufe

You
on

see

what

He

could have drawn for us on that black-

board which was a perpetual vexation a

the rear blackboard a

map of the then world, and map of the world as it is today. He could
vertical

have made some boxes, by means of

and horizontal

lines,

and in them placed a few saHent names,

our bearings.
branches

dates, events

to give us
Umbs and
and

He

could have drawn a tree and on

arts,

its

shown

the evolution of the

sciences, reHgions

metaphysical ideas throughout history.

He

could have told us that

with recent times history has become the metaphysics of history.

He

could have

differ

with one another.

than force us to

how and why the greatest of historians He could have done something more, I say, memorize names, dates, battles and so on. He could
shown
us
fiiture in

even have ventured to give us a picture of the next hundred years

or asked us to describe the
did.

our

own

terms.

But he never
**
!

And so I say

"

Damn him and all history books

I

From the

study of history, mathematics, Latin, English Uterature, botany,

physics, chemistry, art

have gotten nothing but anguish, desperation

four years in

and confusion.
but
the

From

High School
pleasure

I retain

nothing

remembrance

of the

fleeting

evoked by the
school
I

reading of Ivanhoe and Idylls of the King.

From grammar
It

remember only one

is all I

Uttle episode

^in

the arithmetic class again. This

got out of eight years of primary instruction.

was

this

Our
no

teacher,

Mr. MacDonald,
easily
I

a gaunt,

sombre person with almost

sense

of humor and

given to anger, asked

me

a direct

question one day which

was unable to answer. Being

rather fond

of me,

suppose, he took the pains of going to the blackboard and

(It

explaining the problem thoroughly.

firactions.)

When he had finished he turned to me and said

?

probably had to do with " Now, :

**

Henry, do you understand

"

And

I
I

answered,

No,

sir."

Upon

which the

class

burst into an uproar.

was

left

to stand there, feeling

this

like the veriest idiot.

Suddenly, however,

Mr. MacDonald
quiet.

turned on the

class furiously

and ordered the boys to be

he
a
said,

" Instead of laughing

at him,**
is

"

want you boys

to

to take an

example fiom Henry. Here

boy who wants

know. He has
this
!

the courage to say he does not understand.

Remember

And
i8i

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

try to

do

likewise, instead

of pretending

that

you understand when

not only salved

you

don't."

That
it

httle lesson

sank deep.

It

wounded pride,
result

taught
I

me true humiUty.
not,
I

All

my my hfe, whether as a
say, in critical

of this or not,
:

know

have been able to

it

moments
Or,
if I

" No,

don't understand. Explain

I

again, if you will."

I

am

asked a question which

really

cannot answer
**
:

can say

without blushing, without a sense of shame or guilt

but
It is I

I'm sorry,
!

don't

know

the answer."

And what

a reUef it

is

to speak thus

in such

moments

that the real

answer usually comes

after

one

has confessed his ignorance or inabiUty.

The answer

is
it.

always there,

but

we must

put ourselves in readiness to receive

that there are people to

We

should

know, however,
certain questions.
is

whom
!

one must never put

these people

The answer

is

not in them

Among
know

the

whole body of

instructors to

whom we
to

are deUvered

from

infancy hand and soul. These defmitely do not

the answers.

Nor, what

is

worse, do they

know how

make

us seek the answers

in ourselves.

" If the eye

is

always watching, and the mind on the

alert, ulti-

mately chance supphes the solution," says Jefferies. True. But what
is

here termed chance

is

something of our

own

creation.

Suddenly

recall the

name and

presence of Dr.
at the close

Brown. Dr.
for a

Brown was our

school period.
I

" guest speaker "

must speak of Dr.

of every grammar
I

Brown

because
I

would not

minute have him, dead or aHve, imagine that

category of nobodies mentioned above. Dr.
just as vacation
felt

include

him

in the

Brown always appeared,

fact,

was about
still

to begin,

on wings of love. In
wings,

you
his
as

that they

were

fluttering, his

when he

rose

from
It

seat

on

the platform and

made ready

to say a

few words.

was

though Dr. Brown knew each and every one of us intimately and

was enveloping us in his

forth with palpitating

all-enfolding mantle

of love. His words came

it

warmth.

He had

just returned,

always
first

seemed, from Asia, Africa or Europe, and he wanted us to be the

with

whom to

share his glorious experiences. That

I

was the impres-

sion he gave, and

have no doubt
office

it

was genuine. He was a man who

loved boys.

What

he

filled I
;

no longer remember. He may

he was probably
a
also a

have been a school superintendent

deacon

of the church.

No

matter.

He was

man, he had a big

heart,
as

and
Dr.

he brimmed over with love. Nowadays

182

we

call

such talks

"the story of my heart

Brown
at will.

gave " inspirational."

Men
is

are paid to turn

them on or

off

The

effect

of course

nil

we

all

recognize the caricature.

Dr.

he was a

Brown was a truly inspired individual. All that he had read, and man of great culture, all he had seen on his trips round the
into the very texture of his being.

world, for he was a veritable globe-trotter, he had assimilated and

woven
sponge.

He was Hke a well-soaked One Httle squeeze of the fmgers and he oozed water. When
full,

he rose to speak he was so

so charged, that for a

good few

moments he was unable

in
all

to begin.

Once

launched, his

mind sparked
:

directions at once.

He was

sensitive to the sHghtest pressure

he could detect instantly the nature of our longing, and respond to

it

immediately. In a quarter of an hour of this kind of communication he " instructed " us as we had never been instructed during the weeks

and months of class. If he had been a teacher instead of our " guest
speaker" he would, undoubtedly, have been dismissed in short
order.

He was
heart,

too big for the system

for any system.

that

He

spoke

from the

not the head.

need hardly repeat

pastor.

no one ever

spoke to us thus

^not

even the

No,

the pastor emanated a

kind of vague, prescribed love which was like milk and water.
really did

not give a

damn

about any one personally.

He He was
little

interested in saving souls (supposedly) but there

was damned

soul stuff in him. Dr.

Brown

reached our souls through our hearts.

He had

a sense

of humor, a grand sense of humor

one

of the

infalHble signs

of hberation.

When he
was
as if

got through

^his

speech was

always too short for us

bath.

^it

we had

been given a bubble

We were relaxed, refreshed, silky inside and out. What's more, We

felt a courage unknown before, a new kind of courage I might felt brave before the almost say a " metaphysical " courage.

we

world because the good Dr. Brown had given us back our kingship.

We were boys
men "
tasks,

still

^he

never tried to pretend that

^but

we had become
had
tasks.

boys whose eyes

increased.

we were young swam with visions,

**

whose

appetite for life

We

were ready for hard

vahant

I feel
.

that I

may now resume my theme with

book which Richard use the abused word once
not
at all

a clear conscience.

The
is,

httle

Jefferies calls his

" autobio-

graphy"

to

again, an inspirational

work.
"

In the whole of Hterature there are very few such works.

is

Much that
specialize

styled inspirational

is

it is

what men who "

183


THfi

BOOKS
in

IN

MY

LIFE
is

in the subject

would

like us to believe

so.

mentioned Emerson.

Never
is

my life have I met anyone who did not agree that Emerson
One may
not accept his thought in toto, but
purified, so to say,

an inspiring writer.

one comes away from a reading of him

exalted.

and
is

He

takes

you

to the heights, he gives

you wings. He
I

daring, very daring. In our

day he would be muzzled,

am certain.

There are other men, such

others)

as

Orage and Ralph Waldo Trine (among

who
may

are styled inspirational writers.

been such to great numbers of people. But will they abide

reader
smile,

They have undoubtedly The t

I

knowing

the sort of individual

as

am,

that
I

should
i

even mention such a name

I

R.

W.

Trine.*

Am

mocking

am not. To each his due. At certain stages of one's evolution

certain

individuals stand forth as teachers.

Teachers in the true sense

who open our eyes. There are those who open our eyes and there are those who lift us out of ourselves. The latter are not interested in foisting upon us new beUefe but in aiding us to penetrate
those
reality

more

deeply, " to

make

progress," in other words, " in the

levelling all the super-

science

of reaUty." They proceed fint by

of thought.

structures

Second they point to something beyond

let

thought, to the ocean of mind,

us say, in

which thought swims.

Says
Jeflferies,

And

last

they force us to think for ourselves.

:

for

example, in the midst of his confession

position as the

exacdy the same Written tradition, systems of culture, modes of thought, have for me no existence. If ever they took any hold of my mind it must have been very shght ; they have long ago been erased.
today, as
I

Now,

write, I stand in

Caveman.

That
it

is

a mighty utterance.
i

honesdy and sincerely

?

An heroic utterance. Who can repeat Who is there that even aspires to make such
us towards the

an utterance

Jeflferies tells

end of his book

how

he

had

tried again

and again to put into written words the thoughts

possession

which had taken

though he

of him. Repeatedly he

failed.

And no

wonder, for what he succeeded in giving us

confesses
it

finally, firagmentary

to be,

is

almost a defiance of thought. Explainlast

ing how, " imder happy circumstances," he did at

begin

(in 1880),

he

states that

he got no further than to write

a long burlesque

down

a few notes.
the Injinite.

* See 184

my

book Plexus for

on In Tune with

**THE
" Even then," he
says,

STORY OF MY HEART
I

"

could not go on, but

kept the notes

(I

had destroyed

former beginnings), and in the end, two years afterwards, commenced this book." He speaks of it as " only a
all

fragment, and a fragment scarcely hewn."

think worth imderscoring
scarcely
:

Then he
it

adds,

and
I

this I

"

Had
at

not made
.
. .

personal

could

have put

it

into

any shape
I

aU

am only too conscious

of its imperfections, for

ness

have

as it

were seventeen years of conscious-

of my

own

inabiHty to express this the idea of

my life."
which
is

In this same small paragraph he

makes an

assertion

very

dear to

me

and which

is

the only stop that can be offered to

critics.

Speaking of the inadequacy of words to express ideas

and by

this

he means, of course, ideas which lay beyond the habitual realms of

thought
terms
still,

attempting
:

briefly to give his

own definition of such moot

as soul, prayer,

he concludes
to

immortaUty, and declaring these to be deficient " I must leave my book as a whole to give its

own meaning

its

words."

Perhaps the key to this amazing Httle book is the sentence which runs thus : " No thought which I have ever had has satisfied my
soul."
soul's

The

story of his Hfe begins therefore with the realization

of his
as

hunger, his soul's quest.

All that preceded this

became

nought.

"Begin wholly

afresh.

Go

straight to the sun, the

;

im-

mense
a god

forces
;

of the universe, to the Entity unknown

;

go higher than
Soimds
like

deeper than prayer

I

and open a
if

new

day."

D. H. Lawrence.
There
is

wonder now

Lawrence ever read

JefFeries.

not only a similarity of thought but of accent and rhythm.

this

But then we find

rate,

same idiosyncrasy of speech, in English

an original thinker.
It is

at

any

whenever

we come upon

The

iconoclast

always exhorts us in short, staccato sentences.

transmitting telegraphically
utterly diflferent

as if

he were
It is

from

a distant, higher station.

an

rhythm from

that

of the prophets,

who

are filled

with woe and lamentation, with objurgation and malediction. Some-

how, whether we accept

our
feet

the

commands or

not,

we

are stirred

go through the motion of marching forward, our

chests
lift

heave, as if drawing in fresh draughts of oxygen, our eyes

to

capture the fleeting vision.

And now

let us

get to " the Fourth Idea,"

which

is

rcaUy the

epitome of his

soul's longing.

He

begins thus 185

THE BOOKS lU MV LIF

Three things only have been discovered of
concerns
the
that

which

inner

consciousness

since

before

written

history began.

Three things only in twelve thousand

ideas the

written, or sculptured, years, and in the

before then.

Three

dumb, dim time Cavemen primeval wrested

from the unknown,

the night which is round us still in dayUght the existence of the soul, immortality, the deity. These things found, prayer followed as a sequential result. Since then nothing further has been found in all the twelve thousand years, as if men had been satisfied and had found these to suffice. They do not suffice me. I desire to advance further, and to wrest a fourth, and even still more than a fourth, from the darkness of thought. I want more ideas of soul-hfe. I am certain there are more yet to be found. A great life an entire civilization Hes just outside the pale of common thought. Cities and countries, inhabitants, intelhgences, culture an entire civilization. Except by

illustrations

drawn from famiHar things, there is no way of indicating a new idea. I do not mean actual cities, actual civilization. Such hfe is different from any yet imagined. A nexus of ideas exists of which nothing is
vast system of ideas a cosmos of thought. an Entity, a Soul-Entity, as yet unrecognized. These, rudely expressed, constitute my Fourth Idea. It is beyond, or beside, the three discovered by the Cavemen it is in addition to the existence of the soul in addition to immortality and beyond the idea of the deity. I think there is something more than existence.

known

a
is

There

In the same decade in which Jefferies enunciates these ideas, or

better, this appeal for

new, deeper,

richer,

more encompassing
into

ideas,

Madame

Blavatsky put forth

two astounding tomes

which
If they

entered a labor so prodigious that

men

are

still

cracking their skulls

over them.

I refer

to The Secret Doctrine and his Unveiled.

accomplished nothing more, these two books, they certainly put

to rout the idea of the caveman*s contribution to our culture.

Drawing from every imaginable

wisdom. According to

source,

Madame

Blavatsky amasses

a wealth of material to prove the everlasting continuity of esoteric

this

view, there never was a time

when

side

by

side

with the

**

caveman," and even greatly anterior to him, there

I

did not exist superior beings, and by superior

mean

superior in

every sense of the word.

Certainly superior to those

it is

whom we

today consider
i86

as such.

Indeed,

not even a question with her,

_LJ

"THE STORY OF MY HEART

or those

who

hold with her, of isolated superior beings but rather of

civilizations the existence

whole great blazing

even suspect.

of which

we do
I

not

Whether JefFeries knew of such views and

not.
I

rejected

them

know

don't imagine

it

would have mattered any to him if he had been

convinced that the only three ideas wrested from the

to us via the
says. I

unknown came
as

mages of forgotten epochs or via the cavemen,

he

can see him sweeping the whole glittering array of knowledge

off the boards. are

all

He would

still

be able to affirm that these three ideas

we

have

and what matter when they were put into circula;

tion or
stand,

by whom. What he strives magnificently to make us undermake us realize, make us accept, is that these ideas came from a
that

source which has never dried up and never will dry up

we are

marking time, withering,

long
as

ossifying, giving ourselves

up

to death, so

we

rest

content with these precious three and

to the source.

make no

effort to

swim back

Filled

able to get
lessness

with consuming wonder, awe and reverence for Hfe, never enough of sea, air and sky, realizing " the crushing hopeit is

of books," determined to think things out for himself,

extraordinary consequently to find

not

at all

him

declaring that

the span of

human

life

could be prolonged far beyond anything

we

imagine possible today. Indeed, he goes further, much further, and hke a true man of spirit asserts that " death is not inevitable to the
ideal

man.

He

is

shaped for a species of physical immortaHty."

He

begs us to ponder seriously on what might happen " if the entire

human race were

united in their efforts to eliminate causes of decay."

further

few paragraphs

on he

says,

and with what

justification

The truth is, we die through our ancestors, we are murdered by our ancestors. Their dead hands stretch forth from the tomb and drag us down to their mouldering
bones.

We in our turn are now at this moment preparing

This day those that die

death for our unborn posterity.

do not die in the sense of old age, they are slain*

Every revolutionary
or the field of poHtics,
afresh

figure,

whether in the
this

field

of religion

knows

only too well.

" Begin wholly

!"

It is

the old, old cry.

But to

slay the ghosts

of the past

Italics

mine.

187

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

has thus far been an insuperable task for humanity. "

A hen

is

only

way of making wonders whose way it is

an egg's
misfits, that

another egg," said Samuel Butler.

that causes

One

man

to continue turning out

as

makes him, surrounded and invested

Imagine what

he

is

by

the most

potent and divine powers, satisfied to remain

no more than he

has

been and

still is.

man
lips

is

capable of, in his ignorance

and

cruelty, to

provoke from the

of the Marquis de Sade upon

his first release

from prison

(afier

almost thirteen years spent in

;

solitary

confinement) these terrible words

I
;

"...
I

All

my

feelings
I like

arc extinguished.

have no longer any

the

taste for

anything,

nothing any more

world which
.

foolishly

so vvdldly regretted
I

seems to

me
if I

so boring

and so dull ...

that
I

have never been

more misanthropic than

men, and

am now
**

have returned among

seem

peculiar to others, diey can be assured that they

produce the same

individual
is

effect

on me ...

The

plaint

of this unfortunate
all

today voiced by millions.

a wail

From

quarters

of the

globe there

of distress. Worse, a wail of utter despair. " When," asb Jefferies (in 1882 !), " will it be possible to be
rises

certain that the capacity

of

a single

atom has been exhausted

may reveal a fresh power." Today we know and how shamefully we have utilized it the power which resides in the atom. And it is today more than ever before that man roams hungry, naked, abandoned.
At any moment some
fortunate incident

" Begin
East are at

afresh !
last

" The East rumbles. Indeed, the people of the

effort to
is

making an heroic
past.

shake off the

i

fetters

which

bind them to the

tremble in
fear.

And what
i

the result

We

of the West
is

We

would hold them back.

Jefferies* Httle

Where

progress

Who

possesses
is

enHghtenmcnt

There

a sentence in

book which

literally

jumps

from the page

at least for

me. "

A reasoning process has yet to be

To which state:

invented by which to go straight to the desired end."

" Excellent indeed, can hear the critical-minded objecting but why doesnt he invent it ? " Now it is one of the virtues of the

ment

men who
and lead

inspire us that they always leave the

way

open.

They
hand

suggest, they stimulate, they point.

us.

They do not

take us

by

the

On

the other

hand

might say

that there are

men who
comes

are this very

moment

striving to

show

us

how

to accomplish this

end.

Now

they are virtually unknown, but

when

the time

188

"THE STORY OP MY HEART

they will stand revealed.
it

We arc not drifting blindly, however mudi

I

may seem

so.

But perhaps

ought to give the whole of Jefferies*

it

thought here, for he has voiced

in a

way which is

unforgettable

This hour, rays or undulations of more subtle mediums doubtless pouring on us over the wide earth, unrecognized, and full of messages and intelligence from
are

the unseen.*

Of these we

are this

day

as

ignorant

as those

There is an infinity of knowledge yet to be known, and beyond that an infinity of thought. No mental instrument even has yet been invented by which researches can be carried direct to the Whatever has been found has been discovered object. by fortunate accident in looking for one thing another has been chanced on. A reasoning process has yet to be invented by which to go straight to the desired end. For now the slightest particle is enough to throw the search aside, and the most minute circumstance sufficient to conceal obvious and briUiantly shining truths ... At present the endeavor to make discoveries is Hke gazing at the sky up through the boughs of an oak. Here a beautihere a constellation is hidden by ful star shines clearly a branch ; a universe by a leaf Some mental instrument or organon is required to enable us to distinguish between the leaf which may be removed and a real void ; when to cease to look in one direction, and to work in another ... I feel that there are infinities to be known, but they are hidden by a leaf ...
;

who

painted the papyri were of Hght.

says

Or, as Claude Houghton Take another tack Begin afresh " All Change^ Humanity ! ** Or, as Klakusch says, in The Maurizius Case^ " Stop, world of humans, and attack the problem
! !

from another angle

change direction.

" Again and again a voice within us commands

us to get out of the rut, to leave bag and baggage, to change cars,

Now

and then an individual obeys the

call

secret

summons and undergoes what men

does a whole world Hft
the blue.
itself

a conversion.

But never

by

the bootstraps and take a leap into

Things that have been miscalled supernatural appear

to

me

simple, says Jefferies,

than earth, than sea or sun

* Very

more natural than nature, ... It is matter which is the

The Magic of the
Stars.

close to Maeterlinck's thought, as voiced in

x89


THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE
supernatural, and difficult of understanding
is
. .

Matter
;

beyond understanding, mysterious, impenetrable I touch it easily, comprehend it, no. Soul, mind the
thought,
itself

the
is

idea

is

easily

understood,

it

understands
super-

and

conscious.
is

The

supernatural miscalled, the

natural in truth,
natural.

the real.

To me
earth,

everything
sea,

is

How strange that condition of mind which cannot

anything
!

accept

but

the
the

the

the

tangible

misnamed supernatural these to me seem incomplete, unfinished. Without soul all these are dead. Except when I walk by the sea, and my soul is by it, the sea is dead. Those seas by which no man has stood by which no soul has been whether on earth or the
universe

Without

planets, are dead.

No
it is

matter

how

majestic the planet rolls

in space, unless a soul be there

it is

dead.

Unless a soul he there

able to

dead.

comprehend
is

this

than Jefferies' contemporaries. For

The man of today should be better him this

planet

virtually extinct already.

Around 1880 English noveUsts of imagination

the

writers

of " romances " began to introduce into their works the so-called and miscalled " supernatural " element. Theirs was a revolt against
the fateful tendency
this

of the

times, the bitter fruits

of which

we of

generation are tasting.

What

is

the gap, in thought or feeling,

as ridiculous

between these writers (today regarded

and misguided)

and our metaphysical

larger,

scientists

who

struggle vainly to express a

?

deeper,

more

significant

view of the universe

It

is

common

observation nowadays that the man in the street accepts the " miracles " of science in a matter of fact way. Every day of

his Hfe the

common man makes

of invention, the

use of

what men

in other ages

would have deemed miraculous means.

if not in powers

In the range of invention,

god than

at

any time in
less

his history.

man of today is nearer to (So we like to beheve

utilizes the

being a
!

Yet

never was he
gifts

godlike.

He

accepts and
;

miraculous

of science unquestioningly
zest,

he

is

without wonder, without

conclusions

awe, reverence,
the past, has

vitahty or joy.

He draws no

from

no peace or

satisfaction in the present,

and

is

utterly

unconcerned about the future.

the

He is marking
this

time.

That

is

about

most

we

can say for him.

We
190

must, however, also say

^his

conception

of time, and of

"THE STORY OF MY HEART

space, together

with other deeply embedded notions, such

as

the

sacred doctrine of causaHty, the

good work,

progress,

purpose,
the

duty and so forth, have been killed

^r

him by the

scientist,

philosopher, the inventor, the big boss and the miUtarist.

httle
is

Precious
all

left

of the universe he was

it

bom

into.
as

Yet

it is

there,

every bit of it, and

will

accompany him

he journeys backward

or forward.

His concepts only have been altered.

Not

his

way

of thinking.

Not

his

thinking faculty, or his thinking powers.

immune and impervious He is not participating, he is being dragged along by the scalp. He initiates nothing, unless What an image he presents, modem man it be more reaction.

To
to

the most baffling degree he remains

that happens

all

round and about him.

frightened and bewildered, a confused and bedeviled wretch,

as I said, to

being dragged by the scalp,

some

high,

awesome

place

where

all is

about to be revealed to him, but where, whimpering

It is thus,

and shuddering, he will be sent hurtling into the void. and thus only, that
I

see
else

him

entering the great

it

arcanum of truth
all

and wisdom.
doors
;

How

could

be

He

himself has locked

;

he himself has kicked away

elected (if

we may

he himself has thus dignify him) to be flung into " the cauldron
all

supports

of rebirth."

Sublime,

ignominious

spectacle.

Punishment and
**

salvation in one.

What, we
fate

ask,

could or would constitute a " miracle

?

for

man

in this supine state

?

Would

it

be a miracle to spare him

if,

his just

Would

it

be a miracle

just as

he were going over the

brink, his eyes

does modem man exway of miracles The only miracle I can possibly think of would be for him to beg, at the last moment, for a

were suddenly opened? What

?

pect, if anything, in the

chance to begin afresh.

Is it

not baffling that

this species

of

man who

believes so soHdly
talk

in concrete reaHty,

and only in concrete reaHty, can

distant, as

of the moon,

or planets even

more

though they were only points of

;

departure in his imminent physical exploration of the universe

that

he can think of communicating with unknown beings in the

starry spheres or,

what

is

more

curious, think
;

of

how

to defend
visualize

himself against possible invasion by them

himself abandoning
life

that

he can

this planet

Earth and taking up a

new mode of
191

somewhere

in the heavens, and realize (mentally, at least) that

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

such a change of residence would alter his physical age, structure

and being, would make him over so completely, in

short, that
I say,

he

would be unrecognizable

to himself

Is it

not baffling,

that

such thoughts do not terrify

him

^neither

uprooting from his

native planet, nor change of time, rhythm, metabolism, nor acquaint-

ance with beings

far, far

stranger than any he has ever imagined

And

yet, yes

and

yet, to get

him

to love and respect his neighbor,

to endeavor to understand his fellow

possessions, his joys
his

man, to share with him

his

and sorrows, to get him to make provision for

progeny, to eUminate enmity, rivalry, jealousy, to create and

respect a

few simple laws

for

his

own

welfare

to cease struggling
on
the eHmination

for a bare existence

and enjoy

Hfe, to concentrate

(not just the cure) of disease, old age, misery, loneliness

oh,

so

many, many

things

to get him to welcome new

him
to

ideas

and not be

frightened of them, to get

intolerance and
all

throw off superstition, bigotry,

which have him by the

the other bogus claims

throat ... no, towards these vital ends he refuses stubbornly to a single step.

make

He would

rather

walk out on

his true

problems,

would

and his fellow creatures. Could " renegade ** ? Is it any wonder that, anticipating the advent of his glorious " new day " in the bosom of the stellar
rather desert the planet

there be a worse

deep, he

is

already filled with dread that his

new

neighbors

may

resent his

coming

What,

after

all,
t

can he possibly bring the

denizens of these yet

His pride

tells

What but disaster and ruin. unknown worlds him he is superior to these otherworld creatures, but
Perhaps there where time
are one,
is of another " they " have

his heart speaks differently.

order,

where atmosphere and ambiance

been expecting the approach of this dread event.

in the vast

Perhaps nowhere

swarms of habitable
So

planets are there beings filled

with

the conceit, pride, arrogance,

earthly creatures.
again.
at least
!

ignorance and insensitivity of our

Marie CoreUi conjectures again and

as

Et

elle

a raison

No, such

we

are today,
If

we may

not

be

at all

welcome

in these starry abodes.

we

have not found

it

heaven within,
there
is

it is

a certainty

we

will not find

without.

But
that,

the possibility

z desperate,

almost forlorn hope

having caught a gHmpse " out there " of order, peace and harmony,

we who
afresh.

call ourselves

men will

recoil to this hell

on

earth and begin

192

THE STORY OP MY
All through great literature runs the idea

HfiAftT

of the circuitous voyage.

Whatever man
he
flings his

sets

out to find, to v/hatever point in time or space

in the

weary body,

end he comes home, home to

himself.

That the voyage to the

slightest doubt.

moon

will

soon become

fact I

have not the

will also be realized before

is

The voyage to more long. Time is no longer a

Between man and
possibly be

distant reahns
factor.

Time
of time.

being rolled up, like a carpet.

his desires, in

the brief interval ahead, there

may quite

no

lapse

Like Franz WerfeFs characters in Star of the Unborn,* we

may discover

how

to point the needle to the place

we would
not
i

be in and fmd our-

selves there

instantaneously.
it,

Why

If the

mind can make

the leap, so can the body.

We have only to learn how. We have

The
history of human thought
this truth.

only to

desire

and

it

will be thus.

and of human accomplishments corroborates

At present

man

refuses to beHeve, or dares not beUeve, that things

this fashion.

may come
refuses

about in

Between the thought and the goal he cushions

himself with inventions.

take wing."

He
and

makes wings, but he

is

still

" to

Thought, however,
contains
this
all,
is

already
is

on

the wing.

The

Mind which
himself

all,

winging him on ahead of

so infinitely farther ahead

At

very

moment man
it is

is

in thought than in being that

as if

he were distended, like a

comet.
self.

The man of today Hves The tail of this monstrous

through

in the

tail

of

his

own

comet-like
it

distended self works havoc as

new and utterly unpredictable realms. One part of man longs for the moon and other seizable worlds, never dreaming
passes

that another part

of him

is

already traversing

more

mysterious,

more
Is it

spectacular realms.
that

man must make

the circuit of the

whole heavens before

coming home to himself?

Perhaps.

Perhaps he must repeat the

symboHc
mouth.

act

of the great dragon of creation

at last

coil

and

twist,
tail

twine and intertwine, until

he succeeds in putting

in

The
of
will

true

symbol of infinity

is

the full circle.

is

It is also

the

symbol

fulfillment.

And

fiilfillment

man's goal

Only

in fulfillment

he find

reality.
full

Aye,

we must go

swing.

where and nowhere

* The Vikiag Prws.

at the

same time

Howewhere is it if not everyWhen he is in possession of

i

New

York, 1946.

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

his soul, then will

man be

fully aUve, caring

nothing for immortaHty

and knowing nothing of

death.

To

begin wholly afresh

may mean coming aUve

at last

A
A
letter
:

Note on Eugene Sue

Eugene

from

Pierre Lesdain of Belgium offers the following about

Sue " Vous m'avez demand^ des 6claircissements sur Eugene Sue. Je ne suis pas un lecteur assidu de Sue j'ai lu Les Mysteres de Paris, dans ma tendre jeunesse et puis, jamais plus rien. Void la liste des livres d'Eugene Sue
;
:

Kernock

le Pirate,
1

1830

Plick et Plock,

83

Atar-Gull, 1831

La La

Salamattdre, 1832 Vigie de Koat-Ven, 1833

Arthur, 1833 Historic de la Marine frangaise (5 vols.), 1835

Cicile,

1835

Latre'aumont (2 vols.), 1837 Jean Cavalier (2 vols.), 1840

Deux

Histoires,

1840

Le Marquis de Litorikre Le Morne au Diable (2 vols.), 1840

Mathilde (6 vols.), 1841 Le Commandeur de Malte, 1841 Les Mysteres de Paris (lo vols.), 1842-43 Pauli Monti, 1842 Thirise Dunoyer, 1842 Le Juif Errant (10 vols.), 1844-45 Martin ou V Enfant trouvi, 1847 Le Ripuhlicain des Campagnes, 1848 Le Berger de Kravan Les Sept Pe'che's Capitaux (16 vols.) Les Mysteres du Peuple, ou, Histoire d'unefamille a Les Enfants de V Amour (6 vols.), 1852 Fernand Duplessis (6 vols.) Le Marquis d'AmalJi (2 vols.), 1853
Gilbert et Gilberte (7 vols.), 1853

travers les ages (16 vols.)

La famille Jouffroy (7 vols.), 1854 Le Fils de Famille (7 vols.), 1856

Les Secrets de VOreiller (7 vols.), 1858 Cette liste est etourdissante, elle me domie le vertige. Et que reste-t-il de I'oeuvre, immense, quant au poids-papier des volumes et k leur nombre, qui temoigne d'une luxuriance tropicale ? II n'en reste rien. A peine le nom de I'auteur, nom predestine, qui provoque k la plaisanterie facile. Mais on ne lit plus rien d'Eugfene Sue. II est dans le domaine public, et aucun journal ne pense jamais i reprendre un de ses romans comme feuilleton. Avant la guerre de 1940, je ne sais plus tres bien quel ^crivain Suisse de (L'anc^tre talent a voulu publier un " condens6 " des Mystires de Paris. la parole de des " condenses," peut-fitre.) Sans succes, je crois.

I'Eccl^siaste

194

"THE STORY OF MY HEART

Car Eugene Sue de son vivant a connu la gloire comme peu d'^crivains au monde, une gloire tapageuse, vine gloire d'idole de la foule. On raconte qu'Eug^ne Sue, garde national, comme tout autre citoyen en ce temps 1^, ne s'6tait pas pr6sent6 pour prendre son tour de faction. Condamnation automatique. Pour sc venger I'ecrivain refuse de donner au journal la suite de celui de ses romans qui y passait en feuilleton et que les lecteurs attendaient avidement. II y a presque une petite ^meute k Paris et le Ministre
d'Eug^ne Sue. eu r^ellement une influence sur Balzac et Dostoievski ? le prouver serait beaucoup plus long. Le succes d'Eugene C'est tres vite dit Sue a incite peut-6tre Balzac et Dostoievski k situer leurs romans dans les milieux semblables k ceux dont Eugene Sue exploitait les particularit6s et la nouveaute, en ce temps li. Les personnages du roman, fran^ais, jusqu'alors, etaient factices, d'imagination pure, crees par jeu comme Gil Bias qui n'a rien de specifiquement espagnol ... II y a sur cette classe de la societ6 des romans d'une psychologie aigiie et profonde tels La Princesse de Cloves, ou bien Les Liaisons Dange'reuses, mais il fallait, comme Madame de La Fayette ou Choderlos de Laclos, avoir ete " nourri dans le serail " pour en " connaitre
doit lever la punition

Eugene Sue

a-t-il
;

les

detours."

n'est pas un romancier profond. II a une imagination debordante, c'est quelque chose, bien sur, mais pas assez pour venir frapper a la L'imagination d'Eugene porte de la posterite, confiant qu'eUe I'ouvrira.

Eugene Sue

Sue qui frappait si fort ses contemporains, nous fait sourire souvent et, La fin du fin pour Eugene Sue etait quelquefois, franchement eclater. d'amener dans un roman, le plus frequemment qu'il se pouvait, un genre de dissertation morale, ce qu'il appelait ses utopies. Par exemple : on nc
devrait plus executer les
il

condamnes
.

mort
yeux.

preferable de leur percer intolerable et crispant

serait
. .

les

pour les chatier de leurs crimes, Le proc^de a la longue devient

;

mort en 1857. Son pere etait medecin ; I'imperatrice Josephine fut sa marraine. II abandonnc ses etudes avant la rhetorique ; etudie la medecine sous son pere, qui le fait embarquer comme chirurgien k bord d'un bateau. (Les premieres oeuvres litteraires d'Eugene

Eugene Sue

est

ne en 1804

Sue sont maritimes.) Son pere lui laissa en mourrant une fortune d'un million ." (francs de I'epoque). Je ne sais pas si Eugene Sue en fit un bon usage
.

195

XII
LETTER TO PIERRE LESDAIN
May
3rd, 1950

My

dear Pierre Lesdain

The

idea has occurred to

letter

me,

lince reading

your lengdiy and

most welcome

of April
I
.

20th, to incorporate

you

into this
this letter

book about books which

begins as of page 196 ..

am

writing.
is

That
to

is

why
it

There

no one

whom

gives

me

greater pleasure to impart

my

thoughts, particularly

my
I

larval

thoughts.

You
**

are

one of the most

enthusiastic readers

know
more
think

of

In your reviews
**

you

are often "against," but

you

are

often

for

the author.

When you

attack

you

reveal

your love,
I

not your rancor, envy, spite or jealousy.

Often,
I

when

back to

my

early days,

think of you, and

always see you with

book

in

hand or under your arm.

Indeed, as I discover through

I

reading your weekly column in Volonti*

am

certain

now

that

we were
It is

often reading the same author, if not the same

book by

that author, at the

same time.

over two weeks

now

since I

have written anything, and

I

my
you

head

is

seething with thoughts.

As

may have

explained to
is

before, the reason I

am

in a continual state

of bubble

because

of the books

am
it

rereading

mosdy
I

old favorites.

Everything

nourishes, stimulates

me.

Originally

planned to write a slim

fat

volume

now

seems

as if it will

be a

tome.

Each day

jot

down
is

in

my

notebook a few more

task, this

tides

which

I recollect.

This

an exciting feature of my

exhuming from
titles

the imfathom-

able reservoir
takes

of memory a few new

daily.

Sometimes

it

two or three days for a book which is in the back of my head, or on the tip of my tongue, to announce itself completdy author, title, time and place. Once it becomes " fixed " in my memory,

*
up.

weekly newspaper from Brusseb. Since

this

was written

it

has folded

196

IBTTBR TO PIERRE LBSDAIN

all sorts

of associations crowd in and open up undreamed of realms

of

my

dim
I

past.
little I

Thus
Gil Bias

have already written what

had

to say about Gil

Bias before ever receiving the

is

copy you
I

tell

me you
always

are sending.

one of the books

and

never read but about which there

hangs a
as the

tale,

for me,

at least

the

tale is

as

important
all I

book.

There are authors

who

intrigue

me

because of

have heard and read about them, because their

yet
I

lives interest

me,

cannot read their works.

Stendhal

is

one, and the author of

this

Tristram Shandy another.

respect
is

But perhaps the superb example in

Everything
I

the Marquis de Sade.

against, excites
all

read about him,

I

whether for or

me

enormously.

have actually
read without

read very Httle of

he has written, and

Nevertheless,
I

this Uttle I

much
I

pleasure or profit.

beHeve in him, so to speak.

think

him

most important

writer, a great figure, and

I

one of the

most

tragic wretches ever

bom.

am

going to write about him,

naturally,

even though
it

I shall

never read the whole of him.

to
**

(Who

has

i)

Incidentally,

may amuse you

I

know

that I

had great

difficulty recalling the tides

of so-called

obscene " works, both

This
is

those

had read and those

had only heard about.

one

branch of literature with which I am only faindy acquainted. But " branch " of Hterature or is it another category of misnomers i is it a

Here

is

random thought
I

en passant.

Each time

pick

volume of

Elie Faure

undergo a great emotional

I
I

conflict.

up a Time

and again, in speech and in writing,

indebtedness to this great individual.

have made mention of

my

ought to write a panegyric

I

on him, but
I

doubt that

will,

doubt that

can,

any more than

can for Dostoievsky or Whitman.

There are some authors

who
tell

are at once too grand

and too close to you.

You

never Uberate

yourself fi:om the thrall of their enchantment.

Impossible to

where your
All
It
is

own

life

and work separate or diverge from thein.

inextricably interwoven.

when I thiiJc of certain names, that my life began afiresh number of times. Doubdess because each time I rediscovered,
seems,
interpreters,

through the instrumentality of these divine

being.

my own
never did

You

speak of having immersed yourself for three years

in Nietzsche and in
this

him

alone.

understand, though

with any author.

But can you read Nietzsche today with

197

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

the

same fervor

Ah,

there's the miracle

Whoso

has the

power

to aiFect us
a master,

more and more deeply each time we read him is indeed no matter what his name, rank or status be. This is a
as I
I

thought which recurs

for instance, that if

reread

my favorite
up The

authors.

(I

am certain,

were

to pick

Birth of Tragedy
I

one book

have reread more than any other,

beheve

the am
I

certain, I say, that I

is

would be "finished"
Does
?

for the day.)

What
?

the

meaning of

this

undying enthusiasm for so many authors

it

ask this frequently of myself

it

mean I have not " evolved "

the answer,
I

Does

mean

am

naive

What

Whatever

assure

you
tion

regard

this

weakness

as a singular blessing.

And

if,

in picking a quota-

up an old

favorite, I should also

happen to find

in his

book

from another of my

great favorites, then

my joy is

unbounded.

Only yesterday, in glancing through The Dance Over Fire and Water* this happened to me. On page six I found this from Walt Whitman " The world will be complete for him who himself
:

is

complete."

And on page

eighty-four

this, also

from Whitman

"

You

look upon Bibles and rehgions

as

divine
all

and
life,

say that

they are divine.

And

say that they have

that
I
it is

come from you, can

come again from you, and you who give hfe." (May
proud
it

not they

who

give Hfe, but

that
I

say, for

once in
!)

my

am

was an American who spoke thus

the reasons
is

One of
them

why

cannot write about these favorite

I

authors at length

first

because

cannot refrain from quoting

copiously, second because they have muscled so deep into

fibres that the
It is

my very

their language.

not so
I

moment I begin talking about them I echo much that I am ashamed of " plagiariz-

ing " the masters as that

am

fearful

of ever being able to recover

carry within us
is

my own
so

voice.
entities,

the man who own voice. In the final analysis, is that Whatiota of uniqueness which we boast of as " ours " really ours ever real or unique contribution we make stems from the same

many

Due to our slavish reading, we so many voices, that rare indeed

his

can say he speaks with

inscrutable

source

whence everything
since
is

derives.
is

We

contribute

nothing but our understanding, which

acceptance.

way of sayingour

However,

we

are

all

modelled upon previous

models of which there

no

end, let us rejoice if occasionally

we

*By
I?8

Elie Faure.

LETTER TO PIERRE LESDAIN

sound
beings
like the glorious ones,

resound like those utterly emptied

**

who can And now to

your

say nothing

more than
cannot
tell

Om."
issues
I

concentrate a

few moments on the many

raised in

letter

...

you how

delighted

was

that

you should

so speedily have

you from
mail
I

my

old " master,"

made use of the citation I sent John Cowper Powys. In the same
of Combat
also

find the hterary editor

quoting firom the

preface to Visions and Revisions.

Soon

hope
I

to find for

you one

of Powys' books of interpretation, which

I

am

sure

you

will enjoy.

would

suppose he was never translated into French. To the French it The doubtless seem like " bringing coals to Newcastle."

other day, to gladden his heart and to

I

addressed
alive

him

as

"

mon

tr^ cher grand maitre."

been

when

I finally

make a long deferred obeisance, Had EHe Faure summoned the courage to approach his
and kissed
his

office, I

would

doubtless have knelt at his feet

hand.

You
where

speak of having to conquer the sentiment of " revolt,"

one's early idols are concerned.
is

True enough, though

first

think this

a transitory phase.

The

first

emotions, the

reactions,

are the true

is

and
I

lasting ones,

we

usually discover.

(To discover

to recover.)
for

must

confess,

however, that there are always a

affection or reverence,
attitude.
It is

few authors

whom, once we have lost our

At
this

we

are never again able to retrieve

our original

hke

a loss of grace.
**

moment

cannot

recall a single great

author

great " according to

in.

Indeed, the further back

true

and

lasting

seems

my definition^whom I have been deceived I wander among my idols, the more my adoration. No deceptions. Particularly
me
was given,
I

in the realm
is

of " boys* authors." No, the astonishing thing to

that,
this

once

my

allegiance
is

remained

loyal.

remark

on

because loyalty

not one of my strong points. The excepaltogether

**

tions
I

are absolutely unimportant,

unworthy of
which

note.

remain, where authors are concerned,

It is this

the constant lover."

i)
is

pecuHar

trait

(devotion
to

adoration
to

causing

this

book
can
I

(hypothetically)

grow
?

astonishing proportions.

How
this

ever finish testifying

?

How

can
I,

ever put an end to

song of love

And why

should I ?

who

have never kept a

is

diary, begin to perceive

how

tempting and compelling

I,

the desire

to record the progress

of one's inner voyage.

I

moreover,

who
199

on

several occasions

swore that

was through with books, went

: :

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

SO far once as to
veritable

become a manual worker, worse than

thus
(fatuously)

that

clodhopperthinking

to

overcome

the disease.

The
I

other night, rereading The Story of

across the following lines

My Life by
teacher,

Helen Keller,

came

by her

Anne Mansfield
of the regular

SulUvan

" Reading,

think, should be kept independent

school exercises.

Children should be encouraged to read for the

it.

pure dehght of
his

[Bravo

!]

The

attitude

of the child towards

books should be that of unconscious

receptivity.

The

great

works of the imagination ought to become a part of

they were once of the very substance of the

his life, as

men who wrote them."

She adds

"

Too

often,

think, children are required to write

before they have anything to say.

Teach them to think and read

and

talk

without self-repression, and they will write because they

it.'*

cannot help
In giving

it

as

her opinion that

*'

children will educate themselves

*'

under right conditions," that what they require are

guidance and

sympathy

far

more than

instruction," she
I

made me

diink of

Rous-

seau's Entile^

and again when

came

across the following

pass^e on

language

Language grows out of

experiences.

life,

out of

its

needs and

all but She had been living in a world she could not realize. Language* and knowledge are indissolubly connected they are interdependent. Good work in language presupposes and depends on a real knowledge of things. As soon as Helen grasped the idea that everything hacTa name, and that by means of the manual alphabet these names could be transmitted fi-om one to another, I proceeded to awaken her further interest in the objects wnose names she learned to spell with such evident joy. / never taught her language for the purpose of teaching it ; but invariably used language as a medium for the communication o( thought thus the learning of language was coincident with the acquisition of knowledge. In order to use language intelligently, one must have something to talk about, and having something to talk about is the result of having had experiences no amount of language training will enable

At

first

my

Httle pupil's

mind was

vacant.

Italia

throughout

this passage are

Miss Sullivan's own.

aoo

LETTER TO PIERRE LESDAIN

OUT
little

children to use language with ease and fluencv

unless they

have something clearly in

their

minds which

they wish to communicate, or unless

ing in them a desire to

we succeed in awakenis

know what

in the

minds of

othen.
All diis leads

me

to

your question about Lawrence

I

why

never

finished the study

of him which

began in

Paris

some seventeen

years ago.
I

But

first let

me

reply to the other question

whether
Perhaps
I

am

not closer to Lawrence than to Joyce.

I

Yes, indeed.

too close, or rather

was too close when

began writing that magnum

opus The World of Lawrence.

Like the present book on which

am

engaged,

it

too began

as a

"small" volume.

of the Tropic of Cancer^ Jack Kahane, had asked write for him a hundred pages or so on " my great

The publisher me if I would not

favorite,"
this
**

D. H. Lawrence.

His thought was to bring out

plaquette

"

before issuing the Cancer book, the publication of \^^ich had been

held up, for one reason and another, for three years or more.
idea

The

was

certainly not to

my

liking,

but

I I

grudgingly consented.

By

the time I

had written a hundred pages

that I could
this

was so deep in the study

sec the forest for the

of Lawrence's work
trees.

no longer

There remain of

abortive effort at least several hundred

finished pages.

There are a few hundred more which need revision,

and there

are,

of course, voluminous

notes.

Two
:

things

worked

together to frustrate the completion

desire to get

of this work
;

one, the urgent

arose in

on with my own story two, the confiision which my mind as to what indeed Lawrence did actually represent.

" Before a

man studies Zen,"

says Ch*ing-yuan,
;

" to him mountains

are mountains

and waters are waters

after

he gets an insight into

the truth of Zen, through the instruction of a

to

good master, mountains

;

him are not mountains and waters are not waters but when he really attains to the abode of rest, mountains
more mountains and waters
what he was
it, I

after this,

are once
sort

are waters."*

Something of the

appHes to any approach to Lawrence.

in the

Today he is once again beginning, but knowing this, and being sure of
need to
air

no longer

feel the

my

views.

All these critical and

interpretative studies

of authors so

vitally

important (to us) are

California,

* From Zen, by Alan

1948.

W. Watts

James Ladd Delkin, Stanford,

201

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

made
in

our

own

interest, I believe.

us better understand ourselves.

Our labors only serve to make Our subjects seldom need our
Usually they are dead by

defense or our brilliant interpretations.

the time

we

get to them.

As

for the pubHc, I

less

am more

and more

convinced that " they " too need

tion
their
;

and

less assistance

or instruc-

it is

more important,
certainly

do beHeve,

for

them

to struggle

on

own.
for Joyce,
I

As

am

indebted to him.
affinity
is

Certainly

was influenced by him.

obviously.

But
of

my

more with Lawrence,

My

antecedents are the romantic, demonic, confeswriter.

I
It is

sional, subjective types

Joyce's gift for language

which
"

attracts

me

to him, but, as

pointed out in the essay called

The Universe of Death,"

of Joyce.

*I prefer the language of Rabelais to

that

When
has

all's said,
;

in this field.
It is

He

no equal
I

he

however, Joyce remains the giant " monster." is virtually a

very, very difficult,

I

find, to distinguish the real

from

the

imaginary influences.
all influences,

have done

my

utmost to acknowledge

yet

I realize

only too well that in appraising

my work
You
The

the writers to

come

will point out influences

I

which
have

have ignored

and will discount other influences which

mentioned in your
author of that
letter
is

stressed.

The Rime of

the Ancient Mariner.

I

work

man

seldom speak about.

read this

They

work in school, of course, together with The Lay of the Last Minstrel. are among the few books I enjoyed reading in school, I will teU you. But the book I remember best, from school days, the book
left

which seems to have

I

an indelible impression upon me, though

Idylls

have never reread

!

it, is

Tennyson's

of the King.

The
by

reason

King Arthur

Only

the other day, in reading a letter

the famous

Gladstone to Schhemann, the discoverer of Troy and Mycenae,

I

noticed that he spoke of

faith,

SchHemann

as

belonging to another age,

an age of

an age of chivalry.

Certainly this man, this very

capable, practical-minded business

man, did more for history than

All because of a youthful
letter,

the

whole gang of flatulent "

historians."
I

love of and belief in

Homer.
I

mention Gladstone's
faith,

a noble

one, because whenever

a flame Hghts

touch upon the words

I

youth, chivalry,
true arboreal

up

in

me.

said a

moment ago

that

my
New

*From The Cosmological Eye, Editions Poetry London, London.

202

New

Directions,

York,

193 8.

LETTER TO PIERRE LESDAIN

descent

was such and

of writer

such.
?

But what
and deed.

is it

that nourishes
!

and

sustains

this species

The

heroic, the legendary

In a word, the

hterature of imagination

When
is

mention the name

aHve though sunk

King Arthur from

sight
;

I I

think of a world which

still

think of

it,

indeed, as the real, the eternal world,

because in

it

imagination and deed are one, love and justice one.

as if this

Today
or
girl

it

would seem
inflamed

world of Arthur's time belonged

it
is

exclusively to the scholar, but

is

resuscitated each time a

boy

by

contact with

it.

And

this leads

me

to say

how

woefully mistaken are those

who

beheve that certain books, because universally acknowledged as " masterpieces," are the books which alone have power to inspire

and nourish

us.

Every lover of books can name dozens of

his soul,

titles

which, because they unlock

reahty, are for
is

because they open his eyes to

It

him
is

the golden books.

scholars

matters not

what evaluation
authorities
:

made of these by

and

critics,

by pundits and

for the

man who

touched to the quick by them they are supreme.

We
acts
;

do not

ask of one

who

opens our eyes by what authority he

we do

not demand

his credentials.

Nor

should

we

be forever

grateful

and reverent towards our benefactors,

since each

of us

has the

power

in turn to

awaken

others and does in fact

do

so,

often unwittingly.
learns as

The wise man,

the holy

man, the true

scholar,

much from

the criminal, the beggar, the whore, as he does

from

the saint, the teacher, or the

I

Good Book.
you would
translate

Yes,

would indeed be
from

grateful if
I

one or
this

two

tales

the fabliaux.

have read almost nothing of

although
I

literature.

Which reminds me
list

that,

have received

many
good
I

books from the

compiled, no one has yet sent

me

book on

Gilles

de Rais or on Saladin, two figures in

whom

am

tremendously interested.

There are

certain

names one almost

great difference
lies

never encounters in our Hterary weeklies.

The

between European Hterary weeklies and American ones

In European weekHes the void
:

in the

emptiness with regard to Hterary names and events which characterizes

them.

is

clustered or spangled

with constellations

in a single column, for instance,

of Le Goeland

(published in Parame-en-Bretagne) one can run across a dozen

or

more

celebrated names, both past and contemporary,

which
Hterary

we

never hear of

Even

in Volonte,

which

is

not a

strictly

203


THE BOOKS IN MY LIFB
periodical, I find articles
sec

about men, books, events that

I

never

mention of in our papers or reviews. In the days when

worked
to
at

in the financial district of

New

York

for the Everlasting Cement

was,
as I

Company

I recall

what

a pleasure

it

made

my way
up

the elevated train at the

Brooklyn Bridge, to of stairs the

see stacked
latest issue

the foot of that interminable flight

pUcissimus.

of Sim-

In those days

we

had

at least

two

excellent magazines

in this country

The

Little

Review and The Dial.

Today

there

is

not one good magazine in the whole bloody country.

pass

Nor
I I

can

on without

word about
Benn.

Transition in

whose pages

discovered

the

most exciting new foreign names, among them one

can never

forget

Gottfiied
to

But

come back

to Saladin

and

Gilles

de Rais, than

whom

two more opposite types I have inquired of our libraries as to what books are available concerning them and I have gathered a few titles, mostly by English or American
there could hardly be
authors.

These

titles,

however, do not

incite

me

to look

up
is

the so

books

they have that immediate, sensational appeal which

I

eminendy American.
most

am

searching not so

much

for scholarly
I

as for poetic interpretation.

In the case of Gilles de Rais,

presume

that the

serious studies

have been made by the psychoanalysts.

If
I

But

do not want
I

a psychoanalytical study of Gilles de Rais.

prefer a

had to choose,
of this strange

would

CathoHc inquiry into the workings

ought to add

soul.
I

Speaking of the books

that
I

am

still

searching for,

also

want

a
?

book about
I

the Children's Crusade.

Do you know
unique

of a good one

remember reading about

;

this altogether

episode in history as a child

remember

my extreme

bewilderment

accompanied by a feeling of pain such

Since childhood
subject.
I

as I

had never experienced.

fleeting references to the

have stumbled only upon

Now,

with the reopening of

again.
la

my

early past,

I feel

that

must look into

it

As for Restif de

Bretonne

Monsieur Nicolas and Les Nuits de

these either.
I

Parisno one has yet sent

me

am

expecting any

day

now
;

book about Restif by an American

attache stationed in

Jidda

he has written

me several letters

telling

me of the remarkable
this singular

affinities

between the author of the

Tropics

and

French

104

LETTER TO PIERRE LESDAIN

writer.
this

You

can imagine

how

curious

am

to savor the blood of

strange creature.
I

In addition to books

have not asked

I

for, I receive

many

that

do want
of the
received

in fact,
listed.

by now

must have received about two-thirds pounced on immediately

that
I

titles
it

One
It is

that I

was a biography of George Alfred Henty,

a boy.
it

my
is

favorite

author
ville

when

not a

brilliant

work
It

(the author

G. Man-

Fenn) but
forty

serves the purpose.

afforded me, after waiting

some

odd

years, the excruciating pleasure

I

of gazing upon
photo which
deceptive.

the face of

my my

beloved author.
is

must say

that the

serves as the frontispiece

in

no wise disappointing or

There he
large as

is,

dear Henty (he was always just "

Henty "

to me),

life,

with a good massive head, flowing beard 4

la

Whit-

man, a big broad nose, almost Russian, and a frank,

gaze to his countenance.

genial, kindly

Though

they do not resemble one another,

he nevertheless reminds me strongly of another idol. Rider Haggard. They belong to the " manly " side of British men of letters. Rugged,
stalwart, honest
selves, fair

and honorable men, quite

reticent

about them-

and upright in

their dealings, capable in

many

ways,

many pursuits soHd bulwarks, as we say.

interested in

besides writing

active

men, good,

In demeanor and deportment, in the

variety

and scope of

their activities, they

had much in common.

side

From an
in their

early age they both

saw

the

rough

of Ufe. Both were

great travellers, spent considerable time in remote places.

Even

methods of work they had a great many points in common.

they wrote
fast

Though

and prodigiously, they devoted much time

to the accumulation, preparation

and

analysis

of

their material.

They both had

tion
realists,

the

**

chronicler " strain.

and intuition to a high degree.

They possessed imaginaYet no men were sterner

a certain affluence,

more immersed

in

life.

Both enjoyed

too,

on reaching middle

Hfe.

And both had

I

the

good fortime

to

be aided by very capable

they dictated their books.
I realize that

secretaries,

or amanuenses, to
that
!)

whom
to

(How
a writer
to

envy them

Henty

is

who may

not be

known

you

at all

but he was

known
as

American and English boys, and was

probably regarded

highly by them as Jules Verne, Fenimore

Cooper, Captain Mayne Reid or Marryat.

a

But

let

me
his

quote you

few of Fenn's observations about

this

man

Henty,

work, and
205

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

the reasons for his great success.

They

strike a

sympathetic note.
**

boy, he
a

states,

does not want juvenile Hterature.

read what

His aim

is

to

become

man and

men do and have

his

done.

Hence

the

great success of

George Henty's works. They are

essentially

manly,

and he [Henty] used to say that he wanted

straightforward and ready to play a

boys to be bold,
part,

young man's

not to be

milksops."
early

(Henty was practically a confirmed invaHd during

youth

^he

spent most of his days in bed.

Which

explains

his early passion for

It

books

he read everything that came to hand.

also

explains

the acute development of his imagination

later hfe, for

...

and his good health in

life as

only the

a weakling prizes

good

health

man who has started and knows how to guard it.)

**

Unconsciously," says Fenn,

he was building up a

greater success for his boys' books

by

enlisting

behalf the suffrages of that great and powerful

on their body of
gifts.

buyers of presents

who

has the selection of their

instructors,

By

this

body

is

meant our boys'

conning the publishers' hsts, famous name for the hero of the story and exclaim
history

who, in would come upon some

*
:

Ha

that's safe

*
!

In this

way Henty Hnked

himself

with the great body of teachers who joined with him hand in hand hence it was that the book-writer who kept up for so many years his wonderful supply of two, three and often four boys' books a year, full of soUd interest and striking natural adventure, taught more lasting history to boys than all the schoolmasters of his generation."
;

But enough on
discover
that they

this score.

find

it

strange,

must admit, to

what " soHd

characters "

my

early idols possessed, to learn

were men of affairs,

interested in agrarian reforms, miHtary

political intrigues, archaeology,

strategy, yachting, big

game hunting,

symbolism and so on.

that his

How startling to read of Henty, for example,

**
:

motto could well have been

!

God, the Sovereign, and

What a contrast to the characters who are later to influence me, so many of them " pathological," or, as Max Nordau would say " degenerate." Even dear old Walt, the man of the great outdoors, the poet with a cosmic sweep, is now studied from
the People

"

the

**

pathological " side.

Fenn saying

that " the neurotic

was

as

far firom

Henty

as are the poles

to

me now. The word

asunder " sounds almost comical " neurotic " was not even known in Henty's

206


LETTER TO PIERRE LESDAIN
day.
it is

Hamsun used to flaunt the word " neurasthenic." " psychotic " or else " schizophrenic." Today I

Today
writes

Who

for boys today

Seriously, I
?

mean.

What do

they feed on, the

youths of today
Last night
I

A
I

most

interesting question

...
This happens to

had great

difficulty falling asleep.

me

frequently since
:

am

engaged on

this

book.

The
I

reason

is

simple

am

inundated with such a flood of material,

it is difficult

have such

a tremendous choice, that

to write about.

for

me

to decide

what
I

not

Everything seems pertinent.

Everything

touch

reminds

me

of the inexhaustible stream of contributory influences

which have shaped

my

intellectual being.

As

reread a
to

book

think of the time, place and circumstances

selves.

known
I

my

former

Conrad

says

somewhere

that a writer only begins to live

after

he has begun to write.

A partial truth.
is

know what he
There
is

meant,

Conrad, but

the

life

of a creator

not the only Hfe nor perhaps

leads.

the most interesting one

which a man

a time for

play and a time for work, a time for creation and a time for lying
fallow.

And

there

is

a time, glorious too in

I

its

way, when one

scarcely exists,

when one is a complete void.

mean

^when boredom

seems the very stuff of life.

Speaking of the Everlasting Cement

me

to recalling the

wonderful fellows

Company a while ago got who worked with me in that

Suddenly
I

office at

30 Broad Street,
I

New

York.

was so charged
connected

with recollections that

the

grabbed

my

notebook and began Hsting

trifling episodes

names of

these individuals
I

and the
clearly

with them.

saw them

all

and

distinctly

Eddie
Ray

Rink,

Jimmy Tiemey, Roger

or-other (a mere

Wales,

Frank Selinger,

Wetzler,

Frank McKenna, Mister Blehl (my bete noir), Barney something-

mouse of

man), Navarro, the vice-president,

whom we

encountered only in going to the lavatory; TaHaferro,

the peppery Southerner from Virginia, who would repeat over " ToUiver ! the phone a dozen times a day, " Not Taliaferro

But the one on

twenty-one.
panions.

whom my memory
I left

fastened

was

a fellow

never
age of

once thought of from the day

the

company

at the

Harold

Street
his

was

his
I

name.

We

were boon comit

record

" vacant

Jotting

down

name,

wrote alongside of

for the
207

days."

That

is

how

I associate his

name with

mine

^by the

remembrance of blank,

idle,

happy days spent with

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFB

him in the suburb called Jamaica. We must have had somethiag common, but what it was I no longer remember. I know
definitely that
as I

in

he was not interested in books, nor in bicycle riding,

to his

was.

would go
pass as in a

home,

a large, rambling, lugubrious

sort

of faded mansion, where he Hved with a grandmother, and the

dream.

day would

Not

the faintest

remembrance of

what we talked about or

how we
envied

passed the time.

But
to

to visit

him
I

in those quiet,
I

sombre surroundings was a balm

guess
I

me, that
life.

do remember.

him

the quietude of his

As

far as I

could detect, he had no problems.

And

that

was

utterly

strange to

mebecause

was riddled with them.

Harold was

one of those calm, steady, poised young

men who know how to get oa in the world, how to adapt themselves, how to avoid pain and grief It was that which attracted me to him. The deeper reasons for this attraction I will undoubtedly uncover when I go
into this period
I

more deeply

^in

Nexus

^which,

as

you know,

have not even started to write. Enough, however, to call attention '* periods in which, fortunately for us, we are not to those " vacant

even concerned to
in Ufe.
I

know who we are, much less what we will do know one thing definitely, it was the prelude to my break

with the family,

my

break with
I

office routine

the wanderlust
all

had come over

as

me

and soon

was to say goodbye to

"

my

friends

well as

my

family, to start out for the

Golden West (of Puccini

!

rather than the gold seekers).

'*

No more books
And
then,

"

said to

myself

Done with

the intellectual life."

California,

on

the fruit ranch

at

Chula Visu,

whom do I pal up with but that cowboy,

has an itch to read and

BiU Parr of Montana,

walks with
it is

who
work

who

takes long

me

after

to discuss our favorite authors.

I

And

because of my affection for Bill Parr that

happen upon

Emma
it,

Goldman in San Diego swung back again into

all,

and, without in the least intending

the world of books, via Nietzsche

am
of
the
!

first

then Bakunin, Kropotkin, Most, Strindberg, Ibsen, and

all

celebrated

European
I

dramatists.

So

it

turns, the

wheel of destiny

Last night

could not

fall asleep.

had just been reading another

old favorite

Edgar
I I
I

Saltus

an

American author you probably

Imperial Purple,

never heard of

was reading The

one of those

books which

thought had taught

me

something about "style."

The
208

night before

had finished Emil Ludwig's biography of Hein-

LBTTBR TO PIBRRB LBSDAIN

rich Schliemann,

which nude

incredible to think

what

this

me dizzy, dizzy because it is almost man accomplished in one lifetime.

Yes,

know

about JuHus Caesar, Hannibal, Alexander, Napoleon,

Thomas

Rene CaiU^ (of Timbuctoo fame), and Gandhi and scores of other " active ** men. They all led incredible Uvcs.
Edison,

But somehow

man SchHemann, a grocer's boy who becomes who learns eighteen languages "on the side," as it were, and speaks and writes them fluendy, this man who all his life conducted a heavy correspondence in his own handand made copies of each and every letter by hand this man who begins his career in Russia, as exporter and importer, who all his Ufe is traveling between distant points, who rises at four in the
this

a great merchant,

morning

usually, rides horseback to the sea (at Phaleron) takes a

swim winter
out,

or summer,

is

at his

desk or at the excavations having

a second breakfast at eight a.m.,

who

reads

Homer

in season

and

and towards the

his

later
insists

years refuses to speak even

modem
he
is

Greek to

wife but

on using

the Greek of

Homer's day,

who

writes his letters in the language

of the man

whom
man

addressing,

who

unearths the greatest treasures any

. .
.

has ever

found, who, et cetera, et cetera,

putting such a

well

how

can one sleep on

book down

Order,

discipb'ae, sobriety, perseverance,

doggedness, authoritativeness,

how German

he was

And

this

man had made

himself a citizen of the United

States, residing for

a while in San Francisco and later in Indianapolis.

Utterly cosat heart

mopoUtan and yet thoroughly German.

still

Greek

and

a Teuton.

The most amazing man

imaginable.
places,

Uncovering
and almost
Losing

the ruins of Troy,

Mycenae, Tiryns and other

beating Sir Arthur Evans to the labyrinth of the Minotaur.

out because the peasant

who was ready to sell him the site of Knossus

had

lied to him about the number of oUve trees on the property. Only 888 instead of 2,500. What a man! I waded through his fat tomes on Troy and Mycenae I read the autobiographical pages he
;

inserted in

one of these volumes.

And
!

then

decided on Ludwig*s

book

for an over-all picture

of the man.

What

a task for the biographer

Listen to his

Twenty thousand
:

papers Herr

Ludwig examined.

words

First of all, there was the long series of diaries and notebooks which he kept and wrote up almost continuously

209

"

THE BOOKS IN MY tIFE

from
of
the twentieth year until the sixty-ninth and last year
his Hfe.

There were
letters,

his business records

books,
his

family

legal

documents,

passports

and account and

diplomas, huge volumes of his linguistic studies,

down

to

very exercises in Russian and Arabic

there

script.
all

Besides
quarters

all this,

were newspaper
lists

cuttings firom

with historical data and dictionaries of his own compiling in a dozen languages. Since he preserved everything, I found, along with the most illuminating memoranda, an invitation to attend a concert in aid of a poor widow. Every paper was dated in his own hand-

of the globe,

writing.

cannot leave the subject without reference to one humorous

and pathetic incident concerning Agamemnon.

Towards the end

of his days, discussing for the thousandth time, perhaps, the question

of whether

it

was or was not Agamemnon's body which he had

his
;

exhumed, SchUemann exclaimed to " So this is not Agamemnon's body

All right,
let's

young

assistant,

Dorpfeld

these are not his ornaments

call
I

him
go
to

Schulze

Yes, each night

bed and
(I

digest the

book or books
Henty's

have

been reading that evening.

in a

have only two hours

at the

most
the

day to do

all

my

reading.)

One

night

it is

life,

next Rider
little

Haggard's two-volume autobiography, the next a

the next Helen Keller's Hfe, the next a study

book on Zen,

of

the Marquis de Sade, the next a

book on Dostoievsky,
to another

either

by

Janko Lavrin (another old favorite and eye opener) or John Cowper

Powys
and

go

in rapid succession

Aretimo,

Ouspensky

from one Ufe

Hesse

Rabelais,
en
Orient)

^then

Hermann

(Voyage
I

his Siddhartha

(two English versions of it

am

obliged to read

and compare with the German and French), EUe Faure (The Dance

Over

Fire and Water)^

with sideswipes

at certain passages in

The

History of Art,

The Black Death, Boccaccio, Le Cocu Magnifique,

et c'est bien magnifique,

comme
eyes.

je vous ai dit par carte-postale.

!

Let

me

stop a

moment

here.

Crommelynck

Flemish genius.
has contributed

Another John Ford, in

my

dramatist

who

something altogether original to the repertory of immortal drama.

And on my
I

favorite

themejealousy.

Othello ?

You
I

can have

it

prefer

Crommelynck. Proust was

wonderfiil, in his labyrinthine

absolute.

way.
2IO

But Crommelynck reaches the

don't sec

how

LETTER TO PIERRE LESDAIN

it is

possible to

add anything more to

tliis

great theme.

(My
see
it

respect

to your colleague, J. Dypreau, for his excellent review of the recent presentation

of

this

play in Brussels.

When

will

we

here,

wonder,
Yes,
I

if ever ?)

cannot sleep nights

is

after reading these

marvelous books.

Each one
are

sufficient to set a

man's head spinning for a week.

new
is

to

me, others

old.

They

overlap and intertwine.

Some They
?

complement one another, even when they seem most

All
I

disparate.

one.
it.

Ah, what was

" The
artist

that line in Faure I

at a final order."

wanted
True.

to

remember

Too true, alas. " The order is in us, and not elsewhere," he says. " And it does not reign elsewhere, only if we have the power to make it reign in us." One of my readers, a young French psychoanalyst, sends me an
have
aims
excerpt

from one of Berdyaev's books

world which
I

in

which the

latter

speaks of

the chaos in the present

have succeeded in rendering,

!

and then adds that this chaos is also in me. As if I did not know " The artist aims at a final order." Bien dit et vrai, meme s'il essaie
de ne rien donner que
le

chaos qui reside en lui-meme.

Ca,

c*est

mon
je

avis.

Aux
moi.

autres a denicher

ou

la

v6rk6 ou

le

complexe. La,

reste,

To

this let

me

add
I

that, in

writing several book-seller fiiends

I

of mine

for the

books

wanted,
"

received in reply substantially the

same gratuitous
fantastic
I

slap in the face

titles
!

from

all

" Never saw such a

medley of

As

if,

in selecting

from

all

the books

had read in the

last

forty years,

should have chosen for them a

titles
!

certain pleasing

and inteUigible sequence of and meaning.

say
!

Where

they

see a farrago I see order

My
I

order,

my
my
life.

meaning.

My

continuity.
?

what order

Who is to How absurd

more

what

should have

read,

and in

The more
I

uncover

past, as it

reveals itself

through the books

have read, the more

logic, the
It

more
grand

order, the

discipline I discover in
it

my

makes

sense, one's Hfe,

even when

resembles a quagmire. Certainly

the devious and manifold paths

no Creator could have ordained

one
treads, the choices

and decisions one makes. Can you imagine

single mortal that ever

a ledger in

which the vagaries of every

i

Hved
?

were recorded

Would

it

not be insane to keep such a log book

No,
(>ur

am

sure that whatever difficulties

we

mortals have in finding

fantastic ones.

way, the Creator must have similar and more

211

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

And
it
if,

as I

solemnly believe,

it all

makes sense to Him,

regards our

why

can

not also make sense to

?

us, at least as

own
I

individual

lives

If I cannot sleep nights

for the extent

it is

not because of the books

is

am reading,
to

of

my

reading

infinitesimal

compared

what a
Helena

bookworm
worm, and
it is

devours in a day.

(Think of Napoleon

at St.

ordering up stacks of books each day, devouring them like a tapecalling for

more, more

!)

No,

it is

not the books alone,

the

memories

associated
I

with them, the memories of former

as clearly as if

lives, as I said before.

I

can see these former selves

fiiends in turn.

And yet, here is a fact the man I was when I first read Mysteries, I simply cannot get over let us say, seems to be hardly a whit different from the man I was yesterday, the man I still am, let us suppose. At least I am no different
were looking
at

my many

in

my appreciation of and enthusiasm for the author of this book. (That he was a " collaborator " during the last War, for example,
if,

means absolutely nothing to me.) Even

as a writer, I

am

aware

with each rereading of the "defects" or, to be more kind, ** the weaknesses " of my favorite author, the man in me still responds
to him, to his language, to his temperament, just as warmly.
I

may have grown

but thank God,
being.
final
It
I

or
I

may

not either
I

in

intellectual stature,

say to myself,

have not altered in

my

essential
is

must

be,

assume, that an appeal

made

to one*s soul

and irrevocable.

And

it

is

with the soul that

we

grasp the

essence of another being, not with the mind, not even with the
heart.

One day
as

read in the French paper Combat a letter dated as late

It

1928 firom H. G. Wells to James Joyce.

was a
It

letter to

make
of a

one blush with shame for a feUow author.

reminded

me

communication in the same vein, but in

berg to Gauguin, anent the
listen to the
latter's

better spirit,

from

Strind-

(new) Tahitian paintings.

letters
:

tone of the
la

croyez sans doute a

c*cst

pompous Englishman of chastet^, i la puret^ et i un

But " Vous

dieu personnel
cris

pourquoi vous

finissez

toujours par vous repandre en

de con, de merde et d'enfer." " Oh, Henry, what beautifiil golden teeth you have

" exclaimed
into bed

my
913

four-year-old daughter the other morning

on climbing
mes

with me.

C'est ainsi <)uc je m'appro(:he des gpuvres de

confi-^res,

LETTER TO PIERRE LESDAIN

I

sec

how beautiful
.
.
.

arc their golden teeth, not

how

ugly or

artificial

they are

But there
keep

are

little

things, trifling personal things,

which

also

and
this

me awake nights after finishing a book. For example, time again I am struck by the factand I hope you will not think egotistical of methat so many of the writers or artists I adore
their Uves just

seem to have ended

about the time

was being bom.

just a few.)

(Rimbaud, Van Gogh, Nietzsche, Whitman, to name

What do I make of this

mc. So
I

Nothing,

actually.

But

it

serves to

bemuse

was just making

my way

out of the
rest
!

womb,

protestingly,

when

they were laying themselves to

I

All that they fought

and died for

have to repeat, in one

way

or another.

Their
I

experience, their
inherit

wisdom of

Hfe,

their teachings,

nothing do
I

by

virtue

of their immediate precedence. More,

I

must wait

twenty, thirty, sometimes forty years before

even hear

their

names
vitally

mentioned.
interested in

Another thing about these

figures

am
;

knowing how they came

ilbiess,

to their

end

whether
it is

through accident,

suicide or chagrin.

Sometimes

the

circumstances attending their birth which fascinate me.

(Jesus

was not the

.only

one to be

bom

in a manger,

find.

Nor was

Swedenborg the only one to

death.)
lives

predict the

day and hour of his

own

The few who were comfortable and affluent during their are vastly oumumbered by the hordes who knew nothing

but sorrow and misery,

betrayed,
reviled,

who were

starved, tortured, persecuted,

imprisoned,

banished,

beheaded,

hanged or
genius there

drawn and

quartered.

Around almost every man of

of similar geniuses
all
;

clusters a constellation

rare are those

who

are

bom out
Those
I

of time. They

belong to and are part of bloody epochs.

say,

in the tradition, as

we

Hve and die according to

tradition.

think of Nikolai V. Gogol for

some reason

the one who wrote

who
place,
:

declares towards the

this

The Diary of a Madman, the author of the Cossack Iliad end of one of his stories "A gloomy
world, gentlemen
**
!

He, Gogol,

settles

down

in

Rome, of

all places,

fearing to remain in

Holy

Russia.

(Have you noticed,

incidentally, in

what

strange, foreign,

and often remote and desolate

i)

places

our

scribes write their

famous books

Dead

Souls a

was few

completed in Rome.
days before his death
;

The second volume Gogol burned

the third was never begun.

Thus, in spite
213

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

of a pilgrimage to Palestine
fused, despondent being,
as a

holy penitent,

this

wretched, con-

who had hoped

to write a Divine
**

Comedy

for his people,

one that would contain

message," perishes

miserably far from home.

The man who

has

made miUions laugh

on
the Russian (and

and weep,

who had

a most decided influence

is

other) writers to come,

labelled before his death as **a preacher

of the knout, an apostle of ignorance, a defender of obscurantism and darkest oppression.***

wonderful,
ends the

And by
is

a former admirer

But

how

how

prophetic
!

that passage

on the

troika
I

which

first

volume

Janko Lavrin, from

whom

have drawn
**

the above observations, says that in this passage

Gogol

addresses

Russia with a question which

since

all
is

her great authors have been asking

the passage
.

^asking in vain.**

Here

you not speeding along like a fiery and ? Beneath you the road is smoke, the At bridges thunder, and everything is left far behind. your passage the onlooker stops amazed as by a divine
Russia, are

matchless troika

miracle.

Was

that not a flash

full

of lightning

he
is

asks.
this
?

What
force

is

this

surge so

of

terror

And what
!

unknown
!

impelling these horses never seen before

Ah, you

horses, horses

^what

horses

Your manes

are

whirlwind And are your veins not tingling like a quick ear ? Descending from above you have caught the note and at once, in unison, you strain of the famihar song your chests of bronze and, with your hooves barely skim;

ming

the earth,

you

are transformed into arrows, into

straight lines

air, and on you rush Russia, where are you under divine inspiration flying i Answer me. There is no answer. The bells are tinkling and filling the air with their wonderful pealing everythe air is rent and thundering as it turns to wind thing on earth comes flying past and, looking askance at her, other peoples and States move aside and make way.f

winging through the

! .

Yes,
for

it is
it

memorable

passage, prophetic, indubitably so.

But
words
is

me

evokes other emotions and reactions too.

In these
!

and

especially

when

it

comes

to,

**

Answer me

There

no

answer."

seem

to hear the sonorous music

"<jvhen

of so many famous
fath^r-s

exiles, all

singing the same tune, even

to

they hated the

;

* See From Pushkin

1948. t Translation

Mayakovsky, by Janko Lavrin

Sylyan

|*rcss,

London,

by George Reavey.

314

LETTER TO PIERRE LESDAlM

land or the motherland.

"
I

am

here.

You
it.

arc there."

That

is

what they
love
it

are saying.

"

know my
I spit

country better than you.

I

more, even though

upon

am
is

the prodigal son

late.

and

I shall

return with honor one day

stir

if it

not too

But

I shall

not

from here
I

until

you make me an honorary

citizen

of my home town.
than any loneliness.

am dying of loneliness but my pride is

I

greater

have a message for you, but

it

is

not the

time
I

now know

to reveal it."

And

so

on
a

these hearts full

of anguish,

full

of

despair, full

of such

mingled love and hate

"

as to burst

man

asunder.

When I urged you to read with special attention the piece called The Brooklyn Bridge " (in The Cosmologkal Eye), perhaps it
this that I

was something of all

Black Spring.
:

had in mind.

You

are right about

illustrates

You

put your finger on the very line which

my point " I am grateful to America for having made me realize my needs ..." But did I not say, too " I am a man of the Old
:

World i "
let us

Those miserable, niggardly reviews you speak

of

not waste time discussing them.

Who
or

will care fifty years

from
of
I

now what Robert Kemp

gang
?

said,

Edmund
Too
is

Wilson, or any

this

am back in America. My days

then on not a moment's
his diaper

are

fiiU.

fiill.

At 6.20 sharp

every morning the cock crows.

The cock
rest.

Tony,
I

my

litde son.

From

Often

begin the day by

changing
Valentin
to be.

" the mystery of God,"

Sometimes
I

and fetching him a zwieback.

as

Then comes

she one day announced herself

am

digging in the garden before breakfast,

I

extending the interminable shallow trenches into which

put back
peasant.

what we have taken from

Breakfast over,
I

the

soil, like

good Chinese

rush to

my

studio and begin answering the mail

letters to

every day fifteen or twenty

I

answer.
If
I

Before the sun

I

sets

usually take the children for a walk.

go alone
It is

on

the trot,

my
I

head swarming with

ideas.

come home only when I enter

get the chance to

the forest that

am

truly alone, only then

do

empty

my

mind and recharge

visitors.

the battery.

Some

days are broken

up. by the arrival of

Occasionally they pull up one after

I

another, like railroad trains.

have hardly said goodbye to one

van load than another

even read

pulls up.

Many of

these visitors have not

!

my

books.

"

WeVe

heard about you

" they say.

As
215

"

THB BOOKS IN MY LIFE

if that constituted a

warrant for encroaching upon a man's precious

'

tune

Between

times, as
at

it

were,
I

write.

If I

can put in two to three

This
letter to

hours a day

my work
I

consider myself lucky.

you, for instance,

began yesterday, and will probably continue

a letter

tomorrow.
to a
in

It

does

me good to write
letter,

which

is

not a response

demand, a gratuitous
like the waters

so to speak,
I

which has accumulated

this letter

me

of a

reservoir.
it

have owed you

for a long time.

You
aspect

have evoked

without knowing

it.

How

loathe those letters

a thesis

from

college students

who

are about to write

on some

of my work, or on the work of some friend

of mine.
to

The
i

questions they ply, the

demands they make

And
get a

what end
such

What

could be more
thesis
i

useless,
(It is

more

a waste

of time

and energy, than a college

thesis

not every day

!)

we

as

Celine wrote on Semmelweiss

Some,

in utter

naivet^, have the cheek to ask

me

to explain

my

whole works
I

to

them
look wars

in a few brief
the trench
I

lines.

Sometimes, resting on the spade,

look

up from

am

digging

^it

is

beginning,

by

the way, to

like those
!

breastworks which were thrown up in the Balkan

I say,

sometimes,
carry

looking up

at the

huge blue bowl of the

the use of

sky in which the vultures are careening, or looking out to sea where
perhaps not a ship
all,
is

to be sighted,

I
i

wonder what

is

it

mad activity It is not that I feel lonely. I doubt if I have known that feeling more than two or three times You write, in my whole hfe. No, I wonder simply to what end others write me likewise, that my work should be disseminated,
on
this

why

that

it

contains something of value for the world.

wonder.
!

How
**

good
only

it

would

feel

not to do anything

at all for a

while

Just

set

and ponder.

Twiddle

my

thumbs.
is

Nothing more.
to

As

it is,

the

way

can take a vacation

I

trump up a dubious malaise

and take to bed for the day.

at a

can He for hours without looking

book. Just he

flat

on
I

my

back and dream.

What

a luxury

Sure, if I

had the choice

would

rather be spending

journeying to some distant realm

or Lhasa.

^Timbuaoo,
I

my

**

**

vacation

let

us say, or Mecca,
I

But

since

cannot make the physical voyage

choose a few
after

make

imaginary ones.
heart

As companions
Ramakrishna,

my own
Cendrars,
rout out

Dostoievsky,

EUe

Faure,

Blaise

Jean Giono, or some 216

unknown

devil or saint

whom

LETTER TO PIERRE LESDAIN

of
all

his
I

Himalayan

fastness.

Sometimes

get well of a

suddeninto

needed was a change, an interlude

I

and jumping

my
yet.

clothes

run

down

the line to visit

my

friend Schatz or

my

friend
it

Emil White. (Both

are painters, but the latter isn't

aware of

He

doesn't

know what

to call himself, but every day he turns out

another Persian miniature of Big Sur.)

writer
I

would have

to travel

To see another American God knows how many miles.

most
interest-

Which reminds me
ing and revelatory
to

that the other evening I read a

letter

Theodore

Dreiser.

by Sherwood Anderson (January 2, 1936) It was precipitated by the suicide of Hart

Crane and Vachel Lindsay, two well-known American poets, " For the last year or two," Anderson begins, " I have had something in

my

mind

that

you and

should have spoken about and

during the

last

year or

two

it

has been sharpened in

my

mind by

the suicide of fellows like Hart Crane, Vachel Lindsay and others,
to say nothing of the bitterness

author of Spoon River Anthology.)

of a Masters." (Edgar Lee Masters, " If there has been a betrayal in

I

America," he goes on to say, "

other.
artists,
I

think

it is

our betrayal of each

do not

believe that
singers,
etc.

we^and by

the

writers,

^have really stood

word we by each
*

mean

other."

He
on
can

goes on to say that he has been thinking of putting his thoughts

the subject into a general letter or pamphlet to be called "

Ameri-

Man

to

American Man."
says that
it

He

speaks of our loneliness for one

all

another.

He

might help for

of us " to return to the

that has at certain
:

old habit of letter-writing between

periods existed in the world."

man and man

then he adds

And

this

For example, Ted, suppose that every morning when you go to your desk to work you would begin your day's work by writing, let's say, one letter to one other man working in the same field as you are. Suppose we did, by this effort, produce less as writers. There is probably
too much being produced. I am suggesting this as the only way out I can see in the situation. It isn't that I want you to write to me. t could give you names and addresses
possible to build

need you and whom you need. I think it up a kind of network of relationships, something closer say between writers and painters and songmakers, etc, etc Further on he continues this letter on the following day ^hc writes Can you bcUevc

of others

who

217

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

that Vachel Lindsay would have taken [suppression of text by the editor, not me !] if on that day he had got even two or three letters from some of the rest of us ?*
. .

I
It

don*t

know what you

you
as jejune.
I

will think

of

this idea

of Anderson s.

may

strike

But
that

it

appeals to me, being also an

American.

By

that

mean

we

Americans are always ready

to try a thing out, even if

it

we

are not convinced beforehand that

to a

will work.

But
is

as I

was saying

young

writer
it is

who

Uves

nearby and

who

putting the idea into practice,

a projert

better suited for

young and unknown

writers than older ones.

Why

shouldn't

young and unknown

writers

communicate with
hopes and dreams
?

one another about

their needs, their desires, their

Why shouldn't they create a network of their own,

a bulwark of defense against the indifference
indifference

a soUd nucleus,

of the world, the

of older writers

who
is

have arrived, against the indif?

ference, stupidity

and blindness of editors and publishers particularly

I

An

older writer,

have noticed,

tempted to dissuade rather than

the traps, the
pitfalls,
is

encourage a young writer.

deceptions, the heart-aches

He knows
which

the

beset the novice.

He

apt to be

disillusioned about the value or necessity

his
I

of any

creative

work,

own

included.

so firmly beheve that the blind should aid the blind, the deaf

the deaf, and the

young

writers the

young
from

writers.

Moreover,

we

the older ones have

us.
it

more

to learn

the

young than they

from
lucky

" Fools rush in where angels fear to tread."

Aye

And

be

so.

There was a pompous old

scientist

here the other

day who, arguing with a young friend of mine about the coming

voyage to the moon,

insisted that it

was not the time

to think

seriously about such ventures, that indeed to discuss such matters

before the time was ripe, did

more harm than good. What

sit

arrant

nonsense
science

As

if

we were

to

back and wait

until the

men of

"Go

had made fiill preparation and provision, until they said " Would anything ever happen if that were the procedure ?
to

But

come back
I

to
I

Sherwood Anderson and

forgot to include these

Dreiser.

rather think

his good friend two men among

I

my

" influences,"
to

when

wrote on

this subject earlier.

had the

good fortune
* The
Portable

meet Anderson
;

just a

few

years before he died.

Sherwood Anderson

The Viking

Press,

New

York, 1949.

218


LETTER TO PIERRE LESDAIN
It

was shordy

after

my return from Europe.

I
I

It

happened that

was
at

staying at the

same hotel he was.

made

a date to

meet him

nearby bar, and

when

arrived

found to

my

deHght that John

Dos

Passes

was

sitting

with him. be
I

them, was
writers
!

^how odd to
though
I

My first impression,
**

on greeting
(In Paris,

sitting

with two celebrated American

birds."

I felt as

should study these

of course,
close to
letters."

had met a few American

I

writers, but they

as

were so

me, so intimate, that

Before
I

never regarded them

"

men of

that,

during
recall
I

my

whole period of apprenticeship

in America,

can hardly
I

one writer of eminence, one of our

to.)

own

writers,

mean, that

had met and talked

critical aloofiiess

Of course
sipated

this

feeUng of

was immediately

dis-

men.
I

by the warmth and friendliness emanating from these two They were very, very human and at once put me at ease.
this because,

mention

finding myself back in America again,

I also

found myself back in

writer.
tfiey

my

old attitude of the novice, the

unknown

Neither of them had read

my

books,

am
I

quite sure, but

knew my name.

We got

along splendidly.
I

was intoxicated
also impressed

especially

by Anderson's

storytelling gift.

was

by

his

Americanism, though in appearance he was anything but

the typical American.

Dos

Passos too struck

me

as

very American,
I

though he was quite a cosmopolite.

that they

The

fact

is,

soon observed

were very much

at

home

in their

own

country.

They
too.

liked America.
I

They had
it

traveled over every part

of

it,

say

was deUghted to fmd Dos Passos there in the

bar.

Yes,

because oddly enough

tributions to a

was the reading of one of

The Seven
Arts, I think

his early

con-

magazine
also

that
I

led

me

to beUeve

might

become

a writer

one day.

had of course had the

*

read a

number of his

early books, such as Three Soldiers, Manhattan

I

Transfer

and Orient Express.

sensed the poet in him, as

bom

storyteller in

Sherwood Anderson.
of them had
I

But before
days, that

either

swum
I

into

my

ken
his,

had read and

adored Theodore Dreiser.

I

read everything of

in those early
fint

could lay hands on.

called

even modelled
I

my

book on

book of his

Twelve Men.
this
tell

loved his brother, too,

:

whom

he portrayed so tenderly in
writer.

book

Paul Dressier, the song

Dreiser, I

need hardly

you, gave a tremendous impetus

like Jenny Gerhardt,

%o the

young

W|:iters

of his day. His big novels,

219

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

The
Titan,

The Finander^wt

call

unwieldy" today
sombre,
realistic,

carried

tremendous impact.

them "huge, cumbersome and They were

dense, but never dull

at least to

me. They were

passionate novels, saturated with the color

and the drama of Ameri-

can

life

they issued direct from the guts and were

the very heart's blood of the man.

that

So

sincere

warmed by do they seem now

men

artificial

like Sinclair Lewis, Hemingway, even Faulkner, appear by comparison. Here was a man who had anchored him-

self in

seamy
as

a reporter he had seen life close up-the He was not bitter, he was honest. As honest any American writer we have ever had. And that is what he

midstream.

As

side, naturally.

taught me, if anything

the abiHty to look

that

at life honestly.
fullness.
I

There
that

was another quaUty he had and

was

know

Americans have the reputation of writing thick books, but they

are not always fulsome books. I spoke a while back

of the difference

in

**

emptiness " between European writers and Americans.

I feel it, is
is

The
of
his

emptiness of the European, as

material
;

in the basic ore

the emptiness

of the American

in his spiritual or culis

tural heritage.

The

**

fullness

of the void " which

in the

so manifest

in Chinese art seems to be

in

unknown
I

Western world, both

thrill it
I

Europe and America.

When
artist

spoke of the

gave

me

to

glance at a European review or hterary weekly,

the pleasure which the
peasant
stir

meant to

indicate

of the garret has when he watches a

a pot of thick stew, a stew which has been kept going,

so to speak, for a

week or more.

It is

nothing for a French writer

references
;

to lard his article with dazzling

names and
and

it is

part

of
so

his daily Hterary fare.

Our

critical

interpretative essays are

meagre

in this respect that

one would think

it

we emerged from
is

barbarism only yesterday.

spilling

But when

comes to the novel, to

apt to give

out the raw experience of Hfe, the American

the European a jolt.

Perhaps the American writer Hves closer to

is

the roots, imbibes

Besides,
it is

more of what

called experience.
I

am not sure.

dangerous to generalize.

can

by French

writers particularly, the like

number of novels, of which for content, raw

cite a

material, slag, rich ore, profusion

and profundity of experience

I

we have no coimterpart for.

sion that the

In general, however,

have the impres-

European writer begins from the

His particular

roof, or the firma-

ment, ?30

if

you hke.

racial, cultural

firmamentnot

LETTER TO PIERRE LESDAIN

the

firmament.

It's

as

though he worked with a triple-decked

levels, his

clavier.

Sometimes he remains on the upper

is

voice gets

thin, his material

predigested.

works on

all levels at
is

once

The great European, of course, he knows how to pull every organ

stop and he

a master with the pedals.

But
pare

let us

approach the subject from another angle. Let us comreally

:

two men who ought

not to be compared, since one was

I

a novelist and the other a poet

I

mean Dostoievsky and Whitman.

choose them arbitrarily because for

me

they represent the peaks

infinitely

in

modem

Hterature.

Dostoievsky was

more than

novelist,

of course,

just as

Whitman was
as

greater than a poet.

at least, is that

But

the difference

between the two, in

my eyes

Whitman,
as

though the
**

lesser artist,

though not

profoimd, saw bigger than

Dostoievsky.

He had

the cosmic sweep, yes.

We speak of him

the great democrat."

Now that particular appellation could never

be given Dostoievsky
social

^not

because of his religious, pohtical and

beUefs but because

(I

Dostoievsky was' more and

understood that

less

than

a " democrat."
**

hope

it is

when

use the

word
big

democrat "

mean

to signify a unique self-sufficient type of

individual

whose

allegiance

no government has yet

arisen

enough, wise enough, tolerant enough, to include as citizen.) No, Dostoievsky was human in that " all too human " sense of Nietzsche.

He
is

wrings our withers

when he
;

unrolls his scroll

of Hfe. Whitman

impersonal by comparison

he takes in the crowd, the masses,

His eyes are constantly fixed on

the great

swarms of humanity.

the potential, the divine potential, in

man.

He

talks

brotherhood

Dostoievsky

talks fellowship.

Dostoievsky

stirs

us to the depths,
close

causes us to shudder
times.

and grimace, to wince, to

our eyes

at

Not Whitman.

Whitman

has the faculty of looking at

everything, divine or demonic, as part of the ceaseless HeracHtean

stream.
his

No end, no beginning. A loft)% sturdy wind blows through

There
is

poems.

a healing quality to his vision.

We
as the

know

that the great

problem with Dostoievsky was God.

ever.

God was no problem

for

Whitman

He was

with God, just

Dostoievsky

Word

was with God, fiom the very beginning.

had

virtually to create

God and what

a Herculean task that

was

Dostoievsky rose from the depths and, reaching the summit, retained

something of the depths about him

still.

With Whitman

have
221

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

the
is

image of a

submerged

man tossing like a cork in a turbulent stream he now and then but there is never any danger of his
;

going

down for good. The very substance of him prevented that. One may say, of course, that our natures are God-given. We may
that the Russia

ako say

of Dostoievsky's day was a

in.

far different

world from the one Whitman grew up

and giving due emphasis to
development of character
I

But, after acknowledging

all

the factors

which determine the

artist,

as

well as the temperament of an

come back
;

to the question

of

vision.

Both had the prophetic

strain

both were imbued with a message for the world.

clearly
!

And
too,
is

both saw the world

let us

Both mingled with

the

world

not forget.
;

From Whitman
is

there exudes a largesse

which

godlike

in Dostoievsky there

an intensity and acuity almost

the future

superhuman.
the present.
Russians,
is

But the one emphasized

Dostoievsky, like so

and the other

many of the
flux,

Nineteenth Century
strain.

eschatological

he has the Messianic

is

Whitman,

anchored firmly in the eternal now, in the

to the fate of the world.

almost indifferent

He

has a hearty, boisterous, good-natured

hail-fellow-well-met tone often.

with the world.

thing

He knows
it,

wrong with
is

knows

that the only

He knows au fond that all*s well He knows that if there is anyno tinkering on his part will mend it. He way to put it to rights, if we must use the
more.
first

expression,

for every Hving individual to

put himself to

rights.

His love and compassion for the whore, the beggar, the outcast,
the afficted, deUvers
social problems.

him from
preaches

inspection

and examination of

He

no dogma,

celebrates

no Church,
with the

recognizes

no mediator.

He

lives outdoors, circulating

wind, observing the seasons and the revolutions of the heavens.

His worship

than sing hosanna the whole day long.

why he can do nothing better He had problems, I know. He had his sore moments, his trials and tribulations. He had his moments of doubt too, perhaps. But they never obtrude in his work. He
is

impUcit, and that

is

remains not so
cosmocrator.
I

much

the great democrat as the hail and hearty

He

has abundant health and vitality.

There perhaps

have put

my

finger

on

it.

(Not

that I

mean

to

compare the two

No.)
his

physicallythe
I

epileptic versus the

man of

the outdoors.

am

talking of the health and vitality

reflects, therefore, his

which exudes from

language, which

inner state of beino;.

Stress

222

LETTER TO PIERRE LESDAIN

ing
this, I

mean

to indicate that

freedom from

cultural cares, the

lack of concern for the exacerbating problems

of culture, probably of
his poetry.
It

had a great deal to do with

spared

this tonic quality

him

those inroads

which most European men of

culture

arc at one time or another subject to.

Whitman seems

almost

impervious to the

ills

of the day.
'*

He was

not living in the times

but in a condition of spiritual

difficulty
is

fullness.

A European has much more

when he
attains

maintaining such a

condition "

beleaguered

on
is

all sides.

He must

be for or

against.

it. He He must
:

participate. It
at the

almost impossible for

him to be **

a world citizen "

it is

most he can be "a good European." Here too

getting to be
is

difficult to

be above the mel^e, but not impossible. There

in

the ele-

ment of chance here which

I

Europe seems altogether eliminated.

wonder

if I

have made
fullness

clear

what

meant

to bring out

was speaking of the

It is really
is

of

life as it is reflected

in literature.

the fullness

of the world

am concerned with. Whitman

closer to the Upanishads,

Dostoievsky to the
is

New

Testament.

The

rich cultural stew

of Europe
life

one kind of fullness, the heavy

ore of everyday American

another.
It is

Compared
It is

to Dostoievsky,

Whitman is
either.
less It is

in a sense empty.

not the emptiness of the abstract,

the quahty

rather a divine emptiness.

of the name-

void out of which sprang chaos.

It is

the emptiness

which

precedes creation.

Dostoievsky

is

chaos and fecundity.

Humanity,

with him,

is

but a vortex in the bubbling maelstrom.

He had

it

in

him

to give birth to

many
But
this

orders of humanity. In order to prescribe

say, to create a

some Hvable order he had, one might almost

For himself ?
Yes.
for
all

God.

other

men and women

too.

And

for the children

of

world.

Dostoievsky could not Hve alone,

no matter how
could,

perfect his Hfe or the life of the world. Whitman we feel. And it is Whitman who is called the great democrat. He was that, to be sure. He was because he had achieved selfsufficiency What speculations this thought opens up Whitman arrived, Dostoievsky still winging his way heavenward. But
.
. .

there

is

no

question of precedence here,

like,

no

superior or inferior.

One
*"

is

a sun, if you

the other a

star.

Lawrence spoke some-

where of Dostoievsky

striving to reach the

moon of

his being,*

He who gets nearer the sun is leader, the aristocrat of aristocrats, or he who, Uke Dostoievsky, gets nearest the moon of our not-being."
223


THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

typical

Lawrencian image.

Behind
I

it

lay a thesis

which Lawrence
:

was endeavoring to support.

have no axe to grind

in essence

accept

them both, Dostoievsky and Whitman,

I

and in utterance.

have put these two luminaries side by side merely to bring out

certain differences.
light,

The one seems

to

me
is

to

glow with

human
;

and he

is

thought of

as a fanatic, as a

demonic being

the

other radiates a cool cosmic light, and he

thought of as the brother

of all men,
that
is

as the

man

in the midst

of

life.
is

They both gave

all

Hght,

the important thing.

Dostoievsky

passion,

Whitman

compassion.

difference in voltage, if

you

like.

In Dostoievsky's

work one
in

has the feeling that the angel and the devil walk hand

hand

they understand one another and they are tolerant of

is

one another. Whitman's work

devoid of such

entities

there

is

humanity in the rough, there

there
I
is

is

Nature grandiose and

Spirit.

eternal,

and

the breath

of the great

have often made mention of the celebrated photograph of

I

Dostoievsky which

used to stare at years ago

it

hung
York.

in the

window of
people, the

a bookshop

on Second Avenue

in

New

That

will always be for

me the real Dostoievsky. It is the man of the man who suffered for them and with them. The eternal
docs not care to

moujik.

One

a saint, a criminal

or a prophet.
the photo

know whether this man was a writer, One is struck by his universality.
I

As

for

Whitman,

which
I

had always

identified

with

his

being, the one everyone knows,

this

discovered the other day that

photo no longer holds for me.

In the

book on Whitman by Paul Jamati*

taken in the year 1854.

found a photo of

Whitman
I

He is

then thirty-five years of age

and has just found himself.

He
**

has the look of an Oriental poet

was almost going

to say

sage."
is

But there
so

is

something about
is

the expression
just a tinge

of the eyes which

it.

not the look of a sage. There

it

of melancholy in
that ruddy,

Or

seems to me.

He
is

has not

yet

become

bcwhiskered bard of the famous photograph.

It is

a bcautifiil and arresting face, however, and there

deep quest

in the eyes. But, if I

may venture to say, judging firom a mere photo,

* Walt Whitman, by Paul Jamati ; Editions Seghers, Paris, 1949. This same photo (from the collection of Hart Crane) serves as frontispiece to the 1949 reprint by The Bodley Press, New York, of Walt Whitman the Wound Dresser, edited by Richard M. Bucke and ynth. an Introduction by Oscar Cargill.

224

tBTTBB TO PIBRRB LESDAlN

there
'*

is

also a
**

remote

stellar

look in these Ught blue

eyes.

veiled

look which they

lips,

register,

and which
at the

is

contradicted
as

The by
it

the set of the

comes from looking

world

though

were "aHen,"

as

though he had been brought from above, or

(?)

beyond, to go through a needless

is

experience here below.

utterly

This

a strange stotement to make,

know, and perhaps

without

support.

mere

intuition, a flash in the pan.

But

the thought

haunts me, and

no matter whether
the world.

justifiable or not, it has altered

at the

my

conception of the
to

way Whitman looked

It

world and the

with the

way he looked
image
the
I

conflicts disturbingly

'f)

had unquestioningly preserved, the one of the genial mixer,

This

man who moved with the throng.

six years before the

new image of Whitman

In this look

was captured of 1854

outbreak of our Civil War, which

was for Whitman what

I

Siberia

was for Dostoievsky.

read his unUmited capacity for sharing the suflerings of

his fellow
battlefield,

man why

can see

why

he nursed the wounded on the

words, did not place a sword

destiny, in other

in his hand.
is

It is

the look
seer.

of the ministering angel, an angel

who

also a poet
I

and

must speak
is

fiirther

of

this arresting

photo of the year 1854,

which
I

not the photo,

by

the way, that Jamati finds so remarkable.

have just had a look

at the

photo Jamati dwells on, the daguerro-

type

from which

a steel engraving

was made and which served

of Leaves of
it
;

as the firontispiece to the first edition

Grass.

To me
young

there

is

nothing very remarkable about

thousands of
this

Americans in that period might have passed for

Whitman.

What

is

amaadng, to

my

mind,

is

that the

same man could have

!

looked so difierent in two photos taken in the same year

In search of an accurate physical description of

Whitman,

looked up the book by

his friend, the

Canadian doctor, Richard

Maurice Bucke.*
at the

It is,

unfortunately, a description

of Whitman
:

age of sixty-one.

However

Says Bucke

" The eyethe eye

brows

are highly arched, so that

it is
is

a long distance

from

to the center of the eyebrow. [This

the facial feature that strikes

one most
large

at fint sight.]

The

eyes themselves are light blue, not

indeed, in proportion to the head and face they seem rather

CotuciousnesSt 13th edition, 1947
;

* Cosmic
Yoric.

E. P. Dutton

&

Co.,

New
225

THE BOOKS
small
;

IN

MY

LIFB

they arc dull and heavy, not expressivewhat expression

they have is kindness, composure, suavity." He goes on to say that " his cheeks are round and smooth. His face has no lines expressive

of

care, or weariness,

or age

...

have never seen

his look,
I

even momentarily, express contempt, or any vicious feeHng.

have never
in in

known him to sneer at any person or thing, or to manifest any way or degree either alarm or apprehension, though he has

my presence been placed in circumstances that would have caused

He speaks of the " And concludes thus
:

both in most men."

of Whitman's body.
I

" well-marked rose color " His face is the noblest

have ever seen."

In the few pages

which Bucke devotes to Whitman

in

in this

volume

find

more of import than

"

literature

who

of have made him an " object of study." But before I

professors
salient passages let
I

whole books by the "

point out

some of the

me

say that, in pondering

over the duaHty of Whitman,

forgot completely that he was a

fullest

Gemini, probably the

finest

and

example of

this

type that

ever lived, just as Goethe was the greatest example of a Virgo.

Bucke has thrown the

Stressing the

full

power of

his searchlight

on

the

new

and the old beings which Whitman managed to make compatible.

sudden change in the man's fimdamental being, which " :

occurred in his thirty-fourth or thirty-fifth year, he says

We

expect and always find a difference between the early and mature
writings of the same
that

man

But

in the case

of Whitman

{as in

of Balzac*) writings of absolutely

at least in

no

value were immediately

followed (and,
study)

Whitman's
of which in
;

case,

without practice or

by pages

across each

letters

of ethereal

fire are

written the words eternal life

piece but

pages covered not only by a master-

by such
for

vital sentences as

have not been written ten times in

the history of the race

..."
the observations

And now
interesting

some of

which

find singularly

and

significant

...

Walt Whitman,

in

my

talks

with him

at that time,

always disclaimed any lofty intention in himself or his poems. If you accepted his explanations they were simple and commonplace. But when you came to think about these explanations, and to enter into the spirit of them,
*
Italics

mine.

226

LETTER TO PIERRE LESDAIN

you found
that the simple

and the commonplace with him

spiritual.
(I

included the ideal and the

He
tion):

said to
'I

one day have imagined a

in

me

average
heroic*

man

now in what connecwhich should be that of the average circumstances, and still grand,
forget
life

beg you to keep

this in

mind

We shall come back to it shortly.

It is

devastatingly important.

read any book deUberately through, and was no more (apparent) system about his reading than in anything else that he did ; that is to say, there was no system about it at all. He read no language but English, yet I believe he knew a great deal more French, German and Spanish than he would own to. But if you took his own word for it, he knew very Httle of any subject. Perhaps, indeed, no man who ever Hved Hked so many things and disHked so few as Walt Whitman. All natural objects seemed to have a charm for him ; all sights and sounds, outdoor and indoor, seemed to please him. He appeared to like (and I beUeve he did Hke) all the men, women and children he saw (though I never knew him
there

He seldom

to say that he liked anyone), but each

that

who knew him

felt
.
.

He

he liked him or her, and that he liked others also . was especially fond of children, and all children Hked
at once.

and trusted him

For young and old his touch had a charm that caimot be described, and if it could the description would not be beUeved except by those who knew him either personally or through Leaves of Grass. This charm (physiological more than psychological), if understood, would explain the whole mystery of the man, and how he produced such effects not only upon the well, but among the sick and

wounded.

He did not talk much ... I never knew him to argue or dispute, and he never spoke about money. He always justified, sometimes playfully, sometimes quite seriously, those who spoke harshly of himself or his writings, and I often thought he even took pleasure in these sharp
criticisms, slanders

and the oppositions of his enemies. He were quite right, that behind what his fiiends saw he was not at all what he seemed, and that, from the point of view of his foes, his book deserved all
said that his
critics

2^7


tHE BOORS IN MY LIPB
the hard things they could say of it and that he himself undoubtedly deserved them and plenty more. He said one day ... * After all, the great lesson is that no special natural sights not Alps, Niagara, Yosemite, or anything else is more grand or more beautiftil than the ordinary sunrise and sunset, earth and sky, the common trees and grass.* Properly understood, I beUeve this suggests the central teaching of his writings and Hfe namely, that the commonplace is the grandest of all things ; that the exceptional in any line is no finer, better or more beautiftil than the usual, and that what is really wanting is not that we should possess something we have not at present, but that our eyes should be opened to see and our hearts to

feel

what we

all

have.

never spoke deprecatingly of any nationaUty or class of men, or time in the world's Imtory, or (even) feudalism, or against any trades or occupations ^not even against any animals, insects, plants or inanimate things, nor any of the laws of nature, or any of the results of those laws, such as illness, deformity or death. He never complained or grumbled either at the weather, pain, illness or at anything else. He never in conversation, in any company, or under any circumstances, used language that could be thought indeHcate (of course he has used language in his poems which has been thought indeUcate, but none that is so.) ... He never swore ; he could not very well, since as far as I know he never spoke in anger, and apparendy never was angry. He never exhibited fear, and I do not . beheve he ever felt it

He

And now

come

to the passage
I

from Whitman's
Bucke
says

prose, to be
it

linked with the other one

signalled.

of it

that

" seems
wish to

prophetical of the

coming

race."

Howsoever

that
I

may be,

say to you,
as the

my

dear Lesdain, that not only do

regard

this passage
it,

key to Whitman's philosophy, the very kernel of

I

but
it

and once again

expressing
say

beg you not to think

this egotistical
I

^I

regard
fiirther

as

my own

mature view of Hfe.

will even

go

and

and

things strikes
as the

now indeed you may be surprisedthat me as essentially American, or to put it

which is
felt

this

view of

another way,

underlying promise which inspired not only our best repre-

sentatives but

and understood by the so-called "common

man." And
life
is

if I

am

right, if this broad, easy, genial, simple

view of

reflected (even

dimly) in both the highest and the lowest

22S


LETTER TO PtBRRE LBSOAIN
Strata

of American
to be

society, there

is

indeed hope for a

new

race

of
a

man new

bom
But

on
let

this continent,

hope for a new heaven and

.

earth.

me

not withhold the statement longer

growing up in right conindoor harmony, activity and development, would probably, from and in those conditions, find it enough merely to live and would, in their relations to the sky, air, water, trees, etc., and to the countless common shows, and in the fact of life itself, discover and achieve happiness ^with Being suffused night and day by wholesome ecstasy, surpassing all the pleasures that wealth, amusement, and even gratified intellect, emdition, or the sense of art, can give.
bred
as

A fitly bom and

race,

ditions

of outdoor

much

as

You may
note

think

it

presumptuous of me,
that the tenor

insular, absurdly patriotic,

or what, but

I insist
its

of

this passage, the distinctive

it strikes,
is

sweeping inclusiveness (and annihilation

I

at the

same time),
this

absolutely American.

would say

that

it

was on

rock
it is

temporarily
of the

forgotten

that

America was

founded.

For

solid rock, this thought, this platform,

intellect.
It is

and not a gaseous

representatives

abstraction

what the highest

of the human race have themselves beUeved and advocated, though

their thoughts

have been sadly twisted and mutilated.

That

it is

the destiny of the

common man, of every man, and

is

not the
trae

way
and

of the

elect,

of the chosen few,

I

what makes

it

seem more
elect
**

vaUd to me.
cursors

have always looked upon the "

as the pre-

of a type to come. Viewed from an

historical point

of view,

they represent the peaks of the various pyramids which humanity

has

thrown up.

Viewed from

the etemal point of

?

we

not always face to face with the etemal

view arc they represent the

^and

seeds

which

will

form the base of new pyramids

to come.
is

We

are always waiting for the revolution.

place constandy.

The

real revolution
is

taking

And

the

name

for this deeper process

emancipa-

tion

self-liberation
*'

in other words.

What

did Faure quote from

Whitman
is

The world

will be complete for

him who
is,

is

himself

complete."

Is it
i

necessary to add that for such beings government

superfluous
self,

There can only be government

of the

of one's

own

inaHenable rights

that abdication ^where there are incommade of and by

229

plete beings.

The

New

Jerusalem can only be

THE BOOKS

IN

MY

LIFE
is

emancipated individuals. That

collective."

community. That
If we see
it it

is

" the absolute

Are we
it

to see it

ever ?

now

with our mind's

eye "

we

see
is

in the only actuality

will ever have.

everyday life," you will find written in every book on the subject. " Nirvana is capable of attainment now" you will also
find in every

Zen

book on

the subject.

Attainment

is

hardly the word,

is

because the

**

fulfilment " implied in such statements

. .
.

something
like

to be realized in the
is

this

immediate present from Whitman " Is it lucky to be

:

How
f

very

Zen

bom

It is

just as lucky

to die."

In summarizing his pages

on Whitman, Bucke makes, among

:

others, the following statements

In

no man who ever

lived

was the

sense

of eternal Ufe so

absolute.

Fear of death was absent.

sickness did he

show any
of
sin.

sign of

Neither in health nor in it, and there is every

it.

reason to believe he did not feel

He had no
And what
If there

sense

of Evil ?

Suddenly

it

is

Dostoievsky's voice

I hear.

be

evil, there

can be no God.
?

Was

that not the thought

which plagued Dostoievsky

Whoever knows Dostoievsky knows

of this
conflict.

the torments he endured because

But the

rebel

and

doubter

is

silenced towards the

("

end, silenced

by

a magnificent
out.)

affirmation.

Not

resignation," as

Janko Lavrin points

Love all God's creation and every grain of sand in it. Love every leaf, every ray of God's Hght. If you love everything, you will preserve the divine mystery of things.
(Father Zosima, aUas the real Dostoievsky.)

And what of Evil ? Whitman answered

I

thus,

not once, but again and again

"

And

say there

is

in fact

no

evil."

Twenty
like Jesus,

years after he

had entered upon the new

life,

had taken

the path in order to

become

the path, like Lao-tse, like Buddha,

Whitman

gives us the revolutionary

poem, the Prayer

prayer, in

oj Columbus^ ostensibly, as

Bucke

says, his

own

which

he describes in two immortal

vouchsafed

lines the illumination

which had been

him

230

LETTER TO PIERRE LESDAIN

Beyond
Light rare untcUablc, lighting the very Hght, all signs, descriptions, languages.
his condition
is,

He

imagines himself to be on his deathbed

pitiable.
It

by

worldly standards,

would seem

as if
i

God had
The
last

deserted
lines

him, or punished him. Does "

Whitman doubt
shall

two

of the above-mentioned poem give the answer.

the

Bucke
?

writes

of

moment

thus

What

he say to

God

He
is

says that

God knows him

in the breast

through and through, and that he

willing to

leave himself in God's hands."

How

could there be any doubt

:

of a

death

is

not the

man who had written " I feel and know that ending, as we thought, but rather the real beginning
is

and
The

that nothing ever

or can be

lost,

nor even

die,

nor soul

nor matter."
questioning, the doubts, the denial and the negation even,
in

which abound
mouths of

Dostoievsky's works,

expressed

through the

his various characters

and revealing

his obsession

with

the problem of certitude, stand in sharp contrast to

lifelong attitude.

Whitman's

In

some

respects Dostoievsky

reminds us of Job.

He

arraigns the Creator

and Hfe
life

itself.

To

quote Janko Lavrin

again

..."
it

Unable to accept
as a

spontaneously, he was compelled

to take
life as

up

problem."

And

he adds immediately
satisfy

" But

problem demands a meaning which must

our rational
life

and

irrational selves.

At a

certain stage the

life itself.

meaning of

may
life

even become more important than

altogether, unless
its

One

can rejea

meaning answers to the highest demands of

our consciousness."

A
It

few weeks ago, in going through

I

my

papers, I ran across an

article

had torn out of the magazine Purpose (London, 1937). was by Erich Gutkind, on Job. I was tremendously impressed by

this

of

his

new reading. I am sure I had never grasped the essential meaning words when I read it and put it carefully away in 1937. I
this Httle essay,

mention

meaty and compact, because in

I

it

Gutkind

gives an explanation of the problem such as

before.
It

have never seen

connects, assuredly, with

my

preceding remarks about

Dostoievsky.

" In the
the world,

Book of Job," he
by

says,

**

God

is

no longer measured by
But the world
231

the order or disorder of the world.

IRB BOOKS IN MY LIFB

is

measured by God. The standard

here God.

(just as it is light
is

with Einstein)

is

And

that

which changes

the world.

The Book

of Job

leads us to a deeper

undentanding of the world."

He

then

proceeds to explain that the Christian idea of sin as well as the

doctrine of reincarnation with
that
its

notion of Karma, the idea, namely,

" everybody's suffering

is

explained

by

his

own

sins"

is

sharply

rejected in the

Book of Job.
is

not the payment of a debt," he says, " but Job did not have to answer for sins which he had committed. He took upon himself the terrible problem of suffering." [Note how all this connects with Dostoievsky.] "The question with which he wrestled is a basic question of the order of the world, the struggle between God and Satan ... It is the question of whedier the world b meaningful or meaning" Suffering
rather a burden of responsibility.
less.
Is

the world

good or

evil ?"

And
also.

so on.

Gutkind points out, en

passant^ that in the

end every-

thing was returned to Job

^his

wealth, his health, and his children

"Job does not

perish like the

Greek heroes."
:

Then, diving into the heart of the problem, he says

let

" But
i

us ask with Job

What
sphere

does the blind realm of Fate stand for

is this,

What kind of strange

in

which God

leaves everything

to the operation of chance

"

He

says that God's answer to

Job

docs not appear to meet the cry of his soul.

cosmologically, he says.
the cosmos
i

God answered Job

" Where wast thou, man, when I founded " That was God's reply. He points out that " in the

cosmos everything takes place according to law. There everything

is is

weighed against everything

the realm

else

...

All

is

balanced."

Nature

of Fate, he sutes. He says that Job, in seeking to understand God's ways, " takes God as a kind of cause, a natural force." " But," says he, " God is not only a principle whereby the universe
can be explained or given meaning.
theologians

That

is

the

God of

the

an abstract God."
man and God can never come together. God is to be found everywhere in
is

In the cosmos,

The

pantheistic idea, that

nature,

of God
relative

one of the causes for the decline of the concept . . Nothing has reality of itself Nature is through and through. Every phenomenon is itself
.

232

LBTTBR TO PIERRE LBSDAIN

Reality

of an indescribably complicated net of relations. The Jewish tradition is not to be found there. teaches that Abraham sought God in the cosmos. But he did not find him there. And because he could not find him there, he was driven to search for God where he reveals himself, namely, in the direct conversation between God and man.
part

Then

follows

this,

which

is

what

have been leading up to

One must always so conduct oneself as if there were no God at all We may not explain the riddle of nature by God that would be the end of science. We may not wait for succor from God that would be the end of human initiative. The less we concern ourselves with the idea of God in our explanation of the world and in our practical Hfe, the more clearly will God appear. This is what the Book of Job teaches when God asks Where And even wast thou when I founded the cosmos ? * Where art thou, when I direct the cosmos
! : :

It is

often said of

Whitman
said

that

he had an inflated ego.

if

am

sure the

same might be

of Dostoievsky,

we

are to look at

them narrowly, because

in Dostoievsky's extreme humility there

was an extraordinary arrogance.

examining the egos of such men.

But we discover nothing by They transcended the ego the

:

one through
other

his ceaseless

and almost unbearable questioning, the

by

his steady, clear affirmation

it

of

life.

Dostoievsky under-

took, as far as

was humanly

possible, to

assume the problems,

especially, as

the torture and the anguish

of all

menand

so well, the incomprehensible suffering of children.

we know Whitman

answered

man s

problems, not by weighing them and examining

them, but by a continuous chant of love, of acceptance, in which

the answer

fimdamentally, than a

was always impHcit. The Song of Myself is no hymn of creation.

different,

D. H. Lawrence
a mixture

closes his Studies in Classic American Literature

It is

with a chapter on Whitman.

an incongruous piece of writing,

flashes

of shoddy balderdash and

of amazing acuity of
shattered
did.

perception.
himself.

To mc
to

it

is

the rock
to

on which Lawrence
eventually,

He had

come

Whitman

and he

He

cannot pay
is,

him out-and-out homage,

no, not Lawrence.

The
is

truth

he cannot take the measure of the man.

Whitman

a pheno-

233

THE BOOKS
mcnon

IN

MY LIPE
of phenomenon

to him, a very special kind

the American

phenomenon.
But, despite
all

the

fuming and

ranting, despite the rather cheap

song and dance with which

in saying things about
is

his essay opens,

Lawrence does succeed

There

Whitman which
fails

are imperishable.

much

in

Whitman he

to grasp,

much he
lesser

could not grasp,

because, to be honest

and candid, he was a

man, a man moreessential

over

who

never achieved individuation.

But Whitman's
it is

message he grasped, and the

all

way he

interprets

a challenge to

interpreters to
'*

come.
essential

Whitman's

message," says Lawrence, " was the

Open Road. The

Which
is

leaving of me soul free unto herself, the

leaving of his fate to her and to the

the bravest doctrine

loom of the open

road.

man

has ever proposed to

himself"
Declaring that the
speaks out in
true

rhythm of
is

the

American continent
white aboriginal, that

Whitman,
he says

that he
first

the

first

he

is

the greatest and the

!),

and the only American teacher (and

he was a great changer of the blood

no Savior
affection

also that

in the veins

of men.

His true and earnest avowal of admiration,

at this point in the

and reverence for Whitman begins

.

essay

Whitman, the great poet, has meant so much to me. Whitman, the one man breaking a way ahead. Whitman, Ahead of And only Whitman the one pioneer. Whitman, nothing. Ahead of all poets, pioneering into the wilderness of unopened Hfe, Whitman. Beyond him,
. .
.

none. Singing the song of the soul himself, Lawrence grows

ecstatic.

He

speaks

of"

new

doctrine, a

Hving, not of salvation."

moraUty of actual Whitman's morality, he declares, " was

morality, a
life,

new

a morahty of the soul Uving her

soul Hving her
life

not saving herself

The

along the incarnate mystery of the open road."

Towards the end of

he

Magnificent words, and Lawrence meant them undoubtedly. " the essay, speaking of " the true democracy
it

which Whitman preached, speaking of how

says,

makes

itself

known,

and with what unerringncss!

" Not by a progression of

234

LETTER TO PIERRE LESDAIN

piety, or

by works of charity. Not by works

itself.

at all.

but just

The

soul passing unenhanced, passing

itself

being no more than

And

recognized,
If
it

Not by anything on foot and and passing by or

it

greeted according to the soul's dictate.

be a great soul,

will

be worshipped in the road." " The only riches, the great souls."

That

is

the closing sentence

of the

essay

and the book.

note
I

(Dated Lobos,
I shall

New

Mexico.)

And on

this

think

end

my

letter,

my

very dear

Pierre Lesdain.

Big SuTt California

May
Postscriptum
I

lothf

1950

can't bring

my

letter to

a close at this point.

There's

more

to say.
tingly

What matter if it assumes elephantine proportions ? UnwitI am being led to disclose certain views and opinions I might
I

never have released had

not embarked on

this

unintended excursus.
will not

You

are probably the only

I

man
I

in

Europe

who

wince or

balk at anything

say,

whom
idiot.
I

cannot deceive or

disillusion,

no
But

matter if
reticent
I

should act the

You

have been most modest and

about yourself
that

know

almost nothing about you.

know

you

are greater than

you

represent yourself to be, if

only because of your unswerving

qualities are

faith, loyalty

and devotion. These

not found in combination in a nobody.

I

Anyway,
threads

should like to amplify certain thoughts

threw out,

reconcile certain
I left

"apparent"

contradictions,
First,

and pick up some

dangling in mid-air.
.
.
.

then, let

me

dispose

of the

last-named, rapidly

Opposite page 65 of Jamati's book

is

a photograph of

Whitman
below
the

which

never saw before.

It

might be taken,
is

at first glance, for

it

an early photo of Lincoln. The date

photo, but
I
it is

uncertain,

says

definitely

some

years before the one of 1854

I

which
have

singled out for

to say.

your attention and about which

Parenthetically,

may

still

more

speaking of Whitman's physical

appearance, did

mention that in addition to having a rose-tinted

an aquiline nose, he
is

skin, hght-blue eyes,

as

also

had black hair which,

j

you
I

will note in the 1854 photo,

already turning gray

Some;

how,

never pictured

him

as

having black hair and blue eyes

it

235


THE BOOKS
is

IN

MY

LIFE

an

irresistible

combination, in

man

or

woman. The

Irish

have

it

occasionally.

As
a

for Lincoln,

one of the homeliest

words,
I

men

imaginable, if

wc

are

to beheve his

own

gather that, although their paths crossed

number of

times, there

were never any spoken words between

veneration for Lincoln.
life

diem.

Whitman had an uncommon

services for Lincoln,

A
his

number of times during

commemorative
health.
Is it

the latter years of his

he took part in

sometimes

at the risk

of

not curious, too, that Lincoln should use almost the

that

same words about Whitman

Napoleon did about Goethe

Both recognized
had and

the tnan.

Thinking of governments, of the excellent ones

still

we might
I

have
could

could have, despite

all

adverse conditions,
this letter

not help but speculate between pauses in writing

on what

America might be today

Lincoln to be
the following
still
:

if,

directly after the Civil

War, assuming
alive

alive,

he had had in his cabinet

Paine,

dead or

Tom

Thomas

Jefferson,

Robert E. Lee,

John Brown, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry David Thoreau, Mark Twain, Walt Whitman.
I

think of Whitman's funeral

rites, as

Jamati gives
last

it,

with

Bob
?

Ingersoll,

of

all

men, pronotmdng the

words.

Who

would

have thought that these two should be linked together in death

And not
firom
his

only

that,

not only the crowds which followed die funeral

first

procession or lined the sidewalks, but the reading at the grave

Whitman's
("

own work

and then from one

after

another of

peen.

Confucius, Zoroaster, Jesus, Plato,

Dc ses pairs," says Jamad.) Who were these ? Buddha, Mohammed! What American

poet was ever given such a send-off ?

And then the admirable fortime, explicable and altogether justified,

which attended Whitman's Hfelong
his

fight to gain

recognidon for

work.

What

a roster of names

we

find enlisted

on

his side

Beginning with Emerson who, on receiving a copy of the first edidon oi Leaves of Grassy writes : " Les Amiricaius qui sent a Yitranger
peuvent rentrer
;
il

nous

est

ni un

artiste**

Emerson, Thoreau, Bucke,

Carlyle, Burroughs,

William Douglas O'Connor, Horace Traubcl,

wonderful Anne
Gilchrist,

Mark Twain,
Rosettis,

the

Symonds, Ruskin, Joaquin Miller

Swinburne,

(California's
. . .

John Addington Whitman), the

what
a
roster!

Edward

Carpenter

236


LETTER TO PIERRE LESDAIN
And
it

last

but perhaps not

least,

Peter Doyle, the

close

omnibus

driver.

As for Joaquin Miller*we are getting

to

home now!

was

this

Whitman, deHvered himself

le dis!

poet of the Sierras who, incensed by the outcries against " Get homme vivra, je vous le thus
:

Get

homme

vivra, soyez-en surs, lorsque le

ses

dome

puissant

de votre Gapitole li-bas, n*^l^vera plus

les cercles

^paules rondes contre

du temps."
of the monument to

Let us not overlook another signal event in Whitmian's career

his presence at the inauguration, in Baltimore,

the
ait

memory of Edgar
r^pondu h

Allen Poe.

(**

Le

seul po^te am^ricain qui

I'invitation

du

comit^,** says Jamati.)

Let us not overlook either the fact that, as his

work began
strange!

to

draw
as

attention in

Europe

^in

England

particularly,

one

translation after another appeared in various countries, the

first

French translation (of fragments only) appears in Provencal!

find that a rather

happy coincidence.

And L^on Bazalgette, the most devoted of Whitman's biographers! What a labor of love his was! What a tribute from the
Old World!
remember
same period
I

remember reading
though

Bazalgette's

work

in Paris

too,
I

my memory may

be

faulty, that in this

was
of

also reading these strangely different

works

The

Confessions
;

St.

Augustine and The City of

Collective,

God
;

Nijkisky's
Spirit
;

Diary

The Absolute
;

by Erich Gutkind
the Hfe

The

of

Zen by Alan Watts

Louis Lambert and Seraphita of Balzac

;

La

Mort d*un Quelconque, of Jules Romains

saint, Milarepa,
I

of the Tibetan
Glaudel.
I

and Connaissance de

I'Est

by Paul

(No,

was never
There

alone.

At

the worst, as I said somewhere,

was with

God!)
is

a side

of Whitman which
is

have not sufl&dently

stressed

and which to

me

extremely illuminating

steady, unruffled pursuit

of the

goal.

How

mean his quiet, many editions of his

I

opus are issued at his own expense! What a struggle to get those few " obnoxious," supposedly " obscene," poems included in a
definitive edition!

Notice that he never wastes himself in struggling

against his enemies.

ing.

He

marches on,

resolute,

unwavering, unflinch-

In his steadfast gaze they are overlooked, his enemies.

**

As

he follows
* His
real

the open road," friends, supporters, champions spring

Miller,

name was Cincinnatus Heine

and he was

bom

in Indiana.

237

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

Up everywhere.

They

issue forth in his

latter

wake.

Observe the way

**

he handles Emerson when the

endeavors to remonstrate

with him about the inclusion of these " offensive

later edition.
Is It

poems

in a

not evident that

capitulated

Whitman
on

is

the superior of

the

two

Had Whitman
altered.

this issue the

whole

picture

would have been

items, but

(True, he

made

concession to his English

benefactors in omitting

from

the English editions the questionable

he did

so, I

am

sure,

knowing

that ultimately he

would

win out
Century
stressed

in the homeland.)
it

This fight against the powers that be,

latter part

taking place as

did in the middle and

of the Nineteenth

the
by
**

most conservative period

in

our history

cannot be
lettcn

too much.
it.

The whole coune of American

it

was

affected

(As

was again with the appearance of

it

Dreiser's
it is

Sister Carrie.)

When
Ulysses.

comes to the
**

case

of James Joyce,

by

a sort of
the author
circulation

generous revenge

that

an American court absolves

it

of

How much
full

easier

was

to sanction the free

of Ulysses,

in the second decade

of the Twentieth Century,

than to grant
earlier!
It

Whitman

freedom of expression a half-century

remains to be seen what the ultimate verdict will be,

ovm

by French, English and American authorities, in the case of However, I did not touch on questionable works
.

my
this

theme to draw attention to

that a sort

my own

case but rather to point out

of

special providence

seemed

to guide the destiny

of

man like Whitman. He who had no doubts, he who never employed

the language

of negation, nor mocked, sneered

beings,

at,

reviled or insulted
friends

other

human

was proteacd and preserved by staunch

and admirers. Jamati speaks of the astonishment which the recriminations against

Whitman's outspoken poems aroused in Anne

voit une glorification,

Gilchrist.

EUe y

la vie tout

reUgieux et

elle se
si

un respect, un amour de demande avec ing^nuit^, en

naturellement au diapason

s'apercevant qu'elle vibre

des Feuilles

aHerbe, si ces versets n'ont pas ^t^ Merits He adds : Cette femme sp^cialement pour des femmes. au grand cceur, cette m^re accomplie, respect^e, admir^
qui
sait

d^couvrir
lui

quelque chose de sacr^ dans

tout,*

quel

t^moin pour

Her 'Hnginuiti"
Her courage. Her
238

says Jamati.

sublimity.

Her "perceptiveness," I would say. Remember, she was an Englishwoman!


LBTTBR TO PIERRE LBSDAIN
No, even though Whitman may not have written them
for
It
'*

especially"

women,

his

words were addressed

to

women
as

as well as to

men.

is

one of Whitman's rare virtues that throughout the poems

receives the

woman
equals.

same exalted homage

He

raised their

manhood and

their

man. He saw them as womanhood. He saw

what was feminine

in

long before Otto Weininger!

man and what was masculine in woman He has been slandered because he
all

proclaimed the duaUty of sex in

of us. In one of the few

it

instances

where he made a
stitute

radical

change in the original text

order,
it is said,

was

to sub-

woman
What

for a

manin

to allay suspicion of

"homosexual"
score!

tendencies.
absurdities

What

filth

has been written

on

this

the psychoanalysts have led us into!

Whoso

talks love, great love, falls

under suspicion.

These same

gibes have been levelled against the greatest benefactors

of the
yet,

human race. Love whidi

bi-sexual.
his deepest

is

all-inclusive

seems to repel

us.

And

according to the deep-rooted legend of creation,

man was
is,

originally

The

first

Adam was

complete

or hermaphroditic.
man
and
distant

In

being

man

will always be complete-that

and

woman
in
I

both.

When some
Whitman's
think of

pages back
eyes,
it

referred to that veiled

I

look

was

not,

hope, to give the impression that

him

as cold, indifierent, aloof, a

"Brahmic
field

splendor," and deigning,

when

the

man Uving apart in mood seizes him,

on
the battle-

to mingle with the crowd!

The

record of his years

and in the

hospitals should

be Plough to erase any such sus-

What greater sacrifice, what greater renouncement of self, man have made t He emerged firom that experience shattered to the core.* He had witnessed more than is humanly
jttdon.

could any

demanded of
that

man.

It

was not

the

inroads

upon

his health

were so
close

cruel,

though a great

tribulation,
is

but rather the ordeal

of too

communion.
is

Much

related

of
for

his inexhaustible
it.

sympathy. Empathy

more
I

nearly the

word
is

But the word

to describe this enlarged state of feeling

lacking in our tongue.

This experience, which,

repeat,

must be compared with DosIn both

toievsky's ordeal in Siberia, incites endless speculation.

instances
it

was a Calvary. The inborn brotherly feeUng of Dostoieva

Saint ") to

* See page xvii of Oscar Cargill's Introduction (" Walt Whitman The Wound Dresser.

239

THE BOOKS

IN

MY

LIFE
Whitman, were
tested in the

sky, the natural comradely spirit in

fiery

crudble by

command of
remark
idly.

Fate.

No

matter

how

great the

humanity in them, neither would have

(I

elected for

such an experience.
instances

do not make

this

There have been glorious

in man's history

where
I

individuals

did elect to undergo some

awesome

trial

or

test.

think of Jesus and Joan of Arc immediately.)

Whitman did not

ment"
is

rush headlong to volunteer his services as a soldier

fling himself into the
'*

of the Republic. Dostoievsky did not

in order to

move-

prove

his capacity for

martyrdom.

In both
all,

instances the situation

was

thrust

upon them.

But

there, after
It

the test

of a man

^how he meets
batdefield,

the blows of Fate!

was

in

exile that

Dostoievsky really became acquainted with the teachings

It

of Jesus.
that

was on the

among

the dead and

wounded,

Whitman

discovered the meaning of abnegation, or better,

of service without thought of reward.

have survived such ordeals.

Only

heroic

men

could

Only

illuminated

men

could have

transformed these experiences into great messages of love and

benediction.

Whitman had
few years before
toievsky.

seen the hght, had received his illumination,

this crucial

some
Dos-

period in his

life.

Not

so with
it

Both had

a lesson to learn, and they learned

in the

midst of suffering, sickness and death.

Whitman underwent

a change, a deepening.

That insouciant spirit of '* His " camaraderie

developed into a more passionate acceptance of his fellowman.

That look of 1854, the look of a

man who

is

a bit stunned

by

the

vision he has had, changes to a broader

and deeper gleam which

embraces the whole universe of sentient beings

^and the

inanimate

world

as well.

His expression

is

no longer

that

of one coming
accepts his lot

firom afar but

of one

who
it,

is

in the thick
it,

of it,

who

completely,
less

who

rejoices in

of the divine

in

come what may. There may be but there is more of the purely human.
humanization.
If,

Whitman had need of this there took place in him an

'55), there

as I

firmly believe,

expansion of consciousness (in 1854 or

had

also to take place, unless

he were to go mad, a
to live as a
(via

revaluation of

all

human

values.

Whitman had

man,

not

as a

god.
this

We know, in Dostoievsk}'*s case,

obsession with the idea of a "

how

Solovyev
persisted.

probably)

man-god "

Dostoievsky, illumined fi-om the depths, had to humanize the god

240

LBTTBK TO PtBRR LP.SDAIN

in

him.
to

Whitman,
divinize

receiving
the

his

illumination

from beyond,
fecundation of

sought

man

in

him.

This
in
is

god and
effects

manthe man
both

in god, the

god
it

in

instances.

Today

man4iad far-reaching common to hear that

of these two great figures have come to nought. Both Russia and America have become thoroughly mechanized,
the prophecies
autocratic,

tyrannical,
its

materialistic

and power mad.

But wait!

History must run

the positive.

course.

The

negative aspect always precedes

Biographers and
life

critics

often take these crucial periods in the

of a

subject and, dwelling

of

spirit,**

give the

on " brotherhood " and " universality impression that it was the mere proximity to
attributes

suffering
subjects.

and death which developed these

in
I

their

But what

affected

Whitman and

Dostoievsky, if

read

their characters

righdy, was the ceaseless unbaring of the soul

witoess.

which diey were made to

is

They were

affected,

wounded

the word, in their souls.

Dostoievsky did not go to prison as a

to the batdefield as nurse, doctor, or
lives

social
priest.

worker, nor

Whitman

Dostoievsky was obliged to live the

of each one of
:

his fellow prisoners because

of

utter lack

of privacy

he lived
to

like

a beast, as

we know from the

these rare gifts.

records.

Whitman had
was no one

become
about

nurse, doctor, priest all in one, because there

else

who combined
magnetism

His temperamait would never

pursuits.

have led him to choose any of these

But

that

same animal

or that same divinity in eachforced these two indivistress,

duak, under similar

to

go beyond themselves.*
situation,

An
;

ordinary

man,

after release

from such a

might well devote himself

he might
life.

for the rest of his days to the care of the unfortunate

well conceive

it

to be his " mission

**

to thus dedicate his

But
have

Whitman and
a mission
it

Dostoievsky go back to their writing.

**

If they
.

will be incorporated in their

message "
that
it

If I have not

made

it

clear already, let

me say

was

precisely

because they were

artists first

and foremost that these two

men

acatcd the

special conditions relating to their cruel experience,

and conditioned themselves to transmute and ennoble the experience

Not

all

great

men

arc capable
case

of supporting the naked meeting of

soul with soul, as

was the

with these two.

To witoess

not once,

^ As in the

case

of Cabeza de Vaca.

241

THE BOOCS IN MY
ahnost beyond

1*

man unbaring his soul is human endurance We do not come forward with our souls ordinarily. A man may lay his heart bare, but not his souL When a man does expose himself to another in diis way
but again and again, the specucie of a
there
is

demanded a response which few men, apparendy,

In

are

capable of.

some ways

think that Dostoievsky's situation was

even more trying than Whitman's.

suferen
all

Performing for
did,

his

^ow-

the services that

Whitman

he was nevertheless

always regarded as one of diem, that is, a criminal Namrally he thought ho more of ** reward " than Whitman, but his dignity
as

human
it
*'

being was ever deprived him.

this

In another sense, of

course,

could be said that

very

fact

made

it

easier for

him

to act the

ministering angel."

It nullified all

thot^ht of being an

angel

He

could see himself as a victim and a suferer because in

&a he was one.

But the important point
the r6les they assumed to these

let

me

not lose

it I

^is

that,

whedier
it

were deUberate or forced upon them,

Acting

was

two

beings that the anguished souls about

as mediators

them turned
between

instinctively

and unerringly.
if

God

and man, or
''experts'*

not mediaton then

calling

intercessors,

they surpassed the

whose

they

had assumed.

The one quahty

which they had strongly in

any experience.
It

common was
utter
**

their inabiUty to rejea

was

their

capable of accepting the great

embraced more than

because
it

their

humanness which made them " of suffering. They share because it was a " privilege," not
responsibility
their mission in
]ic.

was

their

duty or

Thus, aU that

passed between

them and

thir fellow sufferers

went beyond the

was burned

gamut of ordinary
saw
away.

experience.

Men saw

into their souls and they

into men's souls.

The Utde

sel^ in each instance,

When it was
any more, but

over they could not do other than resume their

**

private tasks.
artists

They were no longer

deliverers.

men of letters,"
vehicles.

no, not even

We know only too well how their

of the old of

respective messages burst the firames

it

How could
are not yet

be otherwise

The

revolutionizing

art

which they helped

bring about, which they initiated to an extent

we

properly aware of^ was part and parcel of the greater task of tranvaluating
all

human

values. Their concern

with

art

was of a
It

different

order firom that of other celebrated revolutionaries.

was

move-

242

LETTBB to PIERRfi LESDAIN

mcnt from
from
hear.

the center of man's being outward, and the repercussions

that outer sphere

(which

is still

veiled to us)

we
it

have yet to

But

let

us not for

one moment beHeve that

was a vain or

lost irruption

of the

spirit.

Dostoievsky plunged deeper than any

;

man

before letting fly his arrows

Whitman
this

soared higher than

any before tuning in to our antennae.

Still I

cannot leave the subject of

I

very special ordeal they

underwent.

personal way.

now in another way, my own There is something I am struggUng to make absolutely

must come back to
it

dear

You know
book what
was bound

that for almost five years I

was the employment

the Capricorn

manager of a telegraph company.

dullard could sense that
to happen.
I

You know from

the nature and extent of this experience was.

Even a

from

this glut

of human contact something

am aware that I have emphasized the matter

life

of mere numbers, and not only of numbers but of the variety of

types as well as the conditions of
Fleetingly, too fleetingly,
it

which was

my

everyday

fare.

seems to

me now,
this

sketched the poigI

nancy of these man-to-man

daily.

situations into

which

was plunged
of

But did

emphasize suflSciendy

aspect

my

daily

experience

that

men

debased themselves before me, that they

i

stripped themselves naked, that they withheld nothing, nothing

They wept, they Oh, to what it.

if I

knelt at

my

feet,

they snatched

my

hand to
?

kiss

lengths did they not

go

And why

In order
!

to get a job, or in order to thank

me

for giving

them one

As

were God Almighty

I,

As

if I controlled their private destinies.

And
either

the

last

man on

destiny

of another, the
above or

who wished to interfere with the man on earth who wished to stand below another man, who wanted to look each
earth
last

man in the face and greet him as

or
I

a brother, as an equal,
this role for
;

was obliged,

believed that I
I

was obliged, to play

almost five years.

I

(Because

had a wife and child to support

;

because

could find

no

other job

because

was thoroughly
!

incapable, unfit, except

I
!)

in this accidental role.

Accidental, yes

because

had asked only

to be a messenger, not the

employment manager

And

so every

day

found myself averting

my

gaze.

was

in turn humiliated

and exasperated.

Humiliated to think that anyone should regard

that

me

as his

bene&aor, exasperated to think

human

beings could

*43

THB BOOKS IN MY LIFE

beg SO ignominiously for such a thing as a job. True, I myself had fought for the right to be " a messenger/* Rejected, perhaps
because they thought
ofiBce.

was not

in earnest, I stormed the president's

Yes,

too had

made

a big thing

of it

of

this lousy,

unmenI

tionable messenger boy's job.

(Twenty-eight years old

was.

Rather mature for such a job.) Because

I insisted

my pride had been wounded

?
I

on

my rights.

I was

to be rejected
?

to accept the lowest job

on

earth

Incredible

who had condescended Thus, when I am

!

returned from the president's office to the general manager's,

knowing

in advance that victory

!

is

in

my palmnotice now

the

Dostoievskian touch

^nothing

will

do but

to represent myself

as the supreme cosmodemoniacal messenger

say.
it is

God's
is

own, you might

know

as well as the astute

dud who

listening to

me

that

no longer a

question of taking a messei^er boy's job.

that

Had my
become

listener told

me

he was preparing to groom

me

to

the next president of the telegraph

company,

instead

of the employpride

ment manager of
so inflated that
I

the messenger department,

my
eye.

was then
I

would not have blinked an

had bargained
took over
as

But, though
I

did not become a future candidate for the presidency,

nevertheless
till

got more than

for.

never imderstood

that

moment when
destinies

employment manager, with

the the

of over

a thousand individuals in

my

hands,

what

prayers and entreaties of the unfortunate must sound like in God's

ears.
it all

(That there
the

is

no such Being
and
ironic.)

as these

more
I

horrible

wretches imagine makes " For these poor " cosmococdc

messengers

Holiness, the Pope, but

Not Jesus the Christ, not his And to be God, if only as simulacrum, is about the most devastating situation a man can find himself in. These petty tyrants who call themselves dictators, these mice who think they alone can govern the world of men, I only wish to God
was
dej&nitely

God.

God

these idiots

might be permitted to play the

!

role they imagine

them-

selves suited for to the utter limit

Why,

in the

knowledge of their

utter fatuoumess,

why

can

we

citizens

of the world not surrender

?

to

them

fiiU

and unlimited power for a brief interlude

bubble of pretense (which

Nothing

would

shatter this

we all have to a degree)

quicker than such a sanction. But ifwe are not even willing to
ourselves to God's hands

commit mean those who helkve in Him4ow can

?

we ever hope to conduct such a drastic and humorous experiment

344

LETTER TO PIERRE LESDAIN

This

God whom men

imagine to be constantly cupping both

cars in order to catch their entreaties, their blandishments, their

begnilements, does he not blush, does he not wince, does he not

squirm with anguish, chagrin and mortification when he

in

listens

on

this sickly
i

caterwaul issuing firom

this tiny

abode

called the

Earth

(For
!

from

it

we are not the one and only order of creation. What of the other stellar abodes ? Think of diose
which
I

Far

long

exploded

as well as those

are not yet

!

My

dear Lesdain, what

can be robbed of his

his fellow

is this ... a man by being put in a position above men, by being asked to dp what no man has the right

am

trying to say

human

dignity

to do, namely, give and take dispensations, judge and

condemn,

or accept thanks for a favor which

is

not a favor but a privilege that

don't

every

human

being

is

entided

to.

know which was wonc

unmerited gratitude.

to endure
I

their shameless entreaties or their

only

know

that I

was torn

apart, that I
life

wanted more than any-

thing in the world to Hve

in this cruel

my own

and never again take part

scheme of master and

slave.

My solution was to write,

This
as before.

and to do
time
I

that necessitated another descent into the abyss.

really

am

imdemeath, not above,

Now
role

have to
all,

listen to

what

others want,

what they think good or bad, above

one comfort in
this

" what

sells."

But

there

is

new

^I

am

not
If

taking the bread out of anyone's

I

mouth by plying
I

my

trade.

have a boss, he
I

is

invisible.

And

never pray to him, any

more

than

did to the Big Boss.

I think I have made myself into a capable worker, when I think I know my trade, when I think I can give satisfaction, when I am even reconciled to a long postponement of" my wages," PubHc Taste. You I come face to face with the big bugaboo remember I said that if Whitman had capitulated on this issue, if
:

Then, when

he

had

obeyed the voice of

itself.

his counselors,

a totally different

edifice

would have reared

There are the friends and supporters

the

who

appear

when you swim with

latter are the

crowd

there are the other

kind of friends and supporters

who

rally

round you when you are

It

menaced.
is

The

only kind worthy of the name.

that
hilt.

strange but the only kind

of support

means anything comes

from

those

who

beUcve in you to the

slightest

The ones who go

the

whole hog. Let there be the

wavering, the slightest doubt,

245

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

the slightest defection,

and your would-be supporter turns into

your worst enemy.

responding

For complete dedication there must be a cor-

total acceptance.

Those

who

defend you

in spite

of

your
a

faults

work

against

you

in the long run.

;

When you champion

is

man he must be all of a

piece

he must be that which he

it.

through

and through, and no doubts about

(There has been a lapse of about thirty-six hours.

is

The

thread

broken.

But

wiU

enter

by

the back door

is

.)

When

the illuminated individual

returned to the world,

when

his vision finally adjusts itself to

re-cmbracc that view of the world

loses,

which the ordinary mortal never

the round orb of the eye

seems to grow fuUer, deeper and more luminous.

to readjust, to see the mountains as mountains again
as waters.
sight.

He

takes time

and the waters

One

n<Jt

only

sees

himself seeing, one sees with added

That extra

sight reveals itself

by

the serenity of the glance.

I

The mouth too

parted.
struggle.

expresses that extra sight, if

;

may

put

it so.

It

does not shut firmly and tightly

the lips remain always sHghtly

useless

This serenity of the Hps impHes the abdication of

The whole body, in fact, expresses the joy of surrender. The more it relaxes, the more it glows. The whole being becomes
incandescent.

We know how impressed Balzac was when he read in Swedenborg

that there are

"

solitary

" angels.

An

extraordinary utterance,

no

gainsaying

it.

And
one

did not

Whitman
is

say
i

**
:

Sooner or

later

we
get

come down
in

to

single, soHtary soul

"

Aye, eventually

we

to bedrock, to the

node which

as eternal in the

human

being as

God.

And

if,

in the presence

of such

individuals,

we

have the

impression

...
the thought

(Another lapse of thirty-six hoursa very bad break, indeed.

I

no longer know what

it

was

was about to
15th
!)

express.

But

will doubtless

come
all

back.

It is

now May

In the interim, despite

the fritting away, certain phrases remain

lodged in the back of

my

head, the clue to the missing thread.

One of
(Jules

these

is

**
:

II

faudra bien qu'un jour on soit I'humanit^.'*

is
:

Romains.)

Another (my own)

" The

worm

in the to

apple.

Look

for the

worm

"

With

these

came

the

command

look up the preface to Looking Backward (2000 to 1887 a.d.) by the

son of Edward Bellamy.

This book

^I

cannot find the edition

346

LBTTBX TO rilRRl L1804IM

with
his

son's

preface

^had
It

an unprecedented

sale,

one which

nearly rivaled the Bible.*

was

translated into

don't

know how
are a

many
few

languages.

Today
I

it is

virtually forgotten.
citing
:

But here

lines

of Bellamy
is

find

worth

"

The long and weary

winter of the race

ended.

has burst the chrysalis.

Its summer has begun. Humanity The heavens are before it." These words

were written before the end of the Nineteenth Century,

years, to

just five

be exact, before

long

after these

Whitman words of Whitman

died.
:

so very " The poems of life are great,

itself,

They follow not

but there must be the poems of the purport of life, not only in but beyond itself"

The worm

in the apple
its

I
it

think that whenever or wherever the

worm

makes

appearance
the
**

should be hailed

as a sign

of new
is

Hfe.

We
is

ought to

call it

angel-wonn."

Au Au

fond there

no such
There
nothing

thing as literature,

no such thing
as

as art, religion, civilization.

not even such a thing

life,

humanity.

fond there

is

but

life

manifesting

itself in

myriad inscrutable ways.

To
I

live, to

be

alive, is to
line,
is

partake of the mystery.

The

other night

encountered a
goes thus:
dering.
I

undoubtedly famous, of Heraclitus, which

to fight for life."

"To Hve

That

line set

me

to pon-

could not beheve that by "to fight for" Heraclitus

existence.
I

meant merely the continuance of the struggle for

not beheve that he was implying, like a stem

could

realist,
I

that the

moment
I

we

are

born

we

are advancing towards death.

don't believe that

life.

by "
tiese

to fight for " he

I

meant to defend or uphold

do not

know,
meant

must admit, what the context was.

I

But pondering over

words
this

came

to the conclusion that, whether HeracHtus

or not, what he was saying was

life

^life is

the

all,

Ufe

is
;

the

only privilege,
fact

knows nothing, means nothing, but

means conscious
the
allegiance,

Hfe

the

of being

alive

supreme

faith, in

other words.

From

moment we

are

bom we wage
we

a struggle
is

against undefinable things.

Nearly everything

glorify

in the

nature of commemoration,

commemoration of our heroic

struggle.

We

put the struggle above the flux, the past and future above the
:

* I have just found Paul Bellamy's preface. Here are his words "Looking Backward, first published in the winter of 1887-8, won such universal acceptance that in the middle Nineties it was said that more copies of the volume had been sold than of any book hitherto written by an American author, with the two exceptions of Uucle Tom's Cabin and Ben Hut."

247

THF,

BOOKS
But

IN

MY

LIFE

present.
is

life

bids us

swim
of

in the eternal stream.

Cosmology
answers Job

the

myth of
his

the mystery
to

creation.

When God
is it

cosmologically

it is

remind

man

that

he

only a part of creation,

or perish.

that

it is

duty to put himself in accord with

When

man puts his head out of the stream of life he becomes self-conscious. And with self-consciousness comes arrest, fixation, symbolized so
vividly

by the myth of Narcissus. The worm in the apple of human

over the face of life
like

existence

is

consciousness.

It

steals

an intruder. Seen through the mirror

everything becomes the background of the ego.

mystics, the visionaries
restore
like a

The

seers, the

smash

this

mirror again and again.

They

man

to the primordial flux, they put

him back

in the stream

fisherman emptying his net.

:

of Claudel which runs

de mal de
la

There is a line firom Tete d'Or " Mais rien n*empechera que je meure
saisisse la

mort, i moins que je ne

joie

..."
is

pro-

found and
surrender.

beautifiil utterance.
It

The joy he

speaks of

the joy of

could be no other.
I

In
lips

my

study of Balzac

cited a

number of
like to give

utterances

from the
at this

of Louis Lambert.

would
is

them again

juncture
exist

..." My

point

to ascertain the real relation that

Is

may
.
.

between
is

God and man.

again
is

not

this
is

a need of the age

If

man

bound up with

everything,

there not something above

?

him with which he

bound up

If he

is

the end-all of the

unexplained transmutations that lead up to him, must he not be also

the link between the visible and invisible creations
?

The
It
;

activity

of the universe
is

is

not absurd

it

must tend to an end, and

is
!

that

end

surely not a social

that

body

constituted as ours

...

seems to

me

we

are
I

on

the eve of a great

human

struggle

the forces

are there, only

do not

see the General

..."

ing,

The Balzac who wrote these lines, and others even more discernmore inspiring (in Seraphita), was not mistaken in his view of things. No more than Edward Bellamy or Dostoievsky or Walt Whitman.
I

mentioned

earlier in this letter that I

I

had heard recently from

the
I

man whom
With
In

looked upon
this

as

a master in

my

youth, and
:

whom

have written of in

book

as

" a living book "

John Cowper
called Obstinate
is

Powys.
Cymric.

this letter

came

new book of his

it is

a chapter called Pair Dadeni, which

Welsh

for

248

LETTER TO PIERRE LBSDAIN

"

The Cauldron of Rebirth."

particular

find in this book, especially in

this

chapter,

the

same illuminating utterances which

Speaking of the

characterize the

works of those mentioned above.

change which

is

coming over humanity with the advent of our

entry into Aquarius, speaking of the

"new

revelation" being

granted us and which, he says, "

in the heart

may

turn out to be the ^lan vital

of

all life,"

he sutes
endeavouring to suggest in
all this is

Now

what

am

that the secret underlying the cause

of

fe

great historic

change coming over the human race, this change so closely connected with the movements of the heavenly bodies, this change which impHes the passing forth out of the two thousand years of the sign Pisces into the sign Aquarius this change which produces the effect of a living body slowly and dreadfully restored from death to Hfe, or even of a hving infant emerging from a dying mother's womb, may be nothing less than that very change of heart which the prophets Iwve always spoken of and in which the revivalists have always beHeved, a "change of heart," " however, not by any means on the lines which the " law

"prophets" predicted but on on lines startling and unexpected, on lines in tune in fact with that **Stream of Tendency" in Nature which is steadily moving, and moving in
promulgated

and

the

entirely different lines,

defiance, not only

of the

Law and
lines,

the Prophets, but of

both
Let

God and

the Devil.
for they concern us,

me

quote a few more

to take part

our part
this

--or our

refiisal

^in

this

new

vision

of things,

new

way of

hfe.

None of us

realize the character

of the hidden current,

the occult wave, the unseen force, that is driving us forward.

Our immediate
which we
bulists

purpose, our immediate destination, seems

small and meagre

compared with the driving force

to

are obscurely yielding.

We

are like

somnam-

in a

moving forward together, killing and being killed huge world migration from one climate of thought

into another.

In the old cUmate out of which

whether
dismay,

we are moving perforce, we respond in blind faith or react in hostile we can see the wavering lineaments and cloudy
desperation

shapes of the old totems and taboos that are disappearing.

With angry

wc

cling to these fluctuant phan-

249

tm

BOOKS

Ilf

MT

ttPB
are

corns as they

waver and undulate about us while we

swept on,

Wc
we

ourselves are the dying

relaxed and faint, as the

body that is falling back, newborn utters its first cries, and

ounelves are the newborn.

Yes, and the

more

desperately

we

cling,

the

more more

angrily and recklessly

we

fling

our wild accusations and

imprecations against
surely are

this gravitational ground-tide, the

we

forced on. "Fate leads die willing, drags the

unwilling."

We

are

no longer " on

the eve

of a great human

struggle," as
is

Balzac wrote,
saying that

we

are in the very thick

of it. And Pow)'S

is

right in
is

it is

the

human

soul

which

in revolt

The

soul

sick

of this corpse-eadng worship of life

for the
last
is

^^^lich

humanity has celebrated

few thousand

years.

There

an American astrologer, Dane Rudhyar,

is

who

has vmtten

of this change which

ingly than any one
I

coming over

us

more

lucidly and penetrat-

know o Many of

his articles

appeared in

die columns of a popular magazine devoted to astrology.

His

books do not have a wide audience. If we were aware,

in accord with the deeper

if

we were

movement, we would not banish such a

writer to the pages of a cheap magazine. That his

name

is

associated

with the " pseudoscience " of astrology

utterances suspect

is

enough

to

make

his

Such
I

is

the opinion of educated people

that

^and

of

the uneducated.

mention him here only to say

Plenitude."

he

sees the

coming age
it

as

**

The Age of

The cup
earth, all

will run over,

will fertilize

and invigorate the whole

humanity.

The

secret forces contained in this

" golden vessel " will be the property

as so

of

all

men.

The world

is

not coming to an end,

to an

many now

seem to
stitions,

fear.

What

is

coming

end are the

fetiches, super-

bigotries, the sterile

forms of worship, the unjust terms

life

of

social contract,

which have converted the miracle of

into a
life.

ceremony of death.

The

chains will

fall

We have nothing to lose but the corpse of away with the mummy which they hold fast
slave does not free himself merely
fetter

to the earth.

The

by hacking

away
is

the shackles

free

before

Once his spirit is liberated he The putrefaction has to be total absolutely and forever. there can be new life. Freedom has to manifest itself at the
which
him.

roots before

it

can become universal.

250

LETTER TO PIERRE LESDAIN

America,
like Russia,
is

hastening the process of putrefaction and

like

decomposition.

These two great peoples,

busy angel-worms,

are tunneling through the very core

of the apple in order to bring

All

about, unconscious

on

their part, the vital transmogrification.

unconsciously, they are utilizing the

new
by

forces

of

life

for their

own
ends,

destruction.
is

Europe, ever more conscious of beginnings and

the threat of extinction
represents.

appalled, paralyzed indeed,

these slumbering

which the play of

is

GoUaths

Europe

for the conscious preservation

of the old
is

and the timid, cautious

Europe
is

trying out of the new.

tired old

Europe

not a sleepwalker.

man, weary of wisdom yet unable to show

If

faith.

Fear and

anxiety are the ruling passions.

before
cage.
it

America

is

like a fruit rotting

has ripened, Europe

is

like a valetudinarian

Uving in a
is

glass

Everything that happens in the outside world

this

a threat

and a menace to

fragile self-made prisoner.

This delicate,
upheavals and

long-suffering creature has experienced so

catastrophes that the very

many

word "
is

revolution," the very idea of an

It It

" end," makes

that

it

shudder with
life

fright.

does not want to beUevc

prefers
its

"the winter of

over."

the freeze to the

thaw.
its

No

doubt

ice

too hates to surrender

rigidity.

In working

ceaseless transmutations

Nature does not ask permission, even of

ice,

to break

it

up

into fluid elements.

And

that, I feel,

is

at the

bottom of the

terror
if

which has the European

in

its

grip.

He

is

not being asked

terrifying order

he wishes to participate in the new, nameless,

is

which

taking possession of the world.

" If

it is

what
is

sense taking place in Russia," he says,

"
I

if

it is

hke what
rather not

have

gomg on in China or America or India, then it." He is even ready to take his rehgion
it

would

seriously,

he thinks
idea that

to himself, if only the

will avert the panic in his soul.

The

new way of Hfe may be a godless one, the idea that the responsibility may be wrested from God and conferred upon humanity as a whole, only adds to his terror. He sees no cause for rejoicing in the thought that the new dispensation may be man's. He is too human, yet not human enough, to beUeve that authority should rest with man, especially with "the common man." He has
wimessed revolutions from the top and revolutions from the
bottom, but no matter
himself as a beast.

how

they came about

man

And

if you say to

him,

as

Powys

always revealed does, " Now it

251

THE BOORS IN MY LIFE

is

the soul of

man which

is

in revolt

**
!

it is

as if

you

said

"

God

has

become

the Fiend of Creation."

detect
its

He

can recognize the soul in

deeds of heroes,

great

works of art, he can

stirrings in the
as the

but he dare not look upon the soul

situated at the

autochthonous rebel
creation
is

very heart of the universe.

is

To him

order,

and what threatens that order

hbcrate
creation.
itself

of the

devil.

But the soul aims to

from every
soul

thrall,

even from the harmony of

The

of art may be

defined, but the soul itself remains

it

undefinable.

or the tasks

it

We are not to question the direction takes, the aims sets We are to obey dictates.
itself.
its

But nothing will prevent of death, unless I grasp joy

Unless
fruit that

me from
. .

dying ol die disease

I put it in my mouth like an eternal food, like a you crush between your teeth, and its juice gushes

deep

down

in

your throat

That
soul's

is

the language

of the souL And

this is the

language of the

own wisdom
so clear that
it

It is

takes long to see.

You must know

Is

the fire in
that

And

which you are seeking your own lantern. your rice has been cooked from the very
that the fire

beginning.

When
from
**

came

to

Europe

was so ove^oyed
where

that I

had escaped

the
is

homeland

that I longed to
is

remain in Europe forever.

I

This

my

place," I said, " here

belong."

And

then

fotmd myself in Greece, which has ever been a Htde out of Europe,
I

and

thought

would remain

there.

But

life

seized

me by the scruf
Because of that

of the neck and put

me down

again in America.

brief sojourn in Greece, because

I

of what happened to
and
truthfiilly

me
I

there,

was
I

able to say, truthfiilly at the time

feel at

still,

think

"

can

the hardest

home anywhere in the world." For a type like myself, place to feel at home is home. You know that, I guess,
It

and perhaps you understand it. that " home " is a condition, a
against places
that " to

took

me an infinite
I

time to realize
revolt

state

of mind.

was ever in
I

and conditions of being.

But when
became

discovered

be

at

home " was

to the

like

being with God, the dread which

had attached
252

itself

word

fell

away.

It

my business,

or

"

LETTER TO PIERRE LESDAIN

better,

my

privilege^ to

have been

easier for

me

make myself at home at home. It would to make myself at home anywhere on

I

earth, I think,

than here in America.

miss Europe and

yearn for

Greece.

And I am

always dreaming of Tibet.

;

I feel that I

am much
And

more than an American

potential Greek,

feel that I

am

good European, a

Hindu, Russian, Chinese, and Tibetan too.

when

read of Wales and her twenty thousand years of direct

descent

from an earUer
of all
like

race

of man,

I feel least

an American, though
else.

American than anything

way,

a bom Welshman. am probably more an The American in me which I acknowI feel like
I

ledge and recognize, the American which

it

I salute, if I

must put

that

is

the aboriginal being, the seed and the promise,

which

took shape in " the

common man "

on

dedicating his soul to a

new

experiment, establishing
love."
the

virgin soil " the

dty of brotherly

This

is

not the

man who
Not

ran

man who

ran towards something.

fulfill

The man

away from something, but destined no longer

?

to seek but to

himself.

renunciation, but acceptance.

"

What would you say to one who comes to you with nothing " Throw it away "
!

This

"mondo" was

used to
spiritual

illustrate

the thought that

as a

"we
means

must walk on even from

to grasp the truth

poverty if this be used

of Zen."
is

The
world.

spiritual
It

poverty of America

perhaps the greatest in the

that
is

was not assumed to grasp the truth of Zen, But the Song of
the

certainty.

Open Road
in

is

altogether American,

and

it

was sung by one who was not

It

any sense of the world

impoverished.

sprang from the optimism, from the inexhaustible

say,

bounty,
It

might

of one

who was
St.

in complete accord with

life.

completes the message of

Francis

of

Assisi.

Walk on
Whitman,
all

Let go

Cease squirming!

man
Hved with

Lawrence was fiightened, nay

horrified, to think that this

in accepting everything, rejecting nothing,

his sluices

openlike some monstrous

more
salutary,
?

creature

of the deep.
this

But could

there be a
adrift in the

comforting image than

human net
anchor
?

stream of life

Where would you have man

take root
i

Where would you have him

eternal flux
?

h he not divinely
253

poisedin the


THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE
Is

there a road

which eventually comes to an end

dreams are made of."

Then

it is

not the open road.

**

We

are such stuff as

Life
is

Aye, and more.

Ufe intermarry,

Vasdy more.

not a dream.

Dreams and
not the all

and de Nerval has made of this faa the most haunting music. Dream and dreamer are one.
cardinal.

But

that

is

That

is

not even

the

The dreamer who knows in his dream that he is dreaming, dreamer who makes no divorce between the dreams he dreams
is

with eyes shut and the dreams he dreams with eyes open
to the supreme realization.
life,

nearer

But the one

who

passes

&om

dream to

who

ceases to sleep,

even in the trance,

thirsts,

because he

no longer hungers and

who dreams no more who remembers no more

is

because he has arrived at the Source, sudi a one

an Awakener.

My
But
I

dear Lesdain, at this point

a close
;

could conveniently bring

*'

my

letter to

it

has that
it

*'

ultimate

ring which means the end.

prefer to reopen

and dose on a more human and immediate

note.

Schatz,

You remember and how I

that
visit

mentioned ray Palestinian

friend, Bezalel

him down

the road occasionally.

fell

The

other

day, going to

town (Monterey), we
things.

to discussing

Ac

books

we had
tides

read and adored in our youth.

It

was not the

first

time

we
his

had talked of such

However,
ought to

as

he began to

reel off die

of world-famous books which he had read in Hebrew,

I felt

native tongue,

that I

tell

you something of

all this,

and through you the world.

I

think the

first

time

we

opened

this subject

was when he
it

dis-

covered on
Jerusalem^

my
it.

shelf Loti*s Disenchanted.

Beside

was

Loti*s

which he had never

read, never heard of,

and he was
have had
Testa-

curious about

You must know, of

course, that

we

many
ment

talks

about Jerusalem, the Bible

especially the

Old

about
it

characters like David, Joseph,

Ruth, Esther, Daniel

and so on.

Sometimes

we

spend the whole evening talking about

in

that strange desolate part

of the world

which Mt.

Sinai

is

located

sometimes

is

about the accursed city of Petra, or about Gaza.

about the wonderfiil Yemenite Jews

Sometimes

it is

who

have in

Yemen
San'a.

(Arabia) one of the most interesting capitals in the world

Or

it

may

be about the Jews firom Bokhara

who

setded in

254

L8TTBR TO PIlHIB ttSDAtN

Jerusalem centuries ago and sdli preserve their ordinal tongue,
their

manners and customs,

their strange head-dress

and

their

wond-

rous colorful costumes.

Sometimes
are

we

talk

about Bethlehem and

Nazareth,

which to him

associated

with

very

mundane

experiences.
vifhidi

Or
we

it

may

be about Baalbec or Damascus, both of

he has

visited.

Eventually

always return to

literature.

What

started us of

yesterday was his recollection of the rst

book he had ever

read.

And what do you

language was

suppose

it

might have been, considering

that his

Hebrew and

his

home

Jerusalem

I
!

almost fainted

away when I heard the name Robinson Crusoe eariy one was Don Quixote, also read in Hebrew.
read was in

Another very
Everything he

Hebrew

until

he grew older and learned English,

Italian,

German, Frendi, Bulgarian,

tongues.

Russian and probably other

(Arabic he
ridiest

knew from

childhood.

He
that,

still

swears in

Arabic

the

language in the world for

first

he maintains.)
**
i

" So Robinson Crusoe was the

exclaimed.
*'

book you ever read

for

It

came near being

!

the

first

me, too."

" What about Gulliver's Traveb t You must have read that too." " Of course " he said, " and Jack London's books Martin
Eden,

The Call of

the

Wild ...
(So do

all
I.

of diem.

But

remember
after his

Martin Eden particularly."

others had ided away.
It

Tlut book stuck long

must have struck Here he began to

Many men home !)

talk

have confessed the same to me.

about

Mark Twain. He had

I

read quite a

few of his books

too.

That surprised me.

couldn't quite conceive

of Mark Twain's quaint, piquant Americanese being rendered in

Hebrew. But apparendy

Suddenly he said
book, which
in
fiurt
.

it

had been done

there

successfully.*

'*
:

But

was one thick book, a very thick

I

read with sheer deHght.

read

it

two or

three times,

"

He had
!

to rack his brain for the tide.

"

Oh yes

Pidtwick Papers

"

We checked on this and I found that at the very

that

same age
through

I
it.

was poring over

I

book

myself.

Only / never got

didn't like

it

nearly as well as David Copperfield,

Martin Chuzzlewit, the Tale of

Two

Cities,

or even, Oliver TwisL

* To my astonishment, when speaking of Babbit later, he confessed that this book by Sinclair Lewis had given hmi a better picture of America than any of Mark Twain's. The Stockholm Royal Academy made a similar mistake in awarding the Nobel Prize to Lewis instead of Dreiser.
255

 "
THE BOOKS
**

IN

MY

LIFE
?

And

Alice in Wonderland

"

cried.

**

Did you read

it

that too

He

couldn't recall whether he had read

it,

in

Hebrew or

not

but he had read

couldn't say.

he was

certain,

though in which language he

(Imagine trying to

recall in

what language you had

our tongues

read this unique

book

!)
list,

We

went down the

the

names

rolling off

like

maple syrup.
'*Ivanhce"i
**

You

bet

And how

That was a great book for me.

I

Par-

ticularly the picture

of Rebecca.**

was thinking

how

strange

indeed must
salem.
I

this

novel have seemed to a Httle boy in far-off Jerustrangest feeling

had the

of gladness
as to

for

Sir
his

Walter

Scott,

long dead and no longer concerned

penetrate.
react to this
I

where

books might

wondered
book.
(I

how
I

boy from Pekin or Canton would

I

can never forget that Chinese student

think
it

knew

in Paris
if

Mr. Tcheou,
?

was.

One
:

day,

upon asking him

that novel

he had ever read Hamlet, he answered

**)

"

You mean

by Jack London

Ivanhoe led us into a long detour.

We

of Richard the Lion-Hearted and of American

"
I

Saladin.

could not help but talk " You're the only

ever heard mention Saladin*s name," said Schatz.

Saladin
?

Why are you so interested in

?

"

told him.

" The Arabs

Yes,
I

must have wonderful books about him," he concluded.

thought, but where are they
Saladin
?

Why

aren't

we

talking

more about
I

Next
time

to

King Arthur,
was prepared

he's the

most shining figure

can

think

of
this
I

By
It

for

any

title

he might mention.
the

did not surprise

me

to hear that he

had read The Last of

did not surprise

Mohicans^ in Hebrew, or The Arabian Nights (a condensed version

for children

the only one

diat

ever read

!)

it

me

any longer to learn

he had read Balzac, d'Annunzio, Schnitzler

Nana, The Peasants of R^ymont,
I
!

{Fraulein Elsa\ Jules Verne, Zola's

or even Jean Christophe, though

last.

was indeed glad

to hear

of

this

("

congratulate you, Lillik

That must have been a wonder-

ful experience.")

for every

Ah yes, to mention that book is to summon man and womansome of the most soul-stirring hours
crosses the threshold

of youth. Whoever

of youth without having

loss.

read Jean Christophe has suffered an irreparable

256

LBTTBR TO PIERRE LBSDAIN

" But

who wrote that book called The Red Rose "* he demanded.
i

by a French author, Tm certain." It had made sion on him, apparendy. From this we skipped to The Mysteries of Paris,
"
It's

a deep impres-

the

works of

de Maupassant, S(^ho

Tartarin

de

Tarascon

(which he adored),
to

the strange short story or novelette

by Tolstoy
That man
'*
:

which Tolstoy
the tide.)
!

gave two endings.

(I

know
say.

this

one too, but

I can't recall
!

And
as

then

we came
!

to Sienkiewicz.
still

(That man Lincoln

pest
!

some Southerners
person
")

Meaning

That

That impos-

sible

Yes,

no doubt every boy who

:

first

comes in
I

contact with this passionate Pole must exclaim

" That man

!

Timt Polish writer

"

What

a volcano

he was

So Polish

If as

boys

we
i

could have spoken with the tongue of Amiel, might

as

we

not have rhapsodized over Sienkiewicz

Amiel did over Victor

this

Hugo

Do

you remember, by chance,

Intime
i

astounding passage
I

from Amiel's JourtMl

passage, that
if I

Let

me

remark, before

quote the

we had

been discussing The

Man Who

Laughs, which,

am

not mistaken, makes a more lasting impression on young

. , .

people than Les Mis^rahles

His [Hugo's] ideal

the

is

the extraordinary, the gigantic,

overwhelming,

the

incommensurable.

His

most

characteristic

words

are immense, colossal, enormous, huge,

monstrous.

He

finds a

extravagant and bizarre.

impossible to
is

way of making even child-nature The only thing which seems

In short, his passion
excess
;

him

is

to be natural.
is

grandeur, his fault

his distinguishing

mark

is

a kind of Titanic
its

power with

strange dissonances of

magnificence. Where he is weakest is in and sense of humor he fails in esprit, in the subtlest sense of the word . His resources are inexhaustible, and age seems to have no power over him. What an infinite store of words, forms and ideas he carries about with him, and what a pile of works he has left

pueriHty in

measure,

taste,

behind him to mark his passage His eruptions are like those of a volcano and, fabulous workman that he is, he goes on forever raising, destroying, crushing, and rebuUding a world of his own creation, and a world rather Hindoo than Hellenic ...
! ;

By

a strange coincidence our talk of books switched to those

* Probably The Red Lily of Anatole France.

257

THE BOOKS IN MY
firebrands

LIP;

who sowed
I

the whirlwind
discovered,

^Tamerlane,
reads

Genghis Khan,

Attikwhose names,

were

as thrilling

and

terrifying

to Schatz as they are to everyone

who

of their bloody deeds.

I

A
in

coincidence,

I say,

because the only long passages

these three scourges.
*'

had marked
records

Amiel were on Hugo and

the story,** he says.

Amid

that

he had been reading La Bantiihe Bleue.

tells

It is

a Turk, Ou'igour,
:

who

He

continues thus

" Genghis proclaimed himself the scourge of God, and he did in

fact realize the vastest

empire

known

to history, stretching

from

the Blue Sea to the Baltic, and firom the vast plains of Siberia to the banks of the sacred Ganges."
cussing, the fact that a

(This

is

what we had been

this

dis.

Mongol had achieved

stupendous

feat.)

" This tremendous hurricane, starting from the high Asiatic tablelands, felled the decaying oaks

and worm-eaten buildings of the

first

whole ancient world.

The
is

descent of the

yellow, flat-nosed

Mongols upon Europe

a historical cyclone

which devastated and

at the

purified our Tliirteenth Century,

and broke,

two ends of the

known
barrier

world,

through two great Chinese walls

that

which

protected the ancient empire of the Center, and that

which made a
world oC

of i^orance and
Attila,

superstition

round the

Uttle

Christendom.
the

Genghis Khan, Tamerlane, ought to range in

Caesar, Charlemagne and Napoleon.

memory of men with

life

They roused whole

peoples into action, and stirred the depths

let

of

human
rivers

they powerfully affected ethnography, they

face

loose

of blood, and renewed the of

*'

of things

..."

A few lines
this is a

fardier, speaking

the revilers of

war [who]

are like the revilers

of diunder, storms and volcanoes," Amiel

line
it

declares

and
I

which must have sunk deep in me,

resounds like a tocsin

it

"Catastrophes

for

whenever

encounter

bring about a violent

rights.**

restoration
It is

of equiUbrium

they put the world brutally to

sears
:

that last phrase

which bums and

"They put

the world

brutally to rights^
It is

a long cry

from Amiel

to the
in

Baron Munchausen

tales

and

to

Jerome K. Jerome's Three Mett

a Boat (to say nothing of the

dog!).

Once

again

was bowled

over.

So in

far-off Palestine another

young man had laughed himself silly over

Jerome K. Jerome
258
in

this stupid bit

it.

of humor

Hebrew

couldn't get over

To

think

"

LETTER TO PIERRE LESDAIN

that this atrociously

funny

bookfunny
! .

only

once,

however

was
'*

just as

funny in Hebrew

You

must

remember

please try

whether you read

Alice in Wonderland in

Hebrew."
Then, scratching
his head,

He
"

tried,

but he couldn't.

he said
!)

Maybe I read it in Yiddish."

Anyway, suddenly he
these

(Put that in your pipe and

smoke it

recalled that
translations

the original publisher

of

most of
in Poland.

Hebrew
recall

was " Toshia," somewhere

at the

That seemed important to him

moment.
heft

Like

when you suddenly

volume.

not only the tide of a

child's

book but
of the

the feel of the cover, the smell

of the paper, the very

Then he informed me
had been
he
said.

that practically

all
**

the Russian writers

translated into
1

Hebrew very
that Celestial

early.

thought of China, of the days of Sun Yat-sen,

The whole works," when the

same thing happened in

kingdom.

And how,

along

with Dostoievsky, Tolstoy, Gorky, Chekov, Gogol and the others,

the Chinese had swallowed Jack
is

London and Upton

of a nation when

Sinclair.

It

a wonderful

moment

in the

life

it is first

invaded

by

foreign authors.

(And

to think that Httle Iceland reads

more
Count

authors, in translation, than

any country

in the

world

!)

Of

course he had also read The Three Musketeers,

The

of Monte Cristo and The Last Days of Pompeii, as well as Sherlock

Holmes and Poe's The Gold Bug.

Suddenly he gave

me
all

another

warm
read

thrill

by mentioning Knut Hamsun's name.

all

Yes, he had
golden.
at the

Hamsun,

he could lay hands on, and

Wanderers, Segelfoss

it

was

(Pan, Hunger,

Victoria,

Town, Women

Pump

.)

Some
thought

titles

he mentioned

had never heard of

pang of regret went through me, followed immediately by a touch

of joy,
for,
I

to myself, I

am

still

aUve, I

may

yet find the

if I

way
read

to get these

unknown books of Hamsun

even

have to

them
read a

in

Norwegian
the Yiddish too," he suddenly

"

number of authors from

translation.

declared.

" Read them in

Sholem Aleichem, of course.

better,

But
**

better than
!

Sholem Aleichem, much

was Mendele
?

Mocher-Sfarim

Do

you remember Jacob Ben-Ami,

"

the Jewish actor

"

asked.

Or

Israel

Zangwill

"
?

259

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

"
I

Israel

Zangwill

" he exclaimed in amazement.

had read Children of the Ghetto and had seen the dramatization of The Melting Pot, of which Theodore Roosevelt
told
I

him

was so enamored.
"
I

He shook

his

can

name one book,"

diat

I said,

head in amazement. " that I bet you never read in

Hebrew." " What's

'

"
>

TJie Rivet in Grandfathers

Neck

"
!

"

You

got

me
:

there,"

he grinned.

Then, to get even with me,

he countered

"I

most wonderful
It

know one book youve never read. It was the book of all to me Metnories of the House of David.
:

was

in

many

volumes, eight or ten at

least."

ought to have a drink on that one," I suggested. But instead we got off on the subject of the " lamedvovnik." According to legend, " there are in the world not less than thirty-six (latued-vav)
righteous persons in every generation

"We

upon

whom

the Shekina

(God's radiance) rests."

After this detour

we came

back to a book which he had spoken

of several times before and always with the same passionate enthusiasm Ingeborg, by a German named Kellermann. " He also wrote
:

The Tunneh a fascinating thing ^ la Jules Verne, don't forget that he shouted. " Maybe I haven't spelled it right, but it sounds like
!

"

that

^Ingeborg or Inge6r^.
!

It

was a love

story.

And what

a love

story

Like that book

Site

you're always talking about."

I

"

I'll

make

a search for it," in

promised.

**

Here, write the

name
still

down

for

me

my notebook." He
no logic
in
it,

wrote

it

down

beside Robinson

" Krtiso " and " Baalzac " and " Zenkewitz."
bafHes him.

(English spelling

There's

he

insists,

and he's damned

this,"

right.)

" If you ever write anything about

overlook Joseph Flauvius.
die
It's

all

he

said,

**

don't

a thick

book about

the last days

of

Jews
it

..."
was about
dwelt on
called

But
that

Narcisse et

Goldmundin Hebrew, of courseIn English, for

I

we

at great length.

some

curious

reason,

it is

Death and
a

the Lover.

had come upon

It is
is

this

book

of Hermann Hesse only

few years ago.

There

one of those books

it

which profoundly
wisdom. "
Life

affect the artist.

as

magic in

and great
It is

wisdom,"

D. H. Lawrence would
art.
It
is

say.

like

a " cadenza " to the metaphysics of

also

" a heavenly

360

LETTER TO PIERRE LBSDAIN

discourse " carried

on

in die lower octaves.

It celebrates

the pain

and the triumph of

art.

the revival of art in

To my friend Schatz, who had witoessed Palestine, who had been directly implicated
it

through
naturally.

his father's activities,

had made an enormous appeal,

in himself a

Whoever
of the

reads this

book must experience

of
art.

great revival

eternal truth
et

Under
they are

the spell of Narcisse

GoUmmd we

rambled

onabout
wonderful

Jerusalem past and present, about the Arabs and

how

when you know them

intimately, about

the

banana

grove near Jericho which

the

his father

once owned together with

their

Grand MufH, about the Yemenites again and

incomparable

ways, and finally about his father, Boris Schatz,

the Bezalel School of Arts and Crafts
his

who had founded in Jerusalem and who taught

Here he repeated the

son

all

the

arts,

even

as in

days of old.

anecdote about
into Palestine.

how

his father succeeded in getting the first piano

its details,

This Htde story, so picaresque in

reminded
beHeve)

me of

one of Cendrars* exotic passages

(in Bourlinguer, I

wherein he describes

down to the last detail and with aU the resources

thousand and one
articles

of his amazing

clavier the

of commerce
gods and

(pianos included) which, loaded

on

the backs

of

beasts,

men, appeared one day over the ridge of the Andes (he was then
in

some remote South American

from morning

village)

and were transported

slowly, tantalizingly,
this

to dusk, to sea level.

:

To me

passage has die flavor of a mysterious sunburst

the great

burning orb becomes metamorphosed into a huge cornucopia

shedding not heat but an assortment of the most incongruous
objects imaginable,

emptied

finally

by some
!

super-gravitational

Kriss Kringle

in
is

the midst

of nowhere

In

all

these discussions the

magic name for

me

is

Jericho.

For

Schatz, Jericlio

a beautiful winter resort

below

sea level, to

which

one descends from Jerusalem as on a toboggan slide. For me it is not only " the walls " and the sound of the trumpet but an inconspicuous village

on Long

Island, whither,

following the Jericho

in preparation
riders.

Turnpike,
for a

would

race at top speed

from Jamaica

workout with one of the famous six-day bike

of names for

How
!

different are the associations

I

different individuals

hardly dare

tell

you, for example, what Schatz associates with

("

the

name Bethlehem.

Always

alive

with whores

")

26l


THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE
One of the lasting impressions I shall retain of Palestine is his story man who made Hebrew a Hving language once again.*
is

about the

Doubtless there

always a "

first

one " where the revival of a

stops to think

dead language

is

concerned.

But

who

of

that first

man
it

in connection
?

tongues

with Basque, Gaelic, Welsh and such weird (Perhaps these were never wholly " dead.**) However,
our

was

in

own

generation that

Hebrew was
it

revived

and

through the simple act of a

son.

man

teaching

to his four-year-old

Unquestionably there had been

much
is

talk

of reviving

it

before

this celebrated

moment.

It

remained, however, for someone to

put words into practice.

a miracle

Such an event

always in the nature of

...
is

There
relates

a sequel to

this event,

little

anecdote which Schatz

with

relish, that I

cannot omit.

It is

about a

member of

the famous
Palestine,

Habima troupe who, arriving for the first time in from Russia, where Hebrew was spoken only on the
"

stage (and in the synagogue), suddenly hears the urchins in the street

cursing and swearing in the ancient tongue.

it is

Now

know

that

a living language

**
!

he exclaimed.
is

mention
is

this to

remark

that every time a language

revitalized it

through the adoption

and incorporation of the vulgar elements of that tongue. Everything

is

nourished firom the roots. " Tell me, Lillik,** I asked

as

we were
? **

nearing home, "

why

did

your father name

his school Bezalel

Did he name
*

it after

you or

were you named after the school ? He laughed. " You know that it means of course. But
that
is

in the

shadow of God,*

merely

its literal

meaning.**

He
it

paused and

a glowing smile spread over his face.

Suddenly he burst into

sounded.

Hebrew. He went on and on ^like an incantation " What arc you doing i ** I asked.
" I'm reciting some verses from Exodus
the fint sculptor, didn't
really.

about Bezalel

He was
than
that,

you know

that

He was more
Bible
!

The

first artist,

you might

say.
It's

Read your

Find the
elaborate,

part about the

poetic, precise

Ark of the Covenant.

and never-ending
I

up your street. Jt's

..."
And
first

Next morning

did as he had urged.

the

first

mention

* Elicer Ben-Yehuda,

who

also

compiled the

Hebrew

dictionary,

containing about 50,000 words.

362

"

LETTER TO PIERRB

1.

found of our chcr Bezaled was in Chapter 31 of Exodus, which

begins thus:

Lord spake unto Moses, saying. have called by name Bezaleel the son of Uri, the son of Hur, of the tribe of Judah ; And I have filled him with the spirit of God, in wisdom, and in imderstanding, and in knowledge, and in all manner of workmanship, To devise amning works, to work in gold, and in silver,
the
See, I

And

and in

brass.

And

in cutting

of stones, to
in
all

set

them, and in carving of

. .
.

timber, to
I

work

manner of workmanship

read on and on, about the building of the tabernacle, about Ark of the testimony, about the altar of burnt offering, about keeping the Sabbath holy, about the writing of God graven upon And I came upon the verse in Chapter 35 (Exodus) the tables
the
. . .

which
Lord
!

reads

" Take ye firom

is

whosoever
;

of a willing
silver,

among you an oflfering unto the heart, let him bring it, an oflfering
brass,

of the Lord
scarlet,

gold,

and

and

and

blue,

and purple, and

red,

and

fine linen,
skins,

and

goat*s hair,

and rams* skins dyed

oil for the
I

and badgers'

and shittim wood, and

Ught, and

spices for anointing oil

...

**

As

read

on and on

got drunk

with the music of the words, for

precise

it is

indeed intricate and elaborate,

and

poetic, fiigitive

and

fixed, all this about the

cunning
as I sat

workmanship of Bezaleel and

there deep in reverie,
I

his

" collaborators."

And

bethought

me how

deep was the vision of

Boris Schatz, the father of Bezalel, and with what loving patience,

with what heroic perseverance he labored to make the sons of

Israel capable,
arts,

wise and ginning in the use of

art

all

the crafts,

all

the
this

even the

of Juval.
this

saw

that his

son had imbibed

knowledge and wisdom,

abiUty to devise curious works, even

from the
name,

cradle.

And
it is

whispered to myself:

"Blessed be thy
!

Bezalel, for

written into the very covenant between us

is

And now,

my

dear Pierre Lcsdain, this

really the

end

In

journeying back to the early books

we

have come

at last to the
let

Book of Books,

to the

Ark and

the Covenant.

Here

us rest in

peace and contentment.

Your

friend.

May

2otht 1950.

Henry Miller.
263

XIII
READING
There
I
is

IN

THE TOILET
involves a habit
httle has

one theme connected with the reading of books which

it

think worth dwelling on since

which
of a

is

wide-

spread and about which, to

I

my knowledge,
As

been written
safe place

mean,

reading in the

toilet.

a youngster, in search
classics, I
I

wherein to devour the forbidden

the
toilet.

sometimes repaired to

Since that youthful period

have never done any reading

I

in the toilet.

Should

be in search of peace and quiet

I

take

my book
good

and go to the woods.

know of no

better place to read a

book than
I

in the depths of a forest. Preferably

by a running stream.

immediately hear objections.

!

as

you

We
a "

have jobs,
;

trams, buses, subways

I

" But we are not all as fortunate we travel to and from work in crowded we have hardly a minute to call our own."
to

was

worker " myself right up

I

in this early period that

difficult conditions,
I

did most of
I

my thirty-third year. my reading. I read

getting the sack once

It

was

under

always.

remember
instead

when

was caught reading Nietzsche

of editing the mail order

lucky
I

catalogue,
fired,

which was then

I

my job. How
now.

was to have been

when

think of
life

it

Was
to
I

not Nietzsche vasdy more

i

important in

my

than a knowledge of the mail order business

For four soUd years, on

Everlasting Portland
I

my way
on aU
trips

and from the

offices

of the

Cement Co.,

read the "heaviest" books.

read standing up, squeezed

sides

by

straphangers like myself

I

not only read during these

on

the " El,"

memorized long
more,
it

passages

from

these too-too-solid tomes.

If nothing

was

a valuable exercise in the art

of

concentration.

At

this

job

often

worked

late into
I

the night, and usually without eating lunch

to read during

not because
I

wanted

my
as
pals.

lunch hour but because

as I

had no money for lunch. Evenings,

meal,
I left

soon

had gulped

down

my

the house to join

my

In those yean, and for

many
night.

a year to come,

I rarely slept

more than

four or five hours a

I

Yet

did a vast

amount of reading.

And,

repeat, I read

264

READING

IN

THE TOILET
easiest ones.

for
I

me,

at least
kill

the
ill

most

difficult

books, not the

I

never read to

time. I seldom read in bed, unless

was indisposed,

or pretending to be

in order to enjoy a brief vacation.

As

look

back

it

seems to me I was always reading in an uncomfortable position.

is

(Which
find.)
stress
all
it,

the

way most
I I

writers write and

most

painters paint,
is,

But what
that

read soaked dirough. read

I

The

point

if I

must

when
I

read with undivided attention and with

the faculties

possessed.
I

When

played

it

was the same

to the

thing.

Now
to read.

and then

would go of an evening
to myself:

pubUc Hbrary

That was

like taking a seat in heaven.

Often,

on

leaving
this

the library, I
oftener
?

would say
reason
I

"Why

don't

you do
life

"

The

did not, of course, was that

life
**

came

between.

One
I

often says "

when one means

talks

pleasure or any

foolish distraction.

From what

have gleaned through

is

with intimate
is

friends,

most of the reading which

digests, the picture
all

done

in the toilet
serials,

idle reading.

The

magazines, the

detective stories, thrillers,

the tag ends

of

Hterature, these are

I

what people take

toilet.

to the

toilet to read.

Some,

am

told,

have bookracks in the

as it

Their

reading matter awaits them, so to speak,

office.

does in the dentist's

Amazing with what

avidity people

comb through

the

" reading matter,"

as it is called,

which

is

piled high in the waiting

rooms of professional people.

ordeal ahead
as
i

Is it

to keep their

minds off the painful

Or

is it

to

make up
?

for lost time, " to catch up,"

they say, with current events

My own
^i.e.

Umited observations

teU

me

that these individuab

have already absorbed more than

their share
disasters,

of " current events "

again,

war, accidents, more war,

suicides,

war

murden, more war,

war

again,

bank
these

robberies, war,

and again war, hot and

cold.

Undoubtedly

are the

same

individuals

who

keep the radio going most of the day

and night,
get

who go
fresh

to the movies as often as possible

^where they
who buy
But what
!

more

news, more "current events"

and

television sets for their children.

All to be informed

do they

really

know

that

is

worth knowing about

?

these dreadfiilly

important, world-shaking events

People

may

insist that

they devour the papers or glue their ears

!)

to the radio

(sometimes both at once

that

in order to keep abreast

of world doings, but

a sheer delusion.

The

truth

is

that the

265

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

moment
It

these sorry individuals are not active, not busy, they

become aware of an awesome, sickening emptiness

doesn't matter

in themselves.

much,

frankly,

on what pap they feed, just o long

as

they can avoid coming fece to face with themselves.

the issue of the day, or even

To

meditate
is

on
last

on

one's personal problems,

the

thing the normal individual wants to do.

in the toilet,

Even

where you would think

it

unnecessary to
at

do anything, or to think anything,

least

where once during the day

one

is

alone with himself and whatever happens happens

automatically, even this

bliss,

moment of

bliss,

for

it

a minor sort of

has to be broken
I

by concentration on
favorite kind

printed matter.

Each

one,

assume, has his

toilet.

own

of reading matter for the

novels, others read

privacy of the

Some wade through long

only the

fluffiest,

flimsiest crap.

And

the pages and dream.

One wonders
are their

^what
you

some, no doubt, just turn

sort
?

of dreams do they

dream

With what

dreams tinged
tell

There are mothers

who

will

that
!

only in the
Life
is

toilet

do

they get the chance to read.

Poor mothers

indeed hard

on you

these days.

Yet, compared to the mothers of fifty years ago,

you have

a thousand times

more opportimity

for self-development.

In your complete arsenal of labor-saving devices

was lacking even to the empresses of old.

If it

was

you have what " "

really

time

you were eager

to save, in acquiring

all

these gadgets, then

you

have been cruelly deceived.

there are always

There are the children, of course " the children "

When
You

all

other excuses

foil,

have kindergartens, playalL

grounds, baby-sitters, and

a

God knows what

You

give the kids

nap

after

lunch and you put them to bed

as early as

you possibly

can, all according to

approved "

modem "
All

have

as

Htde to do with your young

as possible.

just like the odious

household chores.

Bref, you They get eliminated, in the name of science

methods.

and

efficiency.

(" Francais, encore

un

tout petit effort

that

...!")
there
is
is

Yes, dear mothers,

we know
I

however much you do

It is

always more waiting to be done.

finished.

true that
rests

your job

never

except

Whose is, God Who

?

wonder

Who
his

on

the Seventh Day,

it
is

looks

upon

work, when

terminated,

and fmds
266

it

good

Only

the Creator, apparendy.

READING
I

IN

THE TOILET
mothers

wonder sometimes
I

if these

conscientious
is

who

are

always complaining that their

work

never finished (an inverted

form of self-praise),
with them to the
they have
left

wonder,

as I say,

do they ever think

little

to take

toilet,
?

not reading matter, but the

jobs which
ever occur

undone

Or, to put
sit

it

another way, does

their lot

it

to them, I wonder, to

and meditate upon

?

during these

precious

moments of complete privacy

of martyrdom

Do

they ever, in such

moments, ask the good Lord for strength and courage to continue
in the path
?

How

did our poor impoverished and woefully handicapped

all

ancestors ever accomplish

they did,

is

what

often wonder.

Some
to

mothers of old,

as

we knowfirom

the lives of great men,

managed

do a

powerfiil lot of reading despite these grave "handicaps."

it

of them,

would almost seem, had time

for everything.

Some Not only

their

did they take care of their

own

children, teach

them

all

they knew,

nurse them, feed them, clean them, play with them,

clothes (and sometimes the material too),

make

not only did they wash

least also

and iron everybody's

clothes,

but some at

managed

to

give their husbands a hand, especially if they were plain country folk. Countless are the big and Httle things our forbears did unaided
before ever there were labor-saving devices, time-saving devices, before there were short cuts to knowledge, before there were
kindergartens, nurseries, recreation centres, welfare workers,
pictures

moving

and Federal reUef bureaus of

all

kinds.
also addicted to

Perhaps the mothers of our great

reading in the
I toilet.

men were

If so,

it is

not

commonly known. Nor have

Saintsbury and
I

read that omnivorous readerslike Macaulay,

R^my
on

de Gourmont, for example

cultivated

this habit.

rather

suspect that these Gargantuan readers

were too

active,

too intent
they

the goal, to waste time in this fashion.

readers

The very

fact that

were such prodigious

would

indicate that their attention

was always undivided.

to read and talk at the

It is true,
;

we hear of bibHomaniacs who

perhaps

read
able

while eating or while walking

some have even been

is

same time.
falls

There

a breed of

men who

cannot

resist

reading whatever

within range of their eyes

they will read Uterally anything, even the Lost and Found notices
in the newspaper.

They

are obsessed,
at this

and

piece

of sound advice

juncture

we can only pity them. may not be amiss.

If

267


THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE
your bowels refuse to function, consult a Chinese herb doctor

; !

Don't read in order to divert your mind from the business

at

hand.

What
you

the autonomic system Hkes,

what

it

responds

to, is

thorough

concentration, whether
will.

upon

eating, sleeping, evacuating or

it's

what

If

you

can't eat, can't sleep,

is

bothering you.

Something

" on your mind

is

because something is " ^where it shouldn't

be, in other words.

The same

true

of the

stool.

Rid your mind

tackle

of everything but the business

it

at

hand.

Whatever you do,

with a

free

mind and

a clear conscience.

That's old advice and

sound.
the

The modem way is to attempt several things at one and same time, in order " to make the most of one's time," as it is
This
it !

said.

is
**

thoroughly unsound, unhygienic, and

ineffectual.

Easy does
take care
practice
If
it is

Take

care

of the

little

things and the big ones will

that as a child.

of themselves." Everyone hean

Few

ever

it.

of

vital

importance to feed body and mind,

it is

of equal

importance to eliminate from body and mind what has served

the purpose.

W^t

is

unused, "hoarded," becomes poisonous.

It

That's plain horse sense.

that if

follows, therefore, as the night the

day

you go

to the toilet to eliminate the waste matter

which

has accumulated in your system,

you

are

doing yourself a disservice

by

utilizing

these precious

moments

in filling

your mind with

" crap."

Would

you, to save time, think of eating and drinking

i

while using the stool

If every

moment of life

is

so very precious to you, if

it is

you

insist
life

on reasoning
which
"
is

to yourself that

no

negligible portion

of one's

spent in the toilet each day

W.C."
your

or

**

the John " to toilet

some

people prefer the

^then ask

for

favorite reading matter

"

Do

I need

yourself when reaching "

this ?

Why

(Cigarette smokers often

so

do just

this

when trying
!

to break the habit

do

alcoholics.

It's

a stratagem not to be despised.)

Supposing

and

this is

supposing a good deal

that you are

?
resist

one

who

reads
it

only the " world's best Hteraturc " on the stooL

will

Even

so, I say

pay to ask yourself

**
:

Dol need this

" Let us assimie

reading.

that

it is

The Divine Comedy which you are going to

that instead
httle

Suppose

of reading

this great classic

you meditated on what

it.

you had read of it, or on what you had heard about

a slight

That

would mark
268

improvement.

It

would be

still

better,

however,

EADINC
not to mediute on
as

IN

THE TOILET

literature at all

but simply to keep your mind,

well as your bowels, open.

If

you must do something, why not

of thanks
that

offer

up

a silent prayer to the Creator, a prayer

your

bowels

still

function
!

Think what a
takes
little

plight

you would be

in if they
this

were paralyzed
sort,

It

time to offer up a prayer of

and with

it

goes the advantage of being able to take Dante out

in the sunlight,

where you can commune with him on more equal

terms.

am

certain that

by

associating his

no author, not even a dead one, is flattered work with the drainage system. Not even scatoto the fullest in the water closet.
It

logical

works can be enjoyed

takes a genuine coprophilist to

make

the most of such a situation.

Having
of the

said

some harsh
?

things about the

modem

mother, what
father,

modem father
I

will confine myself to the

American

because

know him

best.

This species of pater famiHas,

as a slave-driven,

we know

only too well, looks upon himself

wretch.
sities,

unappreciated

In addition to providing the luxuries, as well as the neceshis

of Hfe, he does

utmost to keep to the background

idle

as

much
it

as possible.

Should he have an

minute or two, he beHeves

sleep.

his

duty to wash dishes or sing the baby to

so driven, so harried, so abused, that
lacklustre

Sometimes he

feels

when his poor overworked,

herself in

undernourished,

vdfe

locks
is

the

toilet

" the John "

for an hour on end he

murder her on the
poor
devils

or

about ready to break

down
crisis

the door and

spot.

Let

me recommend
is.

the following procedure,

when

such a

occurs, to these

who

are at a loss to

know what
is

their

tme
She

role
is

Let us say she has been " in there " a

is

good half hour.

not making
Careful

not constipated, she

not masturbating, and she

is

herself pretty.

" Then

wltat in hell

she doing in there ? "

now
let

know how
on

it is

when you
the

get to talking to yourself. Don't

that, sitting

your temper get the best of you. Just try to imagine

the stool,
is

in there

woman you

once loved so madly that

life.

nothing would do but hitch up with her for

Don't be jealous
is

of Dante, Balzac, Dostoievsky, if these be the shades she municating with in there. " Mayhe shes reading the Bible

comShe's

been in there long enough to have read the whole of Deuteronomy."

I

know.

and you
Seraphita,

know how you feel. But it's not the Bible she's reading, know it. It's probably not The Possessed either, nor
nor Jeremy Taylor's Holy Limng.

Could be Gone with

269

"

"

"

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

the
it's

Wind.

But what matter

!

The

thing

isbcHcvc mc,

brother,

always the thing

Like
are
this,

to try a
example
:

different tack.

Try

questions and

answers.

for

"What

you doing

**

in there, darling

" Reading." " What, may I ask ? " " About the Battle of the Mame."
(Pretend not to be fazed
**

by
**

this.

Continue

!)

thought perhaps you were brushing up on your Spanish."

that,

**

What was
I

dear

'*

said

is it

good yam

"
i

'*

No,
Let

it*s

borii^."

**

you something eke." " What's that, dear i " " I saidwould you like a cool drink while you're wading through
get
that stuff?"

me

"What
* **

stuflf?"

I'm on something else now." " Darling, do you need any reference books ? " You bet I do. I'd like an abridged dictionaryWebster's,
I

The Oh,

Battle

of the Mame."

finished that.

if

you don't mind."

" Mind
**

It's

a pleasure.

I'll

fetch

you

the unabridged."

No

dear, the abridged will do.

It's

easier to hold."

(Here run up and down,

as if searching for the dictionary.)

"Darling,

can't find either the abridged or the unabridged.

?

Will the encyclopaedia do

What

is

it

you're looking

for

word, a date, or " Dearest, what I'm

. . .

really looking for

I'll

is

peace and quiet."

" Yes, dear, of course.

just clear the table,

if you

wash the

dishes,

and put the children to bed. Then

just discovered a wonderfiil

Hke

I'll

read to you.

I've

" You're so thoughtfiil, " Reading what > " "

It's

book on Nostradamus." dear. But I'd rather just go on

reading."

called

Napoleon and
Does
270

a detailed study

The Memoirs of Marshal Joffre, with a foreword by of the major campaigns by a professor

of military strategy
that

they

don't give his

name ! at West
?

Point.

answer your question, dearest

READING
"
Perfectly.
this

IN

THE TOILET

(At

point

you make
one.

for the axe in the

woodshed. If there

is

no woodshed, invent
were grinding the axe

Make

a noise with your teeth, as if

Mysteries.)

you

^Uke

Minutten in

Here
a

is

an alternative suggestion.

When

she

is

not looking place

copy of

Balzac's About Catherine de Medici in the water closet.

at

Put a marker

page 169 and underscore the following passage

The Cardinal had just found himself deceived by The crafty Italian had seen in the younger branch of the Royal Family an obstacle she could use to
Catherine.

check the pretensions of the Guises ; and, in spite of the two Gondis, who advised her to leave the Guises to act vdth what violence they could against the Bourbons, she had, by warning the Queen of Navarre, brought to nought the plot to seize Beam concerted by the Guises with the King of Spain. As this State secret was known only to themselves and to Catherine, the Princes of Lorraine were assured ofher betrayal, and they vdshed to send her back to Florence ; but to secure proofe of Catherine's treachery to the State the House of Lorraine was the State the Duke and Cardinal had just made her privy to their scheme for making away with the King of Navarre.
counsel of the

The advantage of
that
it

giving her a text like this to wresde with

is

will take her

put her in

mind completely off her houshold duties and a frame of mind to discuss history, prophecy or symboHsm
rest

with you for the

of the evening.

She

may even be

tempted to

read the introduction written

by George

Saintsbury, one of the

world's greatest readers, a virtue or vice which did not prevent

him

from writing

tedious and superfluous prefaces or introductions to

other people's works.

I

could, of course, suggest other absorbing books, notably one

called Nature and

and a

logician, not

Man, by Paul Weiss, a professor of philosophy of the first water merely, but of the " waters
of a rabbinical
in this

reglitterized," a ventriloquist able to twist the brains

pundit into a Gordian knot.

One
The

can read

at

random

work

and not

lose a shred

of

his distillated logic.

Everything has been

predigested

by

the author.

text

is

pure thought.

Here

is

a sample,

from

the section

comprised of nothing but on " Inference "

:

271

THE BOOKS IN MY LIPB

necessary infefence difiers

&oin a contingent one

is

in

that die premise alone suffices to warrant the conclusion.

In a necessary inference there

only a logical relation

between premise and conclusion ; there is no principle which provides content for the conclusion. Such an inference is derivable from a contingent inference by treating the contingent principle as a premise. C. S. Pierce seems to have been the first to discover this truth. * Let the premises of any argument,* he said, * be denoted by P, the conclusion by C, and the principle by L. Then if the whole principle be expressed as a premise the argument will become L and P .*. C. But this new argument must also have its principle which may be denoted by L'. Now, as L and P (supposing them to be true), contain
determine the probable or necessary V. Thus L' must be contained in the principle, whether expressed in the premise or not. Hence every argimient has, as portion or its principle, a certain principle which cannot be eliminated from its
all

that

is

requisite to

truth of C, they contain

Such a principle may be termed a logical priti' Every principle of inference, Pierce's observation makes clear, contains a logical principle by which one can rigorously proceed from a premise and the original principle to the conclusion. Any result in nature or mind, therefore, is a necessary consequence of some antecedent and of some coune i^ch starts from that antecedent and terminates in that result.*
principle.
ciple*

The
the

reader

may wonder why

is

have not suggested Hegersj

Phenomenology of Mind, which

the acknowledged cornerstone ol

whole nutcracker

suite

of

intellectual hocus-pocus,
Co'.

or Wittge
!

stein,

Korzybski, Gurdjieff

&

Why
Ot

not, indeed

Why

not

Vaihinger's Philosophy of

As If?

The Alphabet by David^

Sir

Diringer

Why

not The Ninety-Five Theses of Luther or

to the

Walter Raleigh's Preface

History of the World ?

Why

not

Milton's Areopagitica ? All lovely books. So edifying, so instructive.

Ah

me,

if

our poor American pater familias were to take

toilet to heart, if

this

problem of reading in the

he were to give
this habit,

serious

thought to the most effective means of breaking

list

what

of books might he not devise for a Five-Foot Privy Shelf

a Htde ingenuity he

With

would manage

either to cure his wife

of the habit or break her mind in the

* Nature and Man, by Paul

process.

Wdss

Henry Holt & Co.,

New York,

1947-

272

RBADING
If

IN

THE TOILBT
this

he were truly ingenious he might think up a substitute for

pernicious reading habit

He

might, for example, line the walls

it,

of the

'*

watterre/* as the French call

with paintings.

How pleasant
!

soothing, lenitive and educational, while answering the call of Nature,

to let the eye

roam over

a few choice masterpieces of art

For a

starterRomncy,

Gainsborough,

Watteau, Dali, Grant

Wood,
(Works
Or,

Soutine, Breughel the Elder

and the Albright brothers.

of

art, incidentally,

are

no

affront to the

autonomic system.)

if her taste did

not run in these directions, he could line the walls of

**

the

**

watterre

with Saturday Evening Post covers or the covers of

Time, than which nothing could be

more

**

basic-basic," to use the

language of dianetics.
himself embroidering in

Or he might, in his many colored silks a

as
:

off-moments, busy
quaint motto to be

hung

at the level

of her eyes when she takes her accustomed place

in the " wattm-e," a

hat.

motto such
knows,

Home

is

wherever you hang your

This, since

it

involves a moral, might captivate her in

it

ways

unimaginable.
clutches

Who
I

might
!

free her

from the cloying

of the stool in record time

point

At

this

think

it

important to mention the fact that science

has just discovered the efficacy, the dierapeutic efficacy, of Love.

The

Sunday supplements
of the age. The

are full

of this

subject.

Next

to Dianetics, die

Flying Saucers and Cybernetics,

fact that

is is

apparently the great discovery

even psychiatrists now recognize the validity

of love gives the stamp of approval which (seemingly) Jesus the Christ, The Light of the World, was unable to provide. Mothers,

now awakened to this ineluctable fiict, will no longer have a problem

in dealing with their children, nor, "ipso facto," in dealing with
their husbands.

Wardens

will be

emptying the prisons of

their their

inmates
arms.

generals will be ordering their

is

men

to

throw away

The millennium
still

just

around the comer.

Nevertheless, and despite the approach

of the millennium, human

closet daily.

beings will
will
still

be obliged to repair to the water

They
meta-

be confronted with the problem of

how
is

to use the time

spent therein most profitably.

physical one.

This problem

virtually a

To

give oneself up completely to the emptying of

first

one's bowels would, at

blush,

seem the
this

easiest

and the most

natural thing in the world.

To

perform

function Nature asks

collaboration she

nothing of us but complete abeyance.

The only

273


THE BOOKS IN MY
demands
Creator,
is

LiPfi

the willingness

on our

part to let go.

Evidendy the
it

when
;

designing the

human

organism, realized that

to take care

were

better for us if certain functions

it is

were allowed

of

themselves

only too obvious that if such

vital functions as

breathing, sleeping, defecating

us

were

left

to our disposition,

some of

would

cease to breathe, sleep, or

all

go

to the

toilet.

There arc

plenty of people, and they are not

in the asylum either,

who

see

no reason why we should

the intelHgence

eat, sleep,

breathe or defecate.

They not

only question the laws which govern the universe, they question

of their

own organism. They ask why, not to know,

is

but to render absurd what

grasp.

beyond

their limited inteUigence to

as

They look upon the demands of the body wasted. How then do they spend their time, these
Are they completely
is

so

much

time
>

superior beings

at the service

of mankind

Is it

because there

so

much

**

good work "

to

do

that they cannot see the sense

;

of

spending time eating, drinking, sleeping and defecating

indeed be interesting to
speak of
*'

It

would

know what

these people

mean when they

wasting time."
I

Time, time ...

all

have often wondered,

if

suddenly

we were
time.

privileged to function perfecdy,

what we would do with our

For the

moment we

think of perfect functioning

as it
is

we

can no longer

retain the

image of society
life
is

now

constituted.

We

spend

the greater part of our

in contending against maladjustments

of all
the

sorts

everything

out of whack, from the

human body

to

body

poHtic.

Assuming the smooth functioning of the human

body, with the correlative smooth functioning of the social body, " What would we do with our time ? " To limit the problem I ask :
for the

moment

to one phase only

readingtryt

beg you, to

imagine what books, what sort of books, one would then consider
necessary or

worth while giving time

to.

The moment one

studies

the reading problem

falls

&om

this

angle almost the whole of Uterature

it,

away.

We

read

now,

as I see
;

primarily for these reasons

one, to get
real or

away from

ourselves
;

imaginary dangers

two, to arm ourselves against three, to " keep up " with our neighbors,
;

or to impress them, one and the same thing

four, to

know what is
Other

going on in the world

five, to

enjoy ourselves, which means to

activity

be stimulated to greater, higher

reasons

and richer being.

might be added, but

these five appear to

me

to be the prin-

274

READING
cipal ones

IN

THE TOIIET
their current

and
I

have given them in the order of

fellow man.
It

importance, if

know my

docs not take

much
all

reflection to conclude that, if

one were right with himself and

last

was well with the world, only the

least

reason, the

one which holds

fade away,
the

sway

at present,

would be vaHd. The

others

would

because there

would be no reason
There

for their existence.

And even

last-named, given the ideal conditions mentioned, would have Uttle or

no hold over
individuals

us.

are,

and always have been, a few rare

**

who no longer have need of books, not even holy " books. And these are precisely the enHghtened, the awakened ones. They know full well what is going on in the world. They do not regard Me as a problem or an ordeal but as a privilege and a
blessing.

They They

seek not to

fill

themselves with knowledge but with

wisdom.

are not riddled

with

fear, anxiety,

ambition, envy,

greed, hatred or rivalry.

They

are deeply involved,

and

at the

same

time detached.
ticipate direcdy.

They enjoy everything they do because they parThey have no need to read sacred books or act in a
life

holy

way

because they see

whole and
is

are themselves thoroughly

whole

and thus everything to them

do
tliese

whole and holy.

query, many.
is

How
And

unique individuals spend their time ?

this

Ah, there have been many answers given to

the reason
is

why

there have

been

many

answers

because

whoever

able to put such a question to himself has a different

type of " imique " individual in mind.

individuals as passing their
sec
life

Some view

these rare
;

in prayer

and meditation

some
one

them moving upon

Hfe,

in the midst

of life, performing any and

all tasks,

but never making themselves conspicuous. But no matter

looks
these rare souls,

how

no matter how much or how Htde

vaUdity or the cflScacy of their
in

disagreement there

may be
utterly

as to the

way of
key to
on
their

one quaHty these

men have
rest

common, one which

they

distinguishes

them

from the

of mankind and gives the

:

their personaHty, their raison

d*^e

have

all

tim
busy

hands

These
call.

men

are never in a hurry, never too

is

to respond to a
for them.

The problem of time

in the

simply nonexistent

They Uvc
on
his

moment and

they are aware that each

moment is an eternity. Every

puts hmits

other type of individual that

" free " time.

These other

wc know men have nothing

275

but free time.

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

If I could give
closet, it

you
:

would be
fruit,

a thought to take with you daily to the water " Meditate on free time " Should this thought
!

bear

no

then go back to your books, your magazines, your

strips,

newspapers, your digests, your comic

your

thriller-dillen.

Arm

yourselves,

inform yourselves, prepare yourselves, amuse

yourselves, forget yourselves, divide yourselves.

And when you

of gold,
as

have done

all

these things (including the burnishing

Ccnnini recommends), ask yoturselves if you are stronger, wiser,

happier, nobler,

more contented
.

beings.
.

know you
closet

will not be,

but that
It is

is

for you to discover

a curious thing, but the best kind

of water
equilibrist

according
and
is

to the medicos
read.
I refer

^is

one in which only an

could manage to

to the kind

one

finds in Europe, France especially,

which makes
scat,
rail

the ordinary

American

tourist quail.

There

no

no bowl, just on

a hole in the floor with

two footpads and

sit,

a hand(Les

either side for support.

One

doesn't

one

squats.

vraies chiottes,

quoi

!)

In these quaint retreats the thought of

reading never enters one's head.

One wants
feet

to get
!

done with

it

as

soon

as possible

and

not get one's

wet

We
we

Americans,

through disguising whatever has to do with the end up by making " the John " so attractive that
long
after
is

vital functions,

linger there

we

have done our

business.

The combination of toilet-

and-bath

to us just ducky.

To

take a bath in a separate part of the

It

house would strike us

as absurd.

might not seem so to people

with truly

delicate susceptibiHties.

Break ...
a heavy fog.
fly.

A
It

few moments ago

was taking a nap outdoors

in

was a

light sleep

broken by the buzzing of a torpid

In one of my
the

fitfiil starts,

half-asleep half-awake, there

came

to

me

remembrance of a dream, or to be
It

exact, the fragment

of a

dream.

was an

old, old

dream, and a very wonderfril one, which

comes back to

mein

parts

again and again.

I

At times
I

it

comes
if
it

back so vividly, even though through a chink, that

ever was a dream.

doubt

And

then

begin to rack
I

my

brain to recall

die tide of a series of books

in a Utde vault.
this

which

once kept safely hidden away

the nature and content of
it

At

this present
is

moment

recurrent

dream

not

as clear as

has been

on previous

occasions.
associations

Nevertheless, the aura of

it is still

strong, as well as the

which

usually

accompany th?

recall,

^76


READING
IN
was

THE TOILET
that
I

A moment
this

ago

was wondering

why

it

thought of

dream

in connection with the toilet, but then suddenly I recalled

that in

coming out of

my

fitful sleep,

or half out of

it,

brought

with me, so to speak, the frightfiil odor of the toilet which was secreted in " the storm shed ** at home in that neighborhood which I always telescope into " the street of early sorrows." In winter
it

was a

veritable ordeal to take refuge in this air-tight, sub-zero

cubicle

which was never

oil.

illuminated, not even

by a

flickering

wax

taper in sweet

But

there

was something
past.
last

else

which

precipitated the
I

remembrance

of these days long

index given in the
refresh

Just this

morning

was glancing over the

Classics, in order to

volume of The Harvard

the

my memory.

As always,

mere thought of this

collection
upstairs

awakens memories of gloomy days spent in the parlor

with these bloody volumes.

Considering the morose frame of

I

mind
house,

usually
I

was

in

when

retreated to this funereal

I

cannot help but marvel that

ever

wing of the waded through such

to

literature as

Rabbi Ben Ezra, The Chambered Nautilus, Ode

Tell,

a Water-

fowl,

I Promessi Sposi, Samson Agonistes, William

Froissart,

The Wealth

of Nations, The Chronicles of

biography

John
it

Stuart Mill's Auto-

and such

like.

believe

now

that

was not the cold fog

but the leaden weight of those days upstairs in the parlor,

was struggling with authors for

whom

had no
If so,
I

relish, that

when I made
their

me

sleep so fitfully just a Httle while ago.

spirits

must thank
hid them

departed

for

making
I

me

recall this

dream which has

I

with a
in a
it

set

of magic books
vault

prized so highly that

do away
to
Is

little

and never have been able to find them again.

my
I

not strange that these books, books belonging to

youth,

should be of more importance to

subsequently
?

me

than anything

have read

Obviously

must have read them in

my

sleep,

inventing
I

titles,

contents, author, everything.

flashes

Now

and then,

as

mentioned before, with

of the dream there come sometimes

vivid recollections of the very texture of the narrative.

At such
series

moments
its

go almost

frantic, for there

is

one book among the

this particular

which holds the

title,

clue to the entire

work, and

book,

contents, meaning,

comes

at times to the

very threshold

of consciousness.

One of

the hazier, fuzzier,

more tormenting

aspects connected

377

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

with the
recall is that I

am always reminded^by whom

The
conviction
is

by what

that
I

it

was

in the

neighborhood of Fort Hamilton (Brooklyn)

forced
I

that

read these magic books.

still

upon me
business

that they are

secreted in the house wherein

is

read them, but

where

this

house

exactly,

whom

it

belonged

to,

what

brought
recollect

me

there, I

have not the

faintest notion.

All that I can

today about Fort Hamilton are the bike rides to and in

the vicinity

which

took on lonely Saturday afternoons

when
Like a

consumed with

a forlorn love for

I

my

first

sweetheart.

ghost on wheels,

covered the same routine trajectory

Heights, Bensonhurst, Fort Hamilton

^whenever
I

^Dyker
I

I left

the house
that

thinking of her.

So engrossed was

I
:

in thoughts

of her

was
rear

absolutely unconscious of
right fender

my

body

might be hugging the

trailing

of a car
I

at forty miles

an hour or

along like

a somnambulist.

can't say that time

entirely in

hung heavy on
Occasionally

my
I

hands.

The

heaviness

was

my

heart.

would be

roused from
head.
for

my
I

reverie

by

the whizzing of a golf ball over

my
to,

Occasionally the sight of the barracks

would bring me

whenever
were

espy miUtary quarters, quarters where

men

are

herded like
there
like.

cattle, I

experience a feeling almost of nausea.

But

also pleasant

intermissionsor " remissions "

if

you

Always, for instance,

boy,
I

when swinging
!

into Bensonhurst where,

as a

How

had spent such marvelous days with Joey and Tony. time had changed everything I was now, on these Saturday

afternoons, a

young man

hopelessly in love, an absolute

mooncalf

utterly indifferent to everything else in the world. If I

threw myself

into a

book

it

was only to forget the pain of a love which was

too

much

for me.

The bike was

my

refuge.

Astride the bike,

had the sensation of taking

thoroughly dreamlike

my

painful love for an airing.

The

panorama which unrolled before me, or receded behind me, was

:

might

just as well
I I

have been riding a

at served

treadmill before a stage

to

set.

Whatever

looked

only

mind me of

her.

Sometimes, in order

suppose not to tumble

off the wheel in sheer despair and chagrin,

fatuous fancies
us say, that in

would encourage

those

which

assail

the lovelorn, the wisp of a hope, let

in the road

making

bend

who

should be standing
!

there to greet

me and

^but she.

If she failed

with such a warm, gracious, lovely smile to " materialize " at this point I would lead

378


READING
myself to believe that
it

IN

THE TOILET
point, towards

would be

at
I

some other

which, with prayers and propitiations,

would proceed

to rush full

speed, only to arrive there breathless and again deceived.

Undoubtedly the mysterious magical nature of those dream books

had to do, and were inspired by,
I

my

pent-up longing for

this girl

could never catch up with.

Undoubtedly, somewhere in the

neighbourhood of Fort Hamilton, in brief moments so black, so

grief-ridden, so desolate, so uniquely

my very

own,

my

heart
!

must
those

have broken again and again.

books had nothing
.

Yet

of

this I

am

certain

They were beyond such such what ? They dealt with unutterable things. Even now, foggy and time-bitten as the dream is in remembrance, I
to

do with the subject of love.

can

recall

such dim, shadowy, yet revelatory elements

as these

a hoary, wizard-like figure seated

on a throne

(as

in ancient stone

chess pieces), holding in his hands a

(like

bunch of

large,

heavy keys

ancient Swedish money),

and he resembles neither Hermes

Trismegistus nor Apollonius of Tyana, nor even dread Merlin,

but
tell

is

more

like

Noah

or Methuselah.

He

is

trying,

it is

so clear, to
I

me

something beyond

my

comprehension, something

have

been longing and aching to know.

This figure
is
is

(A cosmic
as I

secret, doubtless.)

out of the key book which,

have emphasized,

the missing link in the

whole

series.
is

Up to this point in the narrasay,

series

tive, if it

may be called that

and,
for

volumes of the dream collection

interplanetary,

that to throughout the preceding has been a of unearthly,

^it

want of a

better

word, "forbidden"

adventures of the most dazzling variety and nature.

history

As

if legend,

and myth, combined with supra-sensual

flights

beyond

description,

had been telescoped and compressed into one long

fancy.

sustained
benefit
!

moment of godlike
But

And of course

^what aggravates the

ah, think

for my
dream,

especial
is

situation, in the

that I

can always

recall the fact that I did

begin the reading of the missing

apparent, or even
it.

volume but

of

it

for no obvious,
I

hidden reason, certainly for no good reason,

dropped

sense

of irreparable of guilt. of
this

loss

smothers, Hterally flattens out, any rising sense

book

Why, why, I ask myself, had I not continued the reading Had I done so, the book would never have been
?

lost,

nor the others

either.

In the

dream the double

loss

loss
^

of

contents, loss

of book itselfis accentuated and presented

as one.

279

THB BOOKS
There
is
still

IN

MY

LIFB
this
I

another feature connected with

it.

dream

my

mother's part in

In The Rosy Crucifixion

have described

my

visits

to the old

home,

visits

made

expressly to recover

my
for

youthful belongings

particularly certain books which would,

reason, suddenly
I relate it,

some unaccountable

become on

these occasions

very precious to me. As

my

mother seems to have taken

a perverse delight in telling me that she had "long ago" given " To whom ? " I would demand, beside these old books away.
myself.

She could never remember,

it

was always so long ago.

she

Or,

if she did

remember, the

brats to

whom
this

had given them

had long

since

moved away, and of

course she

no longer knew

where they Hved, nor did she think

and

was ever gratuitous

all

on her

part

that

they would have kept these childish books

this time.

And

so on.

Some

she had given, so she confessed, to the

Good Will
moments,
I

Society or to the Society of Saint Vincent de Paul.

This sort of talk always drove

me

frantic.

Sometimes, in waking

would
titles

actually

wonder

to myself if those missing

utterly

dream
real

books whose

had vanished from memory

were not

flesh-and-blood
recklessly given

books
away.

which

my

mother

had

thoughdessly,

Of course, all the time I was up there in the parlor wading through the dreary five-foot shelf, my mother was just as baffled by this
behavior
as

by everything which

understand

how

She could not it struck me to do. could " waste " a beautiful afternoon reading

those soporific tomes.

That

was miserable she knew, but

faintest idea.

as to

why
she

was miserable she had never the

express the thought that
it

Occasionally

would

was the books which depressed

me. And of coune they did help to depress

myself in
flies

me more
I

deeply

since

they contained no remedy for what ailed me.

wanted to drown

my sorrows,
me

and the books were

like so

many

fat,

buzzing

keeping

awake, making
"

my very scalp itch with boredom.

*

How I jumped the other day when I read in one of Marie CorelU's
now
is

forgotten books

'

Give us something

that will

endure

the exclamation of

weary humanity.
our

The
*
!

things

we
is

have

pass,

and by reason of and

their

ephemeral nature are worthless.

Give us
try

what we can keep and

test all things

call

own

forever

This

why we

that appear to give

proof of the supersensual

element in man, and 280

when we

find ourselves deceived

by impostors


READING
even find vent in words."

IN

THE TOILET
bitter to

and conjurors, our disgust and disappointment arc too

There

is

another dream, concerning another book, which

Crucifixion.
It is

I tell

of in The Rosy
in
it

a very, very strange dream, and

this girl I

there appears a big

book which

loved (the same one

I)

and another person (her unknown lover probably) are reading over

my shoulder.
I

It is

my ovm book mean a book which I wrote myself.

^I

mention

it

only to suggest that by

that the missing
series ?

all

the laws of logic

it

would

come about
series

what whole

it

dream book, the key to the whole

^was written

by myself and no
from another

other.

If I

had been able to write

?

in a

dream why could I not rewrite it in

?

a waking dream

Is

one

state so different

Since

have ventured to hazard

this

much, why not complete the thought and

Yes,

add

that

my whole purpose in writing has been to clear up a mystery.

mystery
is I

(What
time
this
I

this

have never given overdy.)

from the

began to write in earnest

I

my

one

desire has

been to unload

book which

have carried about with me, deep under

travails

my belt,
To
that

in

all latitudes

and longitudes, in aU
guts,

and

vicissitudes.

dig this

book out of my

make

it

warm, Hving,
.
. .

palpable

has been

my whole aim and preoccupation

vault,

That hoary wizard

in a tiny vault

who

appears in onirific flashes hidden

away
is

dream of a
he not
edifice.

you might

say

^who

he but myself,

my

most

ancient, ancient self i

i

He holds a bunch of keys in his hands, does And he is situated in the key center of the whole mysterious
names
it.

Well, what is that missing book, then, if not " the story of my
Is

heart," as Jefferies so beautifiiUy

there

any other story a

man has to tell but this

teU, the

And is this not the most di5cult one of all to

abstruse,

one which

is

most hidden, most

is

most mystifying

That

we

read even in our dreams

a signal thing.

What
stir

are

we

reading,

what

can

we

be reading in the darkness of unconsciousi

ness, save

our inmost thoughts

Thoughts never cease to

the

brain.

Occasionally

we

perceive a difference between thoughts

is all

and thought, between that which thinks and the mind which

thought. Sometimes, as if through a tiny crevice, we catch a glimpse

of our dual

self

Brain

is

not mind, that

we may
it

be certain of
truer

If it were possible to localize the seat

of mind, then
is

would be

to situate

it

in the heart

But the heart

merely a receptacle, or

transformer,

by means of which thought becomes recognizable and

281

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

effective.

Thought has
a
is

to pass through the heart to be

made

active

and meaningful.
There
is

book which

is

part

of our being, contained in our

being, and

the record of our being.

Our

being,

say,

and not

our becoming.

We commence the writing of this book at birth and

after death.
It is

we
is

continue

it

only

when we

are about to

be

reborn that
a

we

bring

it

to a close and write " Finis."

Thus

there

whole

series

of books which, from birth to

birth, continue the

all

tale

of identity.

We

are

all

authors, but

we

are not

heralds

and
sign
it is

prophets.

What we

bring to Ught of the hidden record

is

we
But

with our baptismal name, which

never the real name.

only a tiny, tiny fraction of the record which even the best of

us,

the strongest, the most courageous, the most gifted, ever bring to

Ught.

What cramps

our

style,

what

falsifies

the narrative, are those

art

portions of the record

which we can no longer decipher. The

but what

of writing

we

never

lose,

we do

lose

sometimes

is

the art

of reading.
is
is

When we encounter an adept in this art the gift of sight

It is

restored to us.

the gift for interpretation, naturally, for to read

always to interpret.

The
is

universahty of thought

is

supreme and paramount. Nothing

beyond comprehension or understanding.

What
Acedia
:

fails

us

is

the

desire to

know,

the desire to read or interpret, the desire to give

meaning to whatever thought be voiced.

against

the great sin

The Holy
it

Ghost.

Drugged by
itself,

the pain of deprivation, in

whatever form

manifests

and

it

assumes many,
is,

many

forms,

we

take refuge in mystification.

it

Humanity

in the deepest sense,

it

an orphannot because

has been ahandoned, but because

its

obstinately refiises to recognize

divine parentage.

We terminate
to understand

the

book of life
let

in the afterworld because

.

we
is

reftise

what we have written here and now

But
us return to Us cabinets,

which

the French for toilet

and, for

some

baffling reason, used always in the plural.

Some of

my readers may recall a passage,

one in which

give tender reminis-

cences of France, concerning a hurried visit to the toilet and die

wholly unexpected view of Paris which

this tight place.*

had firom the window of

Would

it

not be fetching, some people think,

*'

* See the chapter called " Remember to Remember Rjtmember to Retnember ; New Directions, New York.

from

my

book,

282

READING
to SO build one's

IN

THE TOILET
one could
it

home
least

that

from the
?

toilet seat itself

command

a breath-taking

panorama
the

My

thought

is

that

does
If,

not matter in the

what
your

view from the

toilet

may

be.

in going to the toilet,

besides yourself, besides

you have

to take something else with

you

own vital need to eliminate and cleanse

view from
as

the system, then perhaps a beautiful or a breath-taking die toilet

window
shelf,

is

a desideratum.
paintings,

In that case

you may

well

build a

book
as

hang

and otherwise beautify

this lieu

d*aisance.

one

may

Then, instead of going outdoors and seeking a bo-trec, well sit in " the bathroom ** and meditate. If necessary,

build your

whole world around " the John."

seat

Let the

rest

of the

house remain subordinate to the

of

this

supreme function.
art

Bring forth a race which, highly conscious of the

will

of eHmination,

make

it its

business to eUminate
Ufe.

all

that

is

ugly, useless, evil and

raise the

"

deleterious

" in everyday

Do

that

and you will

toilet to

a heavenly place.

But do

not, while

making

use of this

sacred retreat, waste your time reading about the elimination of this

or

that,

nor even about eUmination

itself.

The

difference

between

the people

who

secrete themselves in the toilet,

whether to read,

pray or meditate, and those

is

who go

there only to

do

their business,

that the

former always find themselves with unfinished business on

latter are
is
:

hand and the

always ready for the next move, the next

act.

The
Lord
if
!

old saying

" Keep your bowels open and

in
free
it.

trust in the

"

There's

wisdom
and

Broadly speaking,

it

means

that

you keep your system

free

of poison you will be able to keep

;

your mind

clear,

open and receptive

you

will cease
as

worrying about matters which are not your concern

the cosmos should be run, for example
to be

such

how

and you will do what has

is

done in peace and

this

tranquillity.

There

no

hint or suspicion

contained in

homely

piece of advice that, in keeping

your

bowels open, you should

also struggle to

keep up with world events,

or keep abreast of current books and plays, or familiarize yourself

with the

latest fashions,

the most glamorous cosmetics, or the funda-

mentals of basic English.

curt

Indeed, the whole impHcation of this

it

maxim is

the very

the done about the seriousand neither absurd nor

less

better. I say

"

it,"

meaning

going to the
if it

toilet.

The key words

are

**

disgustingbusiness of open " and '* trust." Now,

be argued that to read while

sitting

on

the stool

is

an aid to

383

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

loosening the bowek, then
possible.
I

sayread
trust in the

the

most

lenitive Hterature

Read
it is

the Gospels, for the Gospels are of the

is

Lord
I

and
con-

the second injunction

" to

Lord." Myself,
trust in the
I

am

vinced that
reading
is

possible to

have

faith

and

Lord without

Holy Writ

in the toilet
faith

Indeed,

am

convinced that one

nothing

apt to have

more
visit

and

tnist in the

Lord

if one reads

at all in the toilet

When you
when
should

your analyst does he ask you what you read

i

using l^e stool

He

should,

you know.
It

To

an analyst

it

make

a great difference whether

you read one kind of Hterashould even

ture in the toilet

difference to

and another elsewhere.

read or

make

him whether you

do not read

^in

the

toilet.
It

Such matters
is

arc unfortimately not widely

enough

discussed.

assumed diat what one does in the

not.

It is

believe
are

The whole universe is more and more, there are keeping tabs on us, be certain
secret doings.

own private affair. concerned. If, as we are led to creatures from other planets who
toilet is one's

that they are prying into

our

most

If they are able to penetrate the atmosphere

of this
of our

earth,
toilets

what
i

is

to stop

them from

penetrating the locked doors

Give that a thought when you have nothing better

to meditate

upon

^in

there. Let

me urge those who are experimentmust appear

ing vdth rockets and other interstellar means of communication and

transportation to think for a brief moment of how they

to the denizens of other worlds

Yorkeft let us say, in

when

reading Time or The

read
tells

New
deal
fact,

" the John."

it

What you
tell

good

about your inmost being, but

does not

everything.

The

however, that you are reading when you should be doing has a
certain importance.
It is

a characteristic
It

which men

alien to this their

planet

would remark immediately.

to change the tune,

might well influence

judgment of us.

And
merely

if,

we

Hmit ourselves to the opinion of

terrestrial beings,

but beings

who are alert and discriminating,

There
is

the picture does not alter much.

not only something

grotesque and ridiculous about poring over the printed page while
seated
logical

on

the stool, there

is

something

mad

about

it.

This pathois

element evinces

itself clearly

enough when reading

observe

combined with

eating, for example, or

with taking a promenade.

it

Why
284

is

it

not equally arresting

when we

connected

READING
with the
these
act

IN

THB TOILBT
though you never

of defecation

Is

there anything natural about doing

?

two

things simultaneously

Supposing

that,

intended to
toilet

become an opera
in

singer, every

time you went to the

that,

you began
all

practicing the scales.

all

Supposing

though

singing was

to you,

you

insisted that the

only time you

supposing you

could sing was

when you went

to " the John."

toilet

Or

simply said that you sang in the

better to do.
this is the sort

because

you had nothing

i

Would

that hold water in an alienist's cabinet

But

of alibi people give when they are pressed to explain

the
toilet.
is

why they must read in To merely open the

bowels, then,

not enough

Must one
has

indude Shakespeare, Dante, William Faulkner and the whole galaxy

of pocket-book authors

Dear me,

how

complicated

life

become

Once upon

a time any old place

would

do.

For

company one had

the sun or the stars, the song

of the birds or the

killing time,

hooting of an owl.

There was no question of

stone.
It

nor

of killing two birds with one

go.

was just a matter of letting

tnist in the

There wasn't even the thought of

Lord.

This
that

trusting in the

Lord was so impHcit a part of man's nature

to connect

it

with the movement of the bowels would have seemed

it

blasphemous and absurd. Nowadays

takes a higher mathematician,

astrophysicist, to explain the

who

is

also a metaphysician

and an

simple functioning of the autonomic system.

Nothing

is

simple

any more.
one can be
behavior

Through
said to

analysis

and experiment the sUghest things

it is

have assumed such complicated proportions that

a wonder any

know

anything about anything. Even instinctive

Primitive emotions,

now

appears to be highly complex.

such

as fear, hate, love, anguish, all

prove to be terribly complex.

And we
scorning to
beings
!

are the people, heaven forbid,

!

who

in the next fifty

years are going to conquer space

We are the creatures who, though

:

become
shall

angels, are
is

going to develop into interplanetary

Well, one thii^

certainly predictable
closets
!

even out there

in space

we

have our water

us, I notice.

Wherever we go, "the

John " accompanies

if

Formerly

we used to

ask

"

What
The

cows could

fly

"

That joke has become antediluvian.

'*
:

question which

now

imposes, in view of projected voyages beyond

is

the gravitational pull,

How

will our organs function

?

when
?85

we

are

no longer subjea

to the

sway of gravity

"

Traveling at a

THE BOOKS
we may
that the
as

IN

MY

LIPE
of thought
this

rate faster than the speed

it

has been hazarded that

be able to accomplish
stars

!will we
?

be able to read

at all

out there between the

and planets

ask because I assume

model space

ship will be equipped with lavatories as well

laboratories,

and, if so, our

new

time-space explorers will

undoubtedly bring with them

There
is
!

their toilet literature.

something to conjure upon

the nature of
we were

this interspatial

literature

We used to sec questionnaires from time to time demandread if

ing to

know what weVould

going to take refuge

on

a deserted island.

No

one, to

my

knowledge, has yet framed

the stool

a questionnaire as to

what would make good reading on

same old answers to
Shakespeare, ct Cie,

in space. If we are going to get the

questionnaire,
i.e.,

this

coming
indeed

Homer, Dante,

I shall

be cruelly disappointed.

That
I

first

ship to leave the earth, and possibly never

to

returnwhat
will contain
!

would not give

the

know

the tides of the books

it

Mcthinks

books

have

not

been written which will

oflfer

mental, moral and spiritual sustenance to these daring pioneers.

The
on

great possibility, as
all,

I sec it, is

that these

read at

not even in the

toilet

they

men may not may be content to

care to

time in

the angels, to listen to the voices of the dear departed, to cock

their ears to catch the ceaseless celestial song.

286

XIV
THE THEATRE
Dbama
that
it
is

the one category

other.

of

literature into

which

have delved

more than any

seven
started

My
I

passion for the theatre goes so far back

almost seems as if
I

were

bom

backstage.

From

the age of

going to the vaudeville house called The Novelty,

on Drigg*s Avenue, Brooklyn. I always went to the Saturday " matinfe. And alone. The price of admission to " nigger heaven
was then a dime.
get a
(It

was the golden period when you

really

could

good

cigar for ten cents.)

The doorman. Bob Maloney, an

I

ex-pugilist

with the broadest, squarest shoulders

have ever seen,

stood guard over us with a stout rattan stick.

individual better than
the villain

remember
there.

this

any of the

acts

or actors

saw

He was
was
just

who
play

dominated
I

my
to

troubled dreams.

The

first

was taken
I recall it,

was

Uttcle

Toms

Cabin.

a tiny tot and, as

the play

made no impression upon me

whatever.

do, however, recall that

my

mother wept copiously

these tear jerkers.

throughout the performance.

I

My

mother loved

don't

stead

know how many times I was dragged to see The Old Home" (with Denman Thompson), Way Down East, and similar
theatres in this

favorites.

There were two other

teenth

neighbourhood (The Four:

Ward) to which I was also taken by my mother at intervals The Amphion and Corse Payton's. Corse Payton, often referred to as "the worst actor in the world," put on melodramas of the
ten-twenty-thirty variety.

Years

later

my

father

and he became

drinking companions, something

no one would have dreamed

of in the days when Corse Payton's name was a byword throughout

Brooklyn.

The

first

play to

make an impression on me

^I

wasn't
It

more than
was a jolly*
the

ten or eleven at the

time^was WinCt Woman and Song.

featuring the diminutive
1

bawdy performance,
ravishing Bonita.

Lew Hcam and

As

see

it

now,

it

must have been a

glorified

287

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFB

burlesque show.
bleibt ein
("

Wer

licbt nicht

Nan

sein
this

Leben lang/')
event
is

connected with
selves.

that
I

Wein, Wcib und Gcsang, The most astonishing thing we occupied a box all to ourif I ever entered
fortress

The

theatre,

which

doubt

againit

reminded
Folly,

me somehow
at the

of an old French

^was called

The

and stood

comer of Broadway and Graham Avenue,

shifted

Brooklyn, of course.

By
to the

this

time

we had

from

the glorious Fourteenth

Ward
York,

Bushwick Section

("

The

Street

of Early Sorrows
called East

").

A Uttle

distance

from

us, in the

neighbourhood

New
Once

where everything seemed to come

to a dead end, a stock

company
a year

gave performances in a theatre called The Gotham.

somewhere
huge

in this dismal vicinity

Forepaugh

&
I

Sells

spread their

circus tents.

Not very
is

far

away were

a Chinese cemetery, a

reservoir
this

and a skating pond. The only play

Alias Jimmy Valentine.

seem to
I

recall

from

no man's land

But

undoubtedly saw

there such monstrosities as Bertha^

Nelliet the Beautiful

The Sewing Machine Girl and

I

Cloak Model.
street

was

still

going to granmiar
exciting to

school.

The

life

of the open

was

vastly

more

me

than the claptrap reality of the theatre.

It

was during

this period,

however, in vacation time, that

would

my cousin in Yorkville where I was bom. Here in the smnmer evenings over a pint of ale my uncle would regale us with memories
visit

of the

theatre
I

nmning.)
strong

of his day. {The Bowery After Dark was probably still can still see my imcle, a fat, lazy, jovial man with a
accent, sitting at the bare
I

German

round

table in the kitchen,

always in a fireman's undershirt

can see him spreading the

programs out
stock,

they were the long

Fascinating as

playbills printed

on newspaper
at the

even then yellow with age, which were handed out

gallery entrances.

were the names of the

so.

plays, the
as

names of the players were even more

Jefferson, Sir

Such names

Booth,

Henry
the

Irving,

Tony

Pastor, Wallack,

R^ane,
Street

Lily Langtry, Modjeska,

still

ring

the days

when
in

was

its

Bowery was all the heyday, and when the great

Ada Rehan, in my ears. They were rage, when Fourteenth

stage figures

were

imported from Europe.

Every Saturday night, so

to

my

uncle said, he and

I

my

father used

go to

the theatre.

(A pattern

was soon

to follow with

my

288

Henry Miller

as a hoy with his Parents

and

Sister

THE THEATRE
buddy, Bob Haase.)
It

seemed almost incredible to me, because

from the time

to

came

into the

world

my

father

had nothing more

I

do with

that world.

My uncle neither, for that matter.

my
astonishment

mention

this fact to

emphasize

when one

day, while
I

workto the

ing part-time for

sixteen

my
me

father at the tailor shop

if I

was then about

he

asked

would

like to

accompany him
his cronies

theatre that evening.

Major Carew, one of

suggested taking
I

from the

Wolcott Bar, had bought

from
actor
just
Mississippi.

tickets for a play called

The Gentleman

He had

me

along because of an

whom

he thought

would enjoy
and

coming

into prominence,

seeing, an actor who was wha was none other than Douglas

Fairbanks.
role.)

(Thomas Alfred Wise, of

thrilling to
fact that I

course, played the leading

But what was more

me

than the prospect of seeing

to enter a
!

Douglas Fairbanks was the

theatre for the first time,

was about

New York
company

and in the evening

Strange

to be in, too,

the time he
It

my father and the dissolute Major Carew, who, from arrived in New York, was never sober for an instant.
later that I

was only years

reahzed

had seen Douglas Fairbanks

in his greatest stage success.

That same year, in company with

High School,
which

made

my German teacher from my second visit to a New York playhousethe

It

Irving Place Theatre.

stands out in

was

to see Alt Heidelberg.

as a

That event,

my

mind

thoroughly romantic one, for

some

strange reason,
I

was soon overshadowed by

going to High School

my

initiation into

burlesque.

was

still

when an
if I

older

boy

(from the old Fourteenth Ward) asked

like to

me

one day

would not
theatre in
pants,
first

go with him to The Empire, a new burlesque

Fortunately
I

our neighborhood.

was already wearing long

though

doubt

if

my

beard had yet begun to sprout.

never forget.*

That

burlesque
rose
I

show

I shall

From

the

moment
I

the curtain

was trembling with excitement. Until then

undressed in pubhc.
to
I

had never seen

of

woman

had seen

pictures

women

in

tights

from childhood, thanks

Sweet Caporal

cigarettes, in

every

package of which there used to be a

Httle playing card featuring

one of the famous soubrettes of the day.

creatures in
I
life

But

to see

one of these

on

the stage, in the fiiU glare of a spotHght, no, that

had never dreamed of

Suddenly

recalled the Uttle theatre in

* Krausetneyer's Alley, with Sliding Billy Watson.

289


THE BOOKS
IN

MY

LIFE
Street, called
I

the old neighborhood,

tve called it,

on Grand

The Unique,
that

or as

" The Bum." Suddenly

saw again

long Saturday

night queue outside, pushing and milling around to squeeze through

the door and catch a glimpse of that naughty httle soubrette, Mile, de

Leon

{life

called her Millie

de Leon), the

girl

who
I

flimg her garters

to the sailors at each performance.

Suddenly
to

recalled those lurid

theatre,
all their

billboards that

flanked

the

entrance

the

showing
billowy,
I

ravishing female figures of luxurious heft displaying

sinuous curves.
first visited

At any

rate,

from

that

momentous day when

The Empire I became a devotee of burlesque. Before long I knew them all Miner's on the Bowery, The Columbia, The Olympic, Hyde & Beeman's, The Dewey, The Star, The Gayety, The National Winter Garden all of them. Whenever

was bored, despondent, or pretending to search for work,

headed
there

either for the burlesque or the vaudeville house.

Thank God,

were such glorious

I

institutions in those days

Had

there not been,

might have committed

suicide long ago.

. . .

But speaking of
I

billboards
is

One of the
:

strange recollections

have of
I

this

period
it

of passing a billboard announcing the play

Sapho.

remember

for

two

reasons

first,
I

because

it

was posted
best days

on

the fence next to the old house

where

knew my
because
it

shockingly close, so to speak

poster,

and second,
the
flight

was a

lurid

openly revealing a

man in

aa of carrying
of stairs.

woman,
(The

clad

only in a thin nightgown, up a long

woman
which
was
must

was Olga Nethersole.)

the play tion

had roused. Neither did

knew nothing then of the I know that it was

I

scandal

the dramatizaI

of Daudet's famous book.

;

didn't read Sapho until

eighteen or nineteen

as for the celebrated

Tartarin books,

have been well in

my

twenties before

came upon them.

which
I retain is

One of the most

the

beautiful souvenirs of the theatre

memor)' of the day

Park.

my mother took me to the open air casino in

is

Ulmer
that
it

Though it

highly improbable,

I still

have the notion

rate, for

was Adeline was

Patti I

heard sing that day.

At any

mere lad of eight or

the century,
it

nine, just getting ready to

wimess the turn of

like a trip to

Vienna. In

*'

the

good old summer

time "

it

was, of a day so spankingly bright and gay that even a dog

it

would remember
fessed that

(Poor Balzac,

how

pity you,

you who ronin

all

you had known only

three or four

happy days

290

^i

THE THEATRE
your
life !)

On this
mother,
steins

golden day even the awnings and parasols were

brighter and gayer than ever before.

The

little

round

table at

which

we

sat,

my

sister

and

I,

danced with golden

reflections cast

by brimming by brooches,
to the

and mugs, by long slender

glasses

of

Pilsener,

earrings, laveliers, lorgnettes,

by gleaming

belt buckles,

by heavy gold watch

there

chains,

by

a thousand and one trinkets so dear

men and women of

eat

that generation.

What good

things

were to
!

and drink

And
it

the

programso
I

Hvely, so scin-

tillating

All headliners, doubtless.

couldn't get over the fact

that

boys

my own

age, or so

seemed, dressed in swaggering

after

costumes, were employed to

across the entire length
at

come out

each act and walk

of the stagejust to post the next number

it

each wing.

They

did

bowing and

smiling.

Very important

adjuncts.

The
all

waiters, too, intrigued

me, the way they balanced

they

the heavy trays, the Hghtning-Hke

way

with

it

so polite, so cheerful, so utterly at ease.

made change, and The whole

atmosphere of the place was decidedly Renoir.

As soon

as I

was old enough to go to work

FrankHn
("

started at seventeen

there
in

began those wonderful Saturday afternoon and evening

sprees at the beaches. Irene

Red Head ")

at the

Brighton

Beach Music Hall, another open-air

theatre, stands out

prominently

my memory. But more vivid still is the remembrance of an unknown zany who was then making " Harrigan famous. It
'*

was again
and
I

a hot day,

with a beautiful breeze coming from the ocean,

had on a new straw hat with a large polka dot band.

To
can*t

enjoy the song and dance cost only ten cents.

forget
is

But what

the enclosure

itself,

a circular tier

of benches exposed to

monkey to do his stunts in. Here, on a rude, springy platform, this unknown minstrel gave one performance after another from noon to midnight. I went back to hear him several times that day. I went back expressly to hear him sing
the sky and hardly big

enough

for a

H G

...

A A

dooble

...

spells

Harrigan
. .

Divil a

man can say a word agin me

And

so on.

Ending with
291


THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE
It's

name

that a

shame

Never has been connected with

Harrigan
!

that's

me

Why

this

ditty
it

should

have

infatuated

me

don't

know.

Undoubtedly man, the

torture he
leer

was the poor

fried

songbird, the vitaHty of the

and flimflam, the deHcious brogue he had, plus the

suflering.

was

A strange

and roseate period, the turn of the century that refused

to come to an end. The Edison phonograph, Terry McGovem, WiUiam Jennings Bryan, Alexander Dowie, Carrie Nation, Sandow the Strong Man, Bostock's Animal Show, Mack Sennett comedies, Caruso, Little Lord Fauntleroy, Houdini, Kid McCoy, the Hallroom

Boys, Battling Nelson, Arthur Brisbane, the Katzenjammer Kids,

Windsor McKay,
Case,

the

Yellow Kid, The

Police Gazette, the

Molineaux

Theda Bara, Annette Kellerman, Quo

Trilby^

Vadis,

The Haymarket,

Ben Hur, Mouquin's, Considine's,

Boy, the Gilsey House, the

David Hamm, Peck's Bad

Dewey

Theatre, Stanford White, the

Murray

Hill Hotel,

Nick

Carter,

Tom

Sharkey,

Ted

Sloan,

Mary

Baker Eddy, die Gold Dust Twins,

the

Max

Linder, In the Shade of

**

Old Apple

Trie, the

Boer War, the Boxer RebeUion,

RememPinkham,

ber the Maine,"

Bobby Walthour,

Painless Parker, Lydia

.

Henry

Miller in The Only

Way

When and where I first saw

I

Charleys Aunt

no longer remember.
as the funniest
I

know

only

this,

that

it

remains in

my
s

mind

play

ever saw.

Not

until the

movie

called Turnabout did

see anything

to

which

make me laugh as hit you below

to
I
it.

hard.

Charley

Aunt

is

one of those plays

the belt.

There's nothing
ofl*

you can do but

for over fifty
fift)'

succumb
years,

It

has been playing

it

and on

now

and

presimie

will

go on being played

for another

yean to come.

No
i

doubt

it is

one of the worst plays ever written,

stitches for three
fiill

but what matter

acts
is

To

keep an audience in

a feat.

What

amazes

me is that the
later, I

author,

Brandon Thomas,

was

British.

In Paris, years

discovered a theatre on the

specialized in broad,
I

Boulevard du Temple
sidesplitting farces.

Le D^'aarefwhich

In this old

bam

of a place

had more belly

laughs than in any theatre except the fiimous Palace Theatre

Broadway
292

" the home of vaudeville."

on


THE THEATRB
From
or so
I

the time

began going to High School

until I

was twenty

went regularly every Saturday night with

my

chum, Bob
from the

Haase, to the

Broadway
up

Theatre, Brooklyn,
after

where the

hits

Manhattan stage would be shown

they had had their run.

In this

We
saw

usually stood
at least

in the back of the orchestra.

plays,

way

two hundred
Camille,

among them
Ticket,

such

as

The Witching

HouTy The Lion and the Mouse, The Easiest Way^ The Music Masteft

Madame X,

The Yellow

The Wizard of Oz,

Tite

Servant in the House, Disraeli, Bought and Paid For, The Passing of
the Third Floor Back,

The

Virginian,

The

Man from Home, The

the
stars,

Third

Degree,

Damaged Goods, The Merry Widow, The Red

Mill, Sumurun,

Tiger Rose.

My

favorites then,
Fiske,

among

were Mrs. LesUe

Starr,

Carter, Lilly

Maddem

Leonore Ulric, Frances

Anna

Held.

Quite a motley company!

as I started

As soon
out in
all

going to the
I

New York
all

theatres

branched

directions.

frequented
as the

the foreign theatres as well

as the httle theatres,

such

Portmanteau, the Cherry Lane,

The Provincetown,
I

the

Neighborhood Playhouse.
in Haarlem.

And of course

went

to the

Hippodrome, the Academy of Music, the Manhattan

I

Opera House and the Lafayette

a

saw Copeau's group

Art Players

number of

times, at the Garrick,

Players.

and the

Moscow

and the Abbey Theatre

Curiously enough, a performance which stands out in

is

my memory

that given

by an

unprofessional group,
I

all

youngsters, at the

Henry

Street Settlement.

was

invited to attend the performance

(an Elizabethan play)

by

a messenger then

working

for

me

at the

telegraph company.

He had

only lately been released from prison,

office in

where he had served sentence for robbing a small post

the South of a

few stamps.

To

see

him

in doublet

and hose

^he

played the leading role

declaiming with
as
I

grace and distinction

stands out in

was

most pleasurable shock.

in

The whole evening

my mind
nier*s

much

the

same way

does the magical scene in Four-

The Wanderer which

I

have mentioned so often.

Street Settlement

Time and

again

went back

to the

Henry

hoping to rcHvc

the enchantment of that

first

evening, but such things happen only

once in a

lifetime.

Not

so far away,
I
^I

on Grand

Street,

was the

Neighborhood Playhouse which

another memorable occasion
!

visited frequently

and where
performed.

saw Joyce's

Exiles

293

"

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

Whether
sionable,
gettable.
it

was the period or because

the plays
I

was young and impresare unfor-

many of
I

saw during the Twenties

:

will

mention just a few

Androcles and the Lion, Cyrano

de BergeraCy

From

Mom

till

Midnight, Yellow Jacket, The Playboy of

the Western World,

Him,

Lysistrata, Francesca de Rimini,

Gods of the

Mountain, The Boss, Magda, John Ferguson, Fata Morgana, The Better
*Ole,

Man

of the Masses, Bushido, Juno and the Paycock.

In the early days of

I

The Deepthinkers and

**

the Xerxes Society*

**

had the good fortune to be invited by a pal of mine to the

best

theatres,

where we occupied
inveterate theatre-goer.
his

choice seats."

My

friend's boss

was an

He had

plenty of

money and he

enjoyed indulging

every whim. Sometimes he invited the whole

healthy, jolly,

gang of us

twelve
to a
that

rowdy,

lusty youngsters

to
It

accompany him
in the middle

"good show."
saw

If he got

bored he would leave

theatre.

of the performance and go to another

I

was through him

time,

Elsie Janis,

our great

idol, for the first

and
!

also

that Uttle queen,

Elsie

Ferguson

" Such a

Little

Queen

"

Bonnie days they were.

Not only
at

the best seats in the

house but afterwards a cold snack

or Rector's.

Reisenweber's, Bustanoby's

Trotting firom place to place in horse cabs.

for us.

Nothing
"
!

was too good

"

Ah

never to be forgotten days

I

At
old

the tailor shop,

when

took to working

full

time for the

I

mana

sudden switch from the Savage School where

athletic instructor (sic
!)

was

training to

become an

made

the acquain-

tance of another wonderful prince, the eccentric

Mr. Pach of Pach

never handled

Brothers, photographers.

This lovable old

man

money.

Everything he desired he got through barter, including

the use of a car and a chauffeur.

He had

connections and

affiliations

everywhere,

it

seemed, not

least

of them being with the directors

places.

of the MetropoHtan Opera, Carnegie Hall and such

result

The

was

that

whenever
or a

wished to attend a concert, an opera, a

I

symphonic
Pach, as

recital

ballet,

had only to telephone old man

we

called

him, and a

seat

was waiting

for

me.

Now

and

then

my father made him a suit of clothes

or an overcoat. In return

we received photographs, all sorts of photographs, oodles of them. And so, in this pecuHar way rather miraculous to me I heard

clubs

* See Plexus, Book Two of The Rosy Crucifixion, for a full picture jof these which played such an important part in my early life.

294


THE THEATRE
in the Space

of a few years

virtually everything

of note in the realm

far

of music.

It

was an invaluable education, worth

I

more than

all

the other pedagogic rigmarole

was put through.

I

As

said a while ago, I

beHeve

have read more plays than novels

I

or any other form of literature.

began

this

reading of plays via

The Harvard

Classics,

that five-foot shelf

First ancient

recommended by old

Dr. Foozlefoot Eliot.

Greek drama, then Elizabethan

drama, then Restoration and other periods.

The

real impetus,

however,

Emma
in

me by Goldman through her lectures on the European drama, San Diego, back in 1913. Through her I launched heavily into
as I

have remarked a number of times, was given

Russian drama, which, with ancient Greek drama,

I feel

most

at

home
the

in.

The Russian drama and

ease

the Russian novel

I

took to with

same

and sense of
In

familiarity as

did Chinese poetry and

finds reality, poetry
I

Chinese philosophy.

them one always

and

wisdom. They are earth-bound. But the dramatists

I

envy, the ones

playwrights
I
is

would

imitate if

could, are the Irish.

The

Irish

can read over and over again, without fear of

satiation.

There

magic in them, together with a complete defiance of logic and a

humor

altogether unique.

There

is

also darkness

and violence, to

say nothing of a natural gift for language

which no other people

is

seem to

possess.

Every writer employing the English language

Irish.

indebted to the
true language

Through them we

get

gHmmerings of the

of the bards,
as

now

lost

except for a remote

comer

of the world such

all

Wales. Once having savored the

Irish writers,

other European dramatists seem pale and feeble in their expression.

(The French more than any, perhaps.)

The one man who

play like The Wild

still

comes through, in
is

translation,

is

Ibsen.

Duck

still

dynamite.

Compared

to Ibsen,

Shaw

is

just

" a talking

fool."

Aside from a few performances

to

attended during a short

visit

America from France

I

Awake and Sing

Waiting for Lefty, The Time of Your Life,

have not been to the theatre since that memor-

able production

of Hamsun's Hunger (with Jean-Louis Barrault)

'39.
It

given in Paris in 1938 or

was rendered in

expressionistic

manner, a

la

Georg
whole

Kaiser,
I

and remains a worthy end to

my theatremovie
295

going days.
Finished, the

Today

have not the

least desire to enter a theatre.

business. I

would

rather see a second-rate

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

than a play, though
their
It
I
I

must confess

that the

movies too have

lost

hold over me.

may seem

strange that, despite

I

have never written a play.

tried

my great interest in the theatre, my hand at it once, many years

It

ago, but got

no

farther than the second act.

was obviously more

to give expression

important then for

to
it.

me

to Hue the

drama than

Besides,

it is

probably true that I have

no talent in this direction,

abandoned

which

I regret.

But even
all

if I

no longer go

to the theatre, even if I have

thought of writing for the theatre, the theatre remains for

me
the

a realm of pure magic. In potency, the Elizabethan drama

excludperiod

ing Shakespeare
Bible.

whom

cannot abide

ranks second only to

have compared
this

For me.

Often in

my

mind

with the age which produced the great Greek dramatists.

never
these
fails

What

to impress

me

is

the utter contrast, in language, between

two

periods of drama.

The Greek

is

simple, straightforward
;

language, imderstandable to anyone of inteUigence

the Elizabethan

language

is

tumultuous and unbridled, meant for poets, though the

audience (of that day) was largely

made up of the mob.

;

In Russian

drama we again have

however,
is

the simplicity of the Greeks

the machinery,

of another order.

What all good drama has in common, I find, is its readability. And this is the drama's supreme defect. The drama to come will
lack this virtue.

As "Hterature"

it

will be almost meaningless.

The drama
altered.

has yet to

come

into

its

own.
is

And

this

cannot

come
had
in a

about until the structure of our society

radically,

fimdamentally

Antonin Artaud, the French poet,

actor, playwright,

illuminating ideas
tract called

on

this subject,

some of which he exposed

Le Theatre

de la

Cruauti*

What Artaud
this
is

proposed

was a new kind of participation by the audience. But

never have until the whole conception of" theatre "

we

shall

transformed.
audience,

Books tend
* " Mais, et dang^reux de

to separate, the theatre to unite us.

The

nouvcaut^, il y a un c6t^ virulent et je dirai mSme po6sie et de I'imagination a retrouver. La po6sie est une force dissociative et anarchique, qui par I'analogie, les associations, les images, ne vit que d'un boulcversement des rapports communs. Et la nouveaut^ sera de bouleverscr ces rapports non seulcmcnt dans le domaine ext6rieur, dans le domaine de la nature, mais dans le domaine intdrieur, c'est i dire,
c'est ici la
la

dans cclui de la psychologie.

in
*'

Comment, c'est mon secret." (Antonin Artaud,

21, 1932.)

Comoedia,'

September

296

THE THEATRE
like jelly in the

hands of a capable playwright, never knows greater

sohdarity than during the brief hour or

a performance.

two which
is

it

takes to give

Only during

a revolution

there anything
is

com-

parable to this togetherness.

the greatest
state

Used

rightly, the theatre

it

one of

weapons in the hands of man. That

is

has fallen into a

of decay
it

but another sign of the degenerate times.

that life
is

When the
common
crowd
is

theatre lags

means

at a

low

ebb.

To me
stream.

the theatre has always been like a bath in the

To

experience emotion in the

company of

indeed tonic and therapeutic.

Not only

are the thoughts, deeds

eyes, but the effluvium

and personages materialized before one's

in

which

all

swims

also envelops the audience.

In identifying them-

selves

with the players, the spectators re-enact the drama in their

minds.

own

An

invisible super-director
is is

is

at

work.

Moreover, in
parallel

each spectator there

another, unique
witnessing.

drama going on

with the one which he

All these reverberative dramas

coalesce, heighten the visible, audible one,

and charge the very walls

with a psychic tension which

unbearable.

is

incalculable and, at times, almost

Even

to

become acquainted with

one's

own

language
is

it is

neces-

sary to frequent the theatre.

The

talk

of the boards

of a

different

order from the talk of books or the talk of the

street.

Just as the

most indehble writing belongs to the

speech belongs to the theatre.

parable, so the

most indeUble

In the theatre one hears

forget

what one

is

always saying to oneself

enact every day of our Hves.

We

how much

silent

drama we
in

What issues from our Ups is infinitesimal

recitative

compared to the steady stream of

heads.

which goes on
action,

our

Similarly with deeds.

The man of
all

even the hero,

Hves out in deed but a fraction of the drama which consumes him.
In the theatre not only are
exalted, but the ear
is

the

senses

stimulated, enhanced,

tuned, the eye trained, in

new

ways.

We

are

made

alert to the unfailing significance

of human

actions.

Every-

thing which occurs

lens, to

on

the stage

is

focused, as if through a distorting

meet the angle of expectation.

We

not only sense what

is

called destiny,

we

experience

it

individually, each in his

footlights

In that narrow strip

beyond the

we
I

all

find

own way. a common

meeting

place.

When I

think of the numerous performances

have attended, and

297


THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE
in SO

many

diflfercnt

tongues,

when

think of the strange neighbor-

hoods in which these

theatres

were located and of

through

my

journeys

homeward, often on
slush

foot, often
I

bitter gales or

through

and mud, when

think of the truly extraordinary personaUties

being, of the multitudinous ideas

that

impinged on

my

which

experienced vicariously,

when

think of the problems of other

epochs, other peoples, and of the magical and mysterious denominator

which permitted
of the
effects

me

to grasp

them and

suffer

them,

when

think

which

certain plays

had upon me, and through

me

upon
of this

my

associates

or even people

unknown

to

me, when

think
itself

tide

of blood, of sap, of dark, mottled thought pumping

ecstasies,

out in words, gestures, scenes, climaxes and

when
is

think

how

utterly, inexorably

human was

all this,

so

human,
that

so salutary,

so remarkably universal,

my

appreciation of
is

all

connected

with plays, playwrights and play actors

extravagance.

augmented

to the point

of

To

take one

form of
aHen

theatre alone, the Yiddish,

which seems so
intimate
is

bizarre,

so

^how
it.

remarkably

close

and

it is,

now

that

look back on

In the Yiddish play there

to

usually a Httle bit

of everything which goes

weddings,

make up
idiots,

life

dancing, joking,
feasts,

horseplay,

fiinerals,

beggars,

to say nothing of the usual misunderstandings, problems,

anxieties, frustrations
(I

and so on which complicate modern drama.

am thinking,
know

of

course,

of the ordinary Jewish

play, intended for

the masses and therefore "concocted," like a

good

stew.)

need not

word of the language

to enjoy the spectacle.

One One
"
?

laughs and weeps easily.

One becomes
:

thoroughly a
"

Jew

for the

nonce.

Leaving the theatre, one asks

Am

not

also a

Jew

With

the Irish, the French, the Russian, the Italian

drama

the

same

thing occun.
in doing so

One becomes
Through
the

all

these

aUen creatures in turn, and

like the

becomes more himself, more human, more

universal

self.

drama we

find our

conmion and our

individual identity.

We
we

realize that

we

are star-bound as well as

earth-bound.

Sometimes, too,

find ourselves citizens of a

world
as

utterly

unknown,
with

world more than human, a world such

That the
is

perhaps

only the gods inhabit.

its

theatre can produce this effect,

very Hraitcd means,

worthy of

note.

The

inveterate

theatre-goer, the person

who

enjoys being taken out of himself,

298

THE THEATRE
who imagines
lives as

possibly that he has found a

is

way to live

other people's
gets

well as his own,

inclined to forget that

is

what he

from
it

the play

which holds him so absorbed

In the theatre so

only what he puts into

of himself
so very

much

has to be taken for granted,

much

has to be divined.

One's

own

small Hfe, if examined

exteriorly,

would never

suffice to explain the close

rapport between
establishes.

audience and players which every

the exterior
tible. It is
life

good dramatist
is

In

of the humblest individual there

drama inexhaus-

from

this inexhaustible reservoir that the

playwright draws

his material.

This drama which goes on ceaselessly in every one's

breast trickles
itself in

through in mysterious ways, hardly ever formulating

Its

spoken words or in deeds.

overtones form a vast ocean,

there a
frail

a vaporous ocean,

on which here and

bark of a play
is

appears and disappears.

In this vast ocean humanity

constantly

sending forth signals,

as if to

the inhabitants of other planets.

sensitive

The
The

great playwrights are

no more than
as it

detectors flashing

back to
stuff

us,

momentarily
is

were, a

line,

a deed, a thought.
life
;

of drama

not in the events of daily

life,

drama

lies

in the

very substance of
cell
I

embedded

in every cell of the body, every

of the myriad substances which envelop our bodies.

am

one of those individuals frequently accused of reading into

contain, or

things
is

more than they

more than was

intended.

This

a criticism levelled against

is

me
it is

particularly

where the
one that

theatre or
I

the cinema

concerned.
I

If

a failing,

it is

am

not

ashamed of
I

have Uved in the midst of drama from the time

was old enough to understand what was happening round and

I

about me.
water.
I

took to the theatre

at

an early age,
it

as

a duck takes to

For

me it was

never just recreation,

was the breath of Hfe.

went

to the theatre to be restored and rejuvenated.

I

With

the

rising

of the curtain and the lowering of the Ughts

was prepared

to accept imphcitly

what would be unfolded before

my

eyes.
life

play was not only as real to

I

me
**

as the life
real.

about me, the

in
I

which

was immersed,^
that

it

was more

Looking backward,

must admit

But

at the

much of it was moment it. was life,

everyday
life.

Hterature,"
its

much

sheer claptrap.
It

Ufe at
It

fullest.

colored and

influenced

my

pervaded that Hfe sensibly and

irrevocably.

This faculty of overlooking

for

it

was an overlooking and not

299

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

a failure to see properly

what the
I
I

critical

mind terms mere

play*

acting, this faculty

which

deUberately nurtured, was

bom

of

refusal to accept things at face value.

At home,
then
I

in school, in church,

in the street,
If it

wherever

went,

was impregnated with drama.

life,

was to obtain a repUca of daily

I

had no need for the

shared, preposterous
I

theatre.
as this

went because from

a tender age

may

sound, the secret intentions of the playwright.

sensed

the everlasting presence

of a universal drama which had deep,

I

deep roots, vast and unending significance.

or seduced
;

did not ask to be lulled

asked to be shocked and awakened.

is

On

the stage, personality

everything.

The

great

stars,

whether

comedians, tragedians, buffoons, impersonators, mountebanks or

sheer zanies, are engraved as deeply in
characters in Uterature.
flesh.

my memory
so, since I

as are the great

Perhaps more

knew them

in the

We

are

obHged to imagine

how

Stavrogin or the Baron de

Charlus spoke,

how

they walked, gestured, and so on.

Not

so

with the great dramatic personages.

There are Hterally hundreds of individuals

length

could speak of
if
I

at

who

once strode the boards and

who

still,

but close

my

eyes, are declaiming their lines,

working

their mysterious magic.

There were

theatrical couples

who

exerted such a strong sentimental

to us than the

influence that they

were nearer and dearer

members

of our

own

family.

Noray Bayes and Jack Norworth,

such
as

for example.

Or James and Bonnie Thornton. Sometimes whole

themselves to us,

families endeared

Eddie Foy's

and George M. Cohan's.

as

Actresses particularly took possession

of our fancy

no other type
but their
think of a

possibly could.

They were not always great

actresses either,
I

personahties
cluster

were

radiant, magnetic, hauntingly so.

of them immediately

Elsie Janis,

Elsie

Ferguson, EflSe

Shannon, Adele Ritchie, Grace George, Alice Brady, Pauline Lord,

Anna

Held,

Fritzi

Scheff,

Trixie

Friganza,

Gertrude Hoflfman,

Miimie Dupree, Belle Baker, Alia Nazimova, Emily Stevens, Sarah

Allgood

and

of course

that dark, blazing figure

whose name

am

sure

no one

will recall,

Mimi AgugUa. The

creations

fact that

they were

flesh

and blood, and not phantom

to us
;

of the

screen, endeared

them

even more.
sometimes

Sometimes

we saw them
breathlessly,

in their

weak
that

moments
300

we

watched them

knowing

their hearts

were

really breaking.

THE THEATRE
The same
been
pleasure one has in discovering his

own books,

authors, holds for the figures

of the stage

as well.

We
sec

his own may have

told, as youngsters, that it

was imperative to

("before

they die ") such as John Drew, William Faversham, Jack Barrymore,

Richard Mansfield, David Warfield, Sothem and Marlowe, Sarah

Bernhardt,

Maude Adamsbut our

great

joy came in discovering

P. Heggie,

for ourselves such personaHties as

Holbrook Blinn, O.
Elissa Landi,

Edward

Breese, Tully Marshall, Mrs. Patrick Campbell, BJchard

Bennett, George Arliss, Cyril

Maude,

Olga Chekova,

Jeanne Eagcls and others, many,

many othen, now almost legendary. The names, however, which are inscribed in my book of memory
of gold
are those

in letters

of the comedians, largely from vaudeville

and burlesque.

Let

me

mention

for old times' sakejust a few

was
a

Eddie Foy, Bert Savoy,

Raymond

Hitchcock, Bert Lev>% WiUic

Howard, Frank Fay.

spellbinders
i

Who could be immune to the powers of these

mating
in

Better than any book, for me,

as a headliner.
I

which

one of these appeared

an
all-star
I

Often, at the Palace, there was

program.

than

would

the weekly gathering of the Xerxes Society.

would no more have missed such an event Rain

or shine, job or no job, money or no money, I was always there. To be with these " men of mirth " was the best medicine in the world,
the best safeguard against melancholy, despair or frustration.
I

can

never, never get over the reckless

way

they gave of themselves.

fellow's act,

Sometimes one of them would intrude upon the other

creating with each irruption hysteria
funniest

and pandemonium.

The

book

in

the world* cannot rival, for me, a single per-

formance of any of these individuals.

There

is

not a single book

know of

in the

whole of Hterature which can keep one laughing

chuckling,

throughout.

The men I speak of could not only keep one

stitches.

they could keep one in

tinuously, in fact, that
antics for just a
it

One

laughed so hard and so contheir

one

felt

Uke begging them to stop

moment

or two.

Once they had

explode.

the audience started

was

scarcely necessary to

do or say anything.

mere waggle of
could

the fingers

was

sufficient to

make one

sec

The man I liked best of all was Frank Fay. I adored him. him of a mating and go back in the evening to see him
What
by the way

all

over

again, to laugh even harder the second or the third time.

Frank
!

is

the

title,

would

give anything to

know

301

THE BOOKS
Fay impressed

IN

MY

LIFE

man who could put on an act without the man who could hold the stage alone for ten or fifteen hours, if he chose. And who could vary the performance from day to day. To me he seemed possessed of inexhaustible wit, intention, inteUigence. Like many another great comedian, he knew when and how to cross the borderline into the realm of the forbidden. He got away with murder, Frank Fay. He was irresis-

me

as a

slightest preparation, a

tible,

even to the censors,

imagine.
as

Nothing, of course, can so

an incursion into the realm of
tricks

rouse the risibiUtics of an audience

the perverse and forbidden.

But Frank Fay had a thousand

**

up

his sleeve.

He was indeed

one-man show."

In passing
in
in

one play,

I must make mention of an actor whom I saw only whom I never heard of again after his enormous success
I

The Show Off.

mean Louis John

I

Bartels.

Like Charleys Aunt,

it,

this play,

which owed so much

to Bartels* acting of

remains a
it.

landmark in
and again
blatant,
I

my memory.
went back

can think of nothing quite

it,

like

Again
" the

to see

especially to hear that raucous,

!

infectious

haw-haw-haw
can remember,
I

of

Bartels,

who was

show
As

off."

far

back

as I

seem

to be

aware of voices

speaking inside me.

mean by
form of
held

this that I

was forever conducting

conversation with these other voices. There was nothing "mystical"

about

this.

It

was

intercourse
I

which ran concurrently

in.
It

with other forms of intercourse

simultaneously

indulged

could go on

while

open conversation with another.

Before
I

Dialogue

constant dialogue.
in

began the writing of

this

books

was writing them

I

my

head

in

smothered sort of

dialogue

speak of

One more
it

capable of self-analysis than myself

would have

realized early in Ufe that

he was destined to write.

Not
that

I.

If

thought about
to

at all

mean
I

this ceaseless, interior

dialogueit was merely

I

tell

myself that
I

was reading too much,

as

should stop chewing the cud.

never thought of it
it

unnatural
attain.

or exceptional.

Nor

is it,

except in the degree which

may
I

Thus
his

it

often happened that, while listening to

some one,

heard

speech transmuted in varying ways, or, while giving close heed

I

to his words,
his

would

interpolate

my own words, would embroider

I

words with
;

others of

my

own, more piquant, more dramatic,

had heard a person

more eloquent
302

sometimes, indeed, after

THE THEATRE
through,
I

would

repeat the gist of his

words

in three or four ways,

giving them back to

him

as if

they were his own, and in doing so

derive huge enjoyment in seeing

him swallow

his

own words

and

marvel

at their
It

apmess, their acuteness, or their profundity and

complexity.

was

these

performances which often endeared

people to me, often people

in but

whom

had not the shghtest

as

interest

who became

attached to

me much
artist.
It

they would to a clever

mountebank or

a sleight-of-hand

was the mirror in which

It

they saw themselves lucidly and flatteringly.

never occurred to
that

me

to deflate their egos

it all

enjoyed the

game and was happy

they entered into

unknowingly.
or
it,

But what was

in the first person

this,
>

if

not a sort of perambulating theatre

I

What was

doing

Creating character, drama,

utterly

dialogue. Schooling myself,

no doubt, and

without intention
i

or prevision, for the task to come.

And

this task

Not
I

to mirror

the world, not to render back a world, but to discover

private world.
this is precisely

my own

The moment
what
I

say " private " world

I

realize that

have always lacked, what

have struggled

more

to obtain, or establish, than anything else in Hfe.

is

To unburden
though
it

myself, therefore,

like writing another chapter

life I

of Revelation.

The

better part

of my

have spent in the

I

theatre,

may
this

not have been a recognized playhouse.

stage director

have been author,

actor,

and

script itself

have been so saturated with

others'

never-ending drama,
take a
It

my own

and

combined, that just to

walk alone

is

comparable to turning on Mozart or Beethoven.*

sitting in the

was about eighteen yean ago,

that
I
I

Cafe Rotonde
never

in Paris,

read Robinson

Jeflfers*

Women

at Point Sur,

dreaming that
called
Little

would one day be hving near Point Sur

I

at a place
life
!

Big Sur, which

did
I

had never heard of

Dreams and

dream,

when

listening to the hbrarian

of the Montague

Street Library in

Brooklyn tell of the marvels of the Cirque Medrano,

In the preface to the first volume of his celebrated roman-fleuue, Jules writes : "I wish that it will be understood that some episodes lead nowhere. There are destinies which fmish none knows where. There are beings, enterprises, hopes, which one no longer hears about. Meteors which whole pathos disintegrate, or aperiodic comets of the human firmament. of dispersion, of fading away, of which life is full, but which books nearly always ignore, preoccupied as they are, in the name of old rules, with beginning and finishing the game with the same cards." {Hommes de bonne "

Romain

uolonte.)

303

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

that the first article
I

should write on arriving in Paris, the dty of

it

my

dreams, would be on the Cirque Medrano, and that

would

be accepted by ElHot Paul (of Transition) and published in the Paris

Herald.
Little

did

I realize,

on

the occasion of our brief meeting in

Dijon

at the

one day be

Lyc^ Camotthat the man I was talking to would the man to start me off on this book. Nor did I think,
Caf6 du D6me,
the author
it

when

at

the

Paris I

was introduced to Femand

and magnificent
play,

Crommelynck,
Le Cocu
I

of

that celebrated

Magtiijique, that
his play.

would be
did

fifteen years

or more before

would read

Little

I realize,

when

attending the per-

formance of the Duchtss of Malfi in

for the superb translation
translator

Paris, that the

man

responsible

of the play would soon become

he and no other would lead

my

and

friend, that

me

to the

home of Jean Giono, his Hfelong friend. Little did I imagine either, when seeing Yellow Jacket (written by the Hollywood actor, Charles
Cobum),
Co.),
that I

would encounter

in Pebble Beach, California, the

celebrated Alexander F. Victor (of the Victor Talking

Machine

who,

talking

of the thousand and one deHghtful experiences

the conversation with a dithyramb
I

of

his rich life,

would end

on

Yellow Jacket.

How
play,

could

foresee that

it

would be

in a fiu:-off
see

place called Nauplia, in the Peloponnesos, that I

first

would

my
as

shadow
?

and with such an astounding companion

as I

Katsimbalis
a troupe

Or, enamored

was of burlesque
I

(often following

from town

to town),

how was

to surmise that in far-off

Athens

would one day

sec the

same type of performance, the

leer

same type of comedian, hear the same jokes, catch the same
and banter
i

How could
man
I

possibly foresee that that

same evening
I

(in Athens),

about two in the morning, to be exact,

should
a

encounter a
I

had seen only once before in

to,

my

life,

man
the

had been merely introduced

but

whom
And

remembered

as

one

who came

out of the stage door of the Theatre Guild

i

after a

performance of Werfel's Goat Song

coincidence, that only
at

is

this

not a strange
in glancing

now,

just a

few minutes ago,

time that

my

copy of The Moon

in the

Yellow

Rivera grand, grand play

it

by Dennis Johnston by

^I

notice for the

first

was played
the French

the Theatre Guild in

New

York, probably a year or two before

t help

my
304

friend

Roger Klein asked me

of it.

him widi
least

translation

And though

there

may

not be the

connection

THE THE ATftB

between the two,
that the first time
Paris during a
I

this also strikes

me

as curious
hiss

and coincidental,
in a
**

heard a French audience

was

cinema in

they hissing
replied.

showing of my beloved Peter Ibbetson. " I asked. " Because it is too unreal/*

Why

are

my

friend

Ah

yes, strange

memories.

Walking down
I

the dusty streets

of

Heraklion,

on

my way to

Knossos, what do

see but a

huge poster

announcing die coming of CharHe ChapHn

Could anything be more incongruous

Gold Rush
Tweedledee.

Chaplin and Sir

In Athens,

at the Minoan cinema. The Minotaur and the Arthur Evans. Tweedledum and
?

some weeks
several

later, I

noticed the billboards

plays.

advertising the

coming of

American

One of them,
amphi-

bcheve

it

or not, was Desire Under the Elms.

Another incongruity.

At

I>elphi, a natural setting for Prometheus Bound, I sit in the

theatre listening to

my

friend Katsimbalis recite the last oracle

I

delivered there.

In a split second

am

back in " The Street of Early

precise, reading

Sorrows," upstairs in the parlor, to be

one

after

another of the Greek plays given in Dr. Foozlefoot's Five-Foot

Shelf.
It is

my

first

acquaintance with that grim world.

The

real

one follows much

I

later,

when
!

at the foot

of the

citadel at

Mycenae
. .
.

inspect the graves

of Clytemnestra and of

Agamemnon

But
the

that lugubrious parlor

last

There, always alone, sad, forlorn,

I

and the
but

least

of human kind,

not only tried to read the

classics

I also listened

to the voices
to

of Caruso, Cantor
Hilliard,

Sirota,

Mme. Sdiumann-Heinkeven Fool diere was ..."

As from some other

Robert

reciting

"A
rich,

existence there intrude

now

memories,

glorious memories, of that Uttle theatre

on

the Boulevard
to

du
end

Temple (Le

Dejazct),

where

would laugh from beginning

la Gaiete,

of the performance,

my

belly aching, the tears streaming

down
only

my face.
to

Memories of Le Bobinot, rue de

where

listened

Damia or her numerous

imitators, the theatre itself being

street in

an aspect of a richer spectacle, for the

which

it

stood, almost

unique, even for Paris, was an endless passing show.

And die Grand

farces,

Guignol
all

From
bill,

hair-raising

melodramas to the most riotous

on one

with well-timed stampedes to the bar, a dream of

a bar, hidden avray in the lobby.

But of

all

these strange, other-

worldly memories, the best

is

of the Cirque Mcdrano.

A world of


THE BOOKS
IN

MY
A

LIFE
as

transmogrification.
say.

world

old as civilization

itself,

one might

For, certainly before the theatre, before the puppet

show and
its

the

shadow

play, there

must have been the cirque intime with

swallowers,

saltimbanques, jongleurs, acrobats, sword

equestrians

and clowns.

But

to get back to that year 191 3, in San Diego,

lecture

where
. . .

heard

Emma Goldman
whorehouse
Montana.
in

on
?

the

European drama
I

possibly be that long

ago

ask myself.

was on

my

Can it way to a

company with

cowboy named

Bill Parr firom

We were working together on

How
strange to think that
I

a fruit ranch near Chula to

Vista and every Saturday evening

we went
was

town

for that

one

purpose.

deflected, derouted,

my
!

whole hfe

altered,

by

the

chance encounter with a billboard

announcing the

arrival

of

Emma

Goldman and Ben Reitman

d*Aimunzio,
Werfel,
Strindberg,

Through
worthy,

her,

Emma, I came
Schnitzler,

to read such playwrights as

Wedekind,
Gals-

Hauptmann,

Brieux,

Pinero,

Ibsen,

Gorky,

von

Hof!mansthaI,

Sudermann, Yeats, Lady Gregory, Chekov, Andreyev, Hermann

Bahr, Walter Hasenclever, Ernst Toller, Tolstoy and a host of
others.
(It

was her

consort,
that
I

Ben Reitman, who

Stimer.)

sold

me

the

fir^t

book of Neitzsche*s
The Ego and His

was to read

The Anti-Christ

as

well as

Own by Max
I

Then and

there

my

world

was

altered.

When,

a Uttle later,

began going to the Washington Square

I

Players and the Theatre Guild,

became acquainted with more

as well as

European dramatists

the Capek brothers, Georg Kaiser, Pirandello,

St.

Lord Dunsany, Benavente,

as

John Ervine,

such Americans

Eugene O'Neill, Sidney Howard and Elmer Rice.

Out of this
originally

period there emerges the

name of an

actor

who came
Like Nazi-

from the Yiddish theatreJacob Ben-Ami.

indescribable.

mova, he had something

gestures haunted

For years

his voice

and

me.
?

He was like a figure out of the Old Testament.

I

But which
one of
his

figure

could never place

him

exactly.

It

was

after

performances in some Htde theatre that a group of us

repaired one night to a Hungarian restaurant where, after the other

patrons had
pianist

left,

we

closed the doors and listened

repertoire

till

dawn

to a

whose whole

was

Scriabin.

These two names

Scriabin

and Ben-Ami

are

indissolubly connected in

my

mind.

306


THE THEATRE
Just as

the

title

of Hamsun's novel, Mystcrium Jew,

a

(in

German),

is

named Nahoum Yood. Whenever, wherever I met Nahoum Yood, he would begin talking about this mad book of Hamsun's. Similarly, in
associated with another

Yiddish writer

Paris,

whenever

spent an evening with Hans Reichel, the painter,

we would
Germans.

inevitably touch

on Ernst

Toller

whom he had befriended

and on whose account he had been thrown into prison by the

Whenever
the

think or hear of The Cmcit whenever

encounter

names

Schiller

and Goethe, whenever

sec the

word Renaisthe subject),

sance (always connected with Walter Pater's

I

book on

think of subway or elevated

trains, either

hanging on to a strap
into dirty

or standing on the platform looking

filthy,

down

windows of
long
ever cease
Hfe,

woe-begonc

hovels, whilst

committing to

memory
it

passages

from

the

works of
to

these authors.

Nor

does

to

seem remarkable

me

that almost every

I strike

day of

my

on

entering the forest dose by, where

glade,

an open glade, a golden

my

mind immediately
Tlte

runs to those far-off performances of

Tintagiles,

Maeterlinck's plays

Death of

The Blue

Bird,

Monna

VantWy or else of the opera, PelUas

et

Melisande, the settings

of which,

almost
It is

as

much

as the

music, have never ceased to haunt me.

the

women

of the theatre

who seem

to have left the greatest

impression

upon me, whether because of

fact that in

their great beauty, their

singular pcrsonaUties or their extraordinary voices.*

is

Perhaps
Httle

this

due to the

everyday

life

women

have so

chance

to reveal themselves completely.

Perhaps, too, the

drama
is

tends to
saturated

enhance the roles played by

women.

Modem
woman
are

drama
to a

with
level.

social

problems, thereby reducing

more human
:

In ancient Greek
has ever

drama the women

superhuman

no

modem

met such types

in real Hfe.

In the Elizabethan
certainly,

drama they

are also

of startling proportions, not godlike,

as to terrify

but of such magnification

fiill

and bewilder

us.

To

get the

measure of

woman

one has to combine the properties of the

female as given in ancient drama with those which only the burlesque
theatre (in our time) has dared to reveal.
I

am

alluding,

of course,
God,
I

* Pauline Lord's
only a poor
actress,
I

voice, for example, in

Anna

Christie

"

am

bum "or

m Dommage

the voice of Ludcnne Lcmarchand, the French qu'elle soit putain ! Or our own dear Margo's.

307

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

to those so-called " degrading "

comic

bits

in burlesque

which

derive

from

the

commedia
life

del' arte

of the Middle Ages.

Since reading the

of de Sade,

who

spent

some of his

closing

years at the insane asylum at Charenton,

where he amused himself

I

writing and directing plays for the inmates,

have often wondered

what

it

would be
At

like to

wimess the performance of a group of

insane people.

the root of Artaud's ideas

on

the theatre was

the thought of having the players so

work upon

the audience (with

the aid of
literally

all

manner of external drama

devices) that the spectators

would

go mad and,

participating with the actors in a frenzy of

to real

delirium, carry the

and unthinkable

excesses.

One
its

thing about the theatre which has always impressed

to

me

is

power

overcome national and

racial barriers.

few plays
Often

given by a group of foreign actors interpreting their native dramatists

can do more,
the
first

have observed, than a cartload of books.

are

reactions

anger,

resentment,

deception or disgust.

But once
aUen,

the virus takes,

what was
and

absurd, preposterous, utterly

becomes

accepted

approved,
after

nay,

enthusiastically

endorsed.

America has received wave

wave of such

foreign

influences, always to the betterment

of our

own

native drama.
last.

But, hke foreign cuisines, these infusions never seem to

The
all

American
Ah, but

theatre remains within

its

own
it

hmited bounds, despite

the shocks

which
let

are administered to

from time

to time.
!

me

not overlook that strange figure, David Belasco

About

the time that

my

father

added Frank Harris to

his

list

of

customers, thanks to his son's interest in literature, there came

one day to the

tailor

shop

this

sombre, priest-Uke individual with

like a

dark, magnetic charm,

who,

clergyman, wore his collar

backwards,
sensual,

who
!

dressed always in black, yet

was thoroughly aUve,

remember.

glowing, almost feline in his gestures and movements.

David Belasco

name

that

Broadway

will ever

He was not my father's customer but the cHent of one of my father's associates, a man named Erwin, who was mad about two things
figures

boats and paintings. permanent

;

There were

at that

time four prominent

the tailor

fixtures, so to say

connected with
Each one was an

shop

Bunchek, the

cutter, this

man Erwin,

Rente, a sort of dereUct

boss tailor, and Chase, another boss tailor.

No four men could differ

eccentric,

more from one another than

308

these did.

THE THEATRE
aiid

each one, with the exception of Bimchek, had his very personal

and very pecuUar assortment of customers

not

many

either,

mere handful, indeed, but

sufficient, apparently, to

keep them aUve.

partially alive."

Or

perhaps

it

would be more

accurate to

say"

Hal Chase, for example,

core, a cantankerous

who was from Maine

evening.

and a Yankee to the

one too, eked out the remainder of his income

Erwin,

by playing
his

billiards in the

who was

crazy about

"yacht" and always

his

fretting because his customers failed to

show up on
on
the side

time, thus preventing

head Bay where

boat lay at anchor

guests out for a

him from heading for SheepsErwin made little sums

by taking

sail.

As for poor Rente, he

;

had none of the mad or rash quaUties of these two

his solution

was to work nights in a wealthy

had in

club,

making sandwiches and

serving beer and brandy to the card players.

But what they

all

common was
boon
life

their

propensity for dreaming Hfe away.

The

greatest

offered for Chase

was to duck out

at

noon

twelve sharp,

if possible

and head for Coney Island or Rockthe entire afternoon

away Beach, where he would spend

with a sort of Sherwood Anderson
but he was so damned
tive, so full

swimming

and baking himself in the broiling sun.

gift

He was a bom storyteller, for hemming and hawing,

made

of character, so cocksure, so argumenta-

pugnacious, so bull-headed, so eternally right, that he

himself obnoxious to every one, his customers included.

these latter, his attitude

As for
likewise.

was

**

take

it

or leave
;

it."

Erwin

They gave
of

their cHents just

one

fitting

if that didn't suit,

they

could go elsewhere.

Which

they usually did. Nevertheless, because

their eccentric natures, because

of

their peculiar,

odd

associates

and the milieus in which they traveled, because of the language

they talked, the figures they cut, they were constantly picking up

new
I

clients

and often most astonishing ones. Belasco,

as I said,

was

one of Er win's customers.

never could
tell.

What

these

two men had

Sometimes

in

common
father's

Nothing, apparently.

my

customers would collide with the customers of these other boss

tailors as

they were leaving the dressing room.

the part of
all.

General astonish-

ment on

Many of my
at the

father's customers, as I

have

recounted in Black Spring, were his cronies, or became his cronies,

through frequent meetings

them,

bar across the

street.

Some of
309

men of

parts (a

number of them

celebrated actors), found

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

themselves delightfully at

home

in the

back room of the

tailor shop.

Some of them were

tion or argument,

astute

enough

to engage

Bunchek

in conversa-

drawing him out about Zionism, the Yiddish

poets and playwrights, the Kabbala, and such topics. afternoon,

Many

an

when

it

seemed

as if the

combined cUentele of the

estab-

lishment had utterly died away,

at

we

whilcd away the weary hours

Bunchek's cutting

table, discussing the

most unheard of problems,

Thus, Siberia,

religious, metaphysical, zodiacal

and cosmological.

when

hear the word,

is

not the name of a

vast, frozen tundra,

but the

name of
is

a play

by Jacob Gordin. Theodor

Herzl, the father

of Zionism,

even more of a father to

me

than the hatchet-faced

George Washington.

One of
was

the most beloved individuals

who

frequented the shop

a customer

of

my

father's

named

Julian I'Estrange,

then married to Constance Collier, the star of Peter Ihhetson.

hear Julian and Paul

who was To

^Paul

Poindcxter

discussing

the merits of

Sheridan's plays or the histrionic virtues of

for example,

Marlowe and Webster,

Bunchek

was almost hke

listening to

JuHan the Apostate versus

Paul of Tarsus.

Or

then, as sometimes happened, to hear

(who caught
their talk,

their lingo

only dimly and confusedly) disparage

he

who knew not a word of Sheridan, Marlowe, Webster,

on
Fats

or even Shakespeare, was like turning

at a Christian Science

Waller

after a session

meeting room. Or, to top

tail oflf

it all,

listening to

Chase, Rente, Erwin, Inc.,

into their respective

monologues
the

on

their respective, obsessive trivia.

The whole atmosphere of

and dream.
say

place

was redolent of drink,

discussion

Each one was

I
it,

itching to retire into his

own

private world, a world, need

tailoring.
all tailors
It

which had absolutely nothing to do with

God, in
will
his perverse
it

was

as if

way, had created them

this

against their

But

was just

atmosphere which gave

me

the necessary

preparation for egress into the bizarre and tmfathomable world

of the

solitary male,

gave

me

strange, premature

and premonitory

notions of character, of passions, pursuits, vices, folUes, deeds and

intentions.

Was

it

so extraordinary, therefore, that observing

me
on

with a book of Nietzsche's under

Poindextcr should take

my

arm one

day, the

good Paul

me

aside

and give

me
I

a long lecture

Marcus AureUus and Epictetus, whose works

but dared not admit, because
I

had aheady read

let

hadn't the heart to

Paul down.

310

THE THEATRE
And
Belasco ?
I

almost forgot about him.

Belasco was always

silent as a

hermit.

A
I
oflf

silence

which

inspired respect rather than

reverence.

But

this

do remember
with

vividly about

him

that

helped

him on and

his trousers.

And

remember

the
:

illuminated smile he always gave in return for this Httle service

it

was

like receiving a hundred-dollar tip.

tailor

But before winding up the

were sometimes

shop

must say a word or two

about the newspaper columnists of that day.

scarce,

You

sec, if clients

drummers were always

weary bones,
to

plentiful.

Not

day

passed but three or four of them dropped in, not in hopes

of taking

an order, but to
fashion.

rest their

chew

the rag in friendly fastened

After they had discussed the

news of the day they

The two reigning favorites were Don Marquis and Bob Edgren. Oddly enough, Bob Edgren, a sports writer, had a great influence upon me. I sincerely beHeve I am telling the
on
the columnists.
truth

when
that

I
I

say that

it

was through reading Bob Edgren*s daily

column

cultivated
;

what

sense

of

fair

play

have.

Edgren

man his due after weighing all the pros and cons he would give his man the benefit of the doubt. I saw in Bob Edgren a sort of mental and moral referee. He was as much a part of my
gave every

Me

then

as
It

Walter Pater, Barbey d'Aurevilly or James Branch

period,

Cabell.
ringside,

was a
I

of course, when

went frequently to the

when

spent whole evenings with

my

pals discussing the

relative merits

of the various masters of fisticuffs. Almost

I

idols

were

prizefighters.

had a whole pantheon of

figures as

my first my own,

which included among others such

Terry

McGovem,

Tom

Sharkey, Joe Cans,

Jim

Jeffries,

Ad

Wolgast, Joe Rivers,

Jack Johnson, Stanley Ketchel, Benny Leonard, Georges Carpentier

and Jack Dempsey.

Ditto for the wrestlers.

to

Litde

Jim Londos

was almost

as

much of a god

me

as

Hercules was for the Greeks.

. .
.

And then there were the six-day What I mean to point out by all
contests, the banquets indoors

bike riders
this
is

Stop

that the reading

of books,
the sports

the going to plays, the heated discussions

we waged,
fiestas

and out, the musical

all

(our

own

and those provided by the masters), were

into

merged and blended

one continuous, uninterrupted

activity.

On

the

way

to the

arena in Jersey the day of the Dempsey-Carpentier battle

incidentally, almost equal in

an event,
311

importance for us to the heroic, single-

THE BOOKS

IN

MY

LIFE

handed combats beside the walls of Troy

with

remember

discussing

my

companion, a concert o{ Penguin

pianist,

the contents, style and

significance
later,

Island and the Revolt of the Angels.

A few years
lieuy I

in Paris, while reading

this

La Guerre

de Troie naura pas

I

suddenly recalled

black day

when

witoessed the sad defeat

of

my

favorite, Carpentier.
Iliad,

Again, in Greece, on the island of

Corfu, reading the

or trying to

for

it

went

against the grain

all

^but

anyhow, reading of

Achilles, the

mighty Ajax, and

the

other heroic figures

on one

side or the other, I

thought again of the

I

beautiful godlike figure

of Georges Carpentier,

saw him wilt and

crumple, sink to the canvas under the crushing, sledgehammer

blows of the Manassa mauler.

It

occurred to

me

then that his defeat

was just
god.
grin,

as stunning, just as vivid, as the

death of a hero or a demi-

And

with

this

thought came recollections of Hamlet, Lohen-

and the other legendary figures

whom

Jules Laforgue
?

had

recreated in his inimitable style.

Why

Why

But thus

are

books

confounded with the events and deeds of life.

From

eighteen to twenty-one or twenty-two, the period

Society flourished,
it

when

the Xerxes

was a continuous round of feast(** I

ing, drinking, play-acting,

I travel

music-making

am
tall

a fine musician,

round the world

"),

broad farce and

horseplay.

There

wasn't a foreign restaurant in

New York which we did not patronize.

we were
when
they closed the doors

Chez Bousquet,

a French restaurant in the roaring Forties,

so well liked, the twelve of us, that

the place was ours.

(O

fiddledee,
I

O fiddledee, O fiddledum-dummy
head
off.
I

dee

!)

And

all

the while

was reading
I

can

still

recall the titles

of those books
I

used to carry about under

:

my arm,
Stories,

no matter where

was headed

Anathema, Chekov's Short

The Devil's Dictionary, the complete Rabelais, the

Satyricon, Lecky's

History of European Morals, With Walt in Camden, Westermarck*s History of

Human

Marriage,

The

Scientific

Bases of Optimism,

The

Riddle of the Universe, The Conquest of Bread, Draper's History of the

Intellectual

Volpone,

and such-like. Shedding

Development of Europe, the Song of Songs by Sudermann, " tears over the " convulsive beauty

of

Francesca da Rimini,

memorizing

bits

of Minna von Barnhelm

Strindberg's

(just as later, in Paris, I will

memorize the whole of

given in Avant
et

famous

letter to

Gauguin,

as

Apres), struggling

with Hermann und Dorothea

312

(a gratuitous struggle,

because

had


THE THEATRE
wrestled with
exploits
it

for a

whole year in
Cellini,

school), marveling over the

of Benvenuto

bored with Marco Polo, dazed by

Herbert Spencer's
the

First Principles, fascinated

by everything from
Mailer's
**

hand of Henri Fabre, plugging away

at

Max

philo-

logistica,"

moved by

the quiet, lyrical

charm of Tagore's poetic

prose, studying the great Finnish epic, trying to get through the

Mahabarrhata, dreaming with Olive Schreiner in South Africa,

reveling in Shaw's prefaces, flirting with

MoUere, Sardou,

Scribe,

de Maupassant, fighting
series,

my way
I

through the Rougon-Macquart

wading through
a hfe
!

that useless

book of

Voltaire's

Zadig

What

Small wonder

never became a merchant

tailor.
title
is

(Yet thrilled to discover that The Merchant Tailor was the a well-known Elizabethan play.)

of

At
?

the

same time

and

this

not more wonderful,

more
talk

bizarre

carrying
as

on a kind of
George Wright,

"vermouth duckbill"
Bill

with such cronies

Dewar, Al Burger, Connie Grimm, Bob Haase, Charhe Sul-

Hvan, Bill Wardrop, Georgie GifFord, Becker, Steve Hill, Frank

Carrollall good members of the Xerxes Society.

that atrociously

Ah, what was

naughty play

we
!

all

went

to see one Saturday

?

afternoon in a famous httle theatre

on Broadway

What

a great

good time we had, we big boobies

and
all

A French play it was, of course,

!

the rage. So daring

at

So risque
!

And what a night we made

I

of it afterwards

Bousquet's

Those were the days, drunk or sober,

sharp to take a spin

always rose at five a.m.

on

my Bohemian racing wheel to Coney Island

ice

and back. Sometimes, skeetering over the thin

morning, the
fierce

of a dark winter
I

wind carrying me along

like

an iceboat,

would

be shaking with laughter over the events of the night before just
a few hours before, to be exact. This, the Spartan regime, combined

with the

feasts

and

festivities,

the

one-man study

course, the pleasure

reading, the

argument and

discussions, the

clowning and buffoonery,

the fights and wrestling bouts, the hockey games, the six-day races
at the

Garden, the low dance

halls,

the piano-playing and piano

teaching, the disastrous love affairs, the perpetual lack

of money,

the contempt for work, the goings-on in the tailor shop, the soHtary

promenades to the

reservoir, to the

cemetery (Chinese), to the duck

I

pond where,
skates

if the ice

were thick enough,

multilingual,

would

try out

my racing
313

this

unilateral,

sesquipedaHan activity night

THE BOOKS IN MY LIFE

and day, morning, noon and night, in season and out, drunk or
sober, or

drunk and

sober, always in the

crowd, always milling

around, always searching, struggling, prying, peeping, hoping,

trying,

one foot forward, two

feet

backward, but on, on, on, com-

pletely gregarious yet utterly soHtary, the

good

sport and at the

same

time thoroughly secretive and lonely, the good pal

a cent but could always

who

never had

borrow somehow

to give to others, a
at heart

gambler but never gambUng for money, a poet

wastrel

and

on

the surface, a mixer and a clinker, a

all

man not above pan. .

.

handling, the friend of

there
it

yet really nobody's friend, well

all

was, a sort of caricature of Elizabethan times,

gathered

up and played out

in the shabby purUeus of Brooklyn,

Manhattan

and the Bronx, the

foulest city in the world, this place I sprang

frineral parlors,

from*

cheese-box of
armories,

museums, opera houses,

stadiums,
carnivals,

concert
circuses,

halls,

churches,

saloons,

arenas,
canal,

markets

Gansevoort

and Wallabout,

stinking

Gowanus

Arabian

ice

cream

parlors, ferry houses,

dry docks,

Navy Yard, suspension bridges, roller skating rinks. Bowery flophouses, opium dens, gambling joints, Chinatown, Roumanian cabarets, yellow journals, open trolley cars, aquariums,
sugar refineries.

Saengerbunds, tum-vereins, newsboys' homes. Mills' hotels, peacock

alley lobbies, the

Zoo, the Tombs, the Zeigfeld

dives, the

Follies,

the Hippo-

drome, the Greenwich Village

private

hot spots of Harlem, the

I

homes of

my

fiiends,

of the girb

loved, of the

men

in Greenpoint, Williamsburg, Columbia Heights, Erie Basinthe endless gloomy the gasHghts, the gas tanks,
revered
streets,

fat

the throbbing, colorfiil ghetto, the docks and wharves, the big ocean
liners,

the banana freighters, the

gun

boats, the old

abandoned

forts,

the old desolate

Dutch

streets.

Pomander Walk, Patchin

frothy,

Place,

United

States Street, the

curb market. Perry's drug store

(hard
sodas

by
!),

the Brooklyn Bridge

^such

milky

ice

cream

the

open

trolley to

Sheepshead Bay, the gay Rockaways,

the smell of crabs, lobsters, clams, baked blue fish, fried scallops,

when everything -wis and never-to-be-forgotten age has ever been since, or ever will be again when Buttermilk Channel was quite dry at low water when the shad in the Hudson were all salmon, and when the moon shone with a pure and resplendent whiteness, instead of that melancholy yellow Ught which is the consequence of her sickening at the abominations she every night witnesses in this degenerate
!

*"

Ah

blissful

better than

it

dty

"

(Washington Irving.)

314

THE THEATRE
the schooner

of beer for

five cents, the free

lunch counters, and

somewhere, anywhere, every old where, always one of Andrew Carnegie's " pubUc " Hbraries, the books you so passionately wanted always " out ** or not listed, or labelled, like Henncssy*s whiskies
and brandies, with three
stars.

No, they were not

the days of old the murderous,

Athens, nor the days and nights of

Rome, nor

froHcsome days of Elizabethan England, nor were they even the "good old 'Nineties " but it was " httle ole Manhattan "just the

same, and the

name of that

little

old theatre I'm trying so hard to

as

remember
Alley, but
all

is

just as famiHar to

me

the Breslin Bar or Peacock

it

won t come
hams such
as

back, not
all

now.

But

it

was there

ottce,

the theatres were there,

the grand old actors and actresses,

including the

Corse Payton, David Warfield, Robert

Mantell, as well as the

Miller.

They

still

man my father loathed, his namesake, Henry stand, in memory at least, and with them the
some of
critics still
/

days long past, the plays long since digested, the books,

them,

still

unread, the

to be heard from. ")

it

(" Turn back

the universe

and give me yesterday

as I

And now, just

the

am
!

closing shop for the day,

comes

to

me,

name of the theatre Wallack's ! Do you remember it i You see, if you give up struggling (memoria-technica) it always comes
back to you.

Ah, but

see

it

again

now,

just as

it

once was, the

I

dingy old temple facade of the

outside. Shure,

theatre.

And with it

see the poster

!

and if it wasn't T/j Girlfrom

risqu6!

Rector's

So naughty!

So daring!

So

sentimental note to close, but

I

what matter
I

>

was going to

speak of the plays

had read, and

see

have hardly touched on

them.

They seemed

so important to
I

me

once, and important they

undoubtedly were. But the plays

lived through, are

laughed through, wept through,

still,

more important
I

though they were of lesser

cahbre. buddies.

For then

was with

others,

with

my

friends,

my

pak,

my

Stand up,

ancient

members of

the Xerxes Society!

I

Stand up, even if your feet are in the grave!

parting salute.
I

must give you a

loved you,
reunited in

must

tell

you one and

since.

all

how

often

have thought of you

how much I May we all be

the beyond!

We were all such fine musicians,

dum-dum-dee!

O fiddlcdce, O fiddledee, O fiddle315

THE BOOKS
And now
I

IN

MY

LIFE
of
that

take leave

young man

sitting alone upstain

in the lugubrious parlor reading the Classics.

What

a dismal picture!

What
them

could he have done with the Classics, had he succeeded in

?

swallowing them

The

Classics!

Slowly, slowly,

am coming
Where
.
.

to

not by reading them, but by making them.

of the cloth of gold.
classic,

join
is

with the ancestors, with my, your, our glorious predecessors,

on

the field

Bref, daily life

Voltaire,

though you are not precisely a

you gave me nothing,

neither

with your Zadig, nor with your Candide.

And why
?

pick

on

that
it

miserable, vinegar-bitten skeleton. Monsieur Arouet

suits

Because

me

at this

moment.

could

name twelve hundred

different

duds and dunderheads

out a petarade.

who

likewise gave
?

me

nothing.

could

let

To what end
that,

To

indicate, to signify, to asseverate

roller
life

and adjudicate

whether drunk or sober, whether with

fists

skates or without,

whether with bare

or six-ounce gloves,

comes

first.

Oui, en terminant ce

fatras,

d*^v^nements de

ma

pure

jeunesse, je pense de

nouveau

a Cendrars.

De

la

musique avant

toute chose!

Mais, que donne mieux la musique de la vie que la vie

elle-meme

January

to

December, 1950,
Stir,

Bug

California.

316

APPENDIX
The Hundred Books Which
Ittfluenced

Me

Most*

Author

Title

Ancient Greek Dramatists Arabian Nights Entertainment

(for children)

Elizabethan

Playwrights cepting Shakespeare)

(ex-

European Playwrights of the

Nineteenth Century, including Russian and Irish

Greek Myths and Legends Knights of King Arthur's Court

Abelard, Pierre
Tite

Story of

My

Misfortunes

Alain-Foumier Andersen, Hans Christian

The Wanderer
Fairy Tales

Anonymous Balzac, Honore de

Bellamy, Edward
Belloc, Hilaire

Diary of a Lost One

Seraphita

Louis Lambert

Looking Backward The Path to Rome

P.

Blavatsky,

Mme. H.

Boccaccio, Giovanni

Breton,

Andre

The Secret Doctrine The Decameron Nadja

Wuthering Heights

Bronte, Emily

Bulwer-Lytton, Edward Carroll, Lewis Celine, Louis-Ferdinand

Cellini,

The Last Days of Pompeii

Alice in Wonderland

Benvenuto

Journey to the End of the Night Autobiography

Virtually the complete
St. Francis

Cendrars, Blaise
Chesterton, G. K.

works

of Assisi

Conrad, Joseph Cooper, James Fenimore Defoe, Daniel

His works in general

The

Leatherstocking Tales

De

Nerval, G<$rard
list

Robinson Crusoe His works in general

* This

appeared in Pour Une Bibliothique

Wale;

Editions Gallimard,

Paris, 195 1.

317

APPENDIX
Author

Title
His works in general His works in general
Salavin Series
Trilby

Dostoievsky, Feodor
Dreiser,

Theodore

Diihamel, Georges Du Maurier, George

Dumas, Alexander Eckermann, Johann Peter

Eltzbacher, Paul

The Three Musketeers

Conversations with Goethe

Anarchism
Representative

Emerson, Ralph Waldo Fabre, Henri

Faurc,

Men

EUe

His works in eeneral The History ofArt

Fenollosa, Ernest

The Chinese Written Character as a Medium for Poetry

Dostoievski
Refits d'Ob^issance

Gidc,

Andi6

Giono, Jean

Que majoie
Jean
te

demeure

Bleu

Grimm, The Brothers

Gutkind, Erich

Fairy Tales

Haggard, Rider

Hamsun, Knut
Henty, G. A.
Hesse,

The Absolute Collective She His works in general His works in general
Siddhartha

Hermann

Hudson,

W.

H.

Hugo, Victor Huysmans, Joris Karl Joyce, James

Keyscrling,

His works in general Les Miserables Against the Grain

Ulysses

Hermann

South American Meditations

Kropotkin, Peter
Lao-tse

Mutual Aid Tao Teh Ch*ing

Latzko, Andreas Long, Haniel

Men

in

War
Caheza de Vaca

Interlinear to

M.
Machen, Arthur Maeterlinck, Maurice

Gospel of Ramakrishna

The Hill of Dreams

His works in general The Magic Mountain
Prejudices

Mann, Thomas
Mencken, H. L.
Nietzsche, Friedrich
Nijinsky, Vaslav

His works in general Diary

Pitcairn Island

NordhofF&

Hall

Nostradamus Peck, George Wilbur

Percival,

The Centuries Pedes Bad Boy

William Blake's Circle of Destiny

W.

O.

Petronius
Plutarch

The Satyricon
Lives

318

APPENDIX
Author
Powys, John Cowper Prescott, William H.
Proust, Marcel

Title
Visions and Revisions

Conquest of Mexico Peru

Rabelais, Francois

Rimbaud, Jean-Arthur
Rolland,

Remembrance of Things Past Garguanta and Pantagmel His works in general

Jean Christophe Prophets or the

Romain

New India

Rudhyar, Dane Saltus, Edgar Scott, Sir Walter

Sicnkicwicz,
Sikelianos,

Astrology of Personality The Imperial Purple

Ivanhoe

Henry

Quo

Vadis
(in

Anghclos

Proanakrousma
translated)
Esoteric

manuscript,

Sinnett,

A. P.

Buddhism

^^

Spencer, Herbert
Spengler,

Autobiography

Oswald

Strindberg, August
Suar^s, Carlo

The Decline of the West The Inferno

Krishnamurti

Suzuki, Daisetz Teitaro

Swift, Jonathan Tennyson, Alfred Thoreau, Henry David

Zen Buddhism
Gulliver^s Travels
Idylls

of the King

Civil Disobedience

and Other

Essays

Twain, Mark

Adventures of Huckleberry Finn

Van Gogh, Vincent

Wassermann, Jacob Weigall, Ardiur Welch, Galbraith
Werfel, Franz

Theo The Maurizius Case (Trilogy) Akhnaton The Unveiling of Timbuctoo Star of the Unborn
Letters to

Whitman, Walt

Leaves of Grass

319

APPENDIX
Books I
Still

II

Intend

to

Read
Title

Author
Anonymous Aquinas, Thomas
Aragon, Louis
Bonaparte, Napoleon
Calas, Nicholas

My

Secret Life

Summa

Theologica
de Paris

Le Paysan
Memoirs

Foyers d'Incendie

Casanova, Giacomo Giralamo Chestov, Leon

Cleland, Dr. John

Memoirs
Athenes
et Jerusalem

Memoirs of Fanny Hill

Dc Gourmont, R^my De la Bretonne, Restif

Le Latin Mystique
Monsieur Nicholas

Les Nuits de Paris

De Laclos, Choderlos De Lafayette, Madame De Sade, Marquis

Dickens, Charles

Dangerous Acquaintances

The Princess ofCleves The Hundred and Twenty Days of Sodom

Pickwick Papers

Doughty, Charles
Fielding,

Arabia Deserta

Henry

Tom Jones
Sentimental Education
Tlie

Flaubert, Gustavc

Gibbon, Edward
Harrison, Jane

Decline

and

Fall

of the

Roman Empire
The Orphic Myths
Prolegomena

Hugo, Victor Huizinga, H. James, Henry

Maturin, Charles
Michelet, Jules

of the Sea The Waning of the Middle Ages The Golden Bowl Melmoth the Wanderer
Toilers

History oftlie French Revolution

Multatuli

Max Havelaar
Ann Ward
The Mysteries of Udolpho
Correspondence
Entile

RadchfFe,

Piviere, Jacques

& Alain-Fournier

Rousseau, Jean Jacques

Stendhal

La

SuUivan, Louis
Swift, Jonathan Vach^, Jacques

Chartreuse de Parme The Autobiography of an Idea

Letters to Stella Lettres de Guerre

works of the following authors :Jean-Paul Richter, Leon Daudet, Gerard Manley Hopkins, T. F. Powys, Ste. Ther^e, St. John of
the
Novalis, Croce, Toynbee, Leon Bloy, Orage, Federov,
the Cross.

And

320

APPENDIX
Friends

III

Who

Supplied

Me

With Books

Ben Abramson Graham Ackroyd Dr. Bruno Adrian!

Heinz Albers Bruce Arliss

Mohegan

Lake,

New York

Sticklepath,

England

Carmel, California

Hamburg, Germany
Monterey, CaUfornia Phoenix, Arizona Yonkers, New York
Paris,

WiUiam
Rene

E.

Auk

Oscar Baradinsky
Barjavel
Bartell

France

Roland

Richard Beesley Dr. Pierre BeUcard Hilary Belloc Raoul Bertrand Earl Blankinship Andre Breton Robert A. Campbell Robert H. Carlock Blaise Cendrars Rives Childs J.

Monterey, California Hollywood, California Lyons, France SausaUto, CaUfornia

Paris,

France

Seattle,

Washington

Paris,

France

Hugh Chisholm
Cyril Connolly

Kankakee, Illinois Tucson, Arizona Paris, France Jidda, Saudi Arabia Big Sur, CaHfornia London, England
Paris,

Albert Cossery
Pascal Covici

France

New York City, New York

Dibbem
^

Frau Elisabeth

Lawrence Durrell Jean Dutourd David F. Edgar Frank Elgar Pete Fenton Robert Finkelstein

Ohrigen, Germany Belgrade, Yugoslavia

London, England
Spring Valley,
Paris,

New York

France

J.H.Flagg

Mme.
John

Genevieve Fondane Wallace FowUe

Gildersleeve

Jean Giono Maurice Girodias

Raymond Gu&in
Jac.

de Haan

E. Haldeman-JuHus

Los Angeles, CaUfornia Los Angeles, CaUfornia Chicago, Illinois Paris, France Bennington, Vermont Sacramento, CaUfornia Manosque, France Paris, France Bordeaux, France The Hague, HoUand Girard, Kansas
Solna,

Lars Gustav Hellstrom

Sweden

Walter Holscher

Andrew Horn
Willard Hougland

Hollywood, California Los Angeles, CaUfornia Santa Fe, New Mexico

321

APPENDIX
Louisa Jenkins

III

Claude Houghton

London, England
Pebble Beach, California Sacramento, California Paris, France Norfolk, Connecticut

JohnKidis
Pierre Laleure

James Laughlin Janko Lavrin Mme. H. Lc Boterf George Leite

Pierre Lesdain

Nottingham, England
Paris,

France

Berkeley, California

Brussek, Belgium
Paris,
Paris,

Dr. Michael Lubtchansky Pierre Mabille

Albert MaiUet

France France

Viennc, France

J.

Rose K. Margoshes H. Masui Gregory Mason Katnryn Mecham H. L. Mermoud

New York City, New York

Paris,

France
Illinois

New York City, New York

Chicago,
Lausanne, Switzerland Lausanne, Switzerland

Albert

Mermoud

Sheldon Messingcr H.W. Mediorstjr. Maurice Nadeau

Gilbert

Los Angeles, California

Graveland, Holland
Paris, France Denver, Colorado

Neiman

Swami Nikhilananda
Stan Noyes

New York City, New York

Berkeley, California

Maud Oakes Hugh O'Neill

Gordon Onslow-Ford
Kenneth Patchen Alfred Perl^ David Peery Lawrence Clark Powell John Cowper Powys

Big Sur, California Big Sur, CaUfomia

SausaUto, California

Old Lyme, Connecticut

London, England Los Angeles, California Los Angeles, California Corwcn, Wales
Paris,

Raymond Queneau
Paul Radin Rajagopal

France

Berkeley, California
Ojai, California

Man Ray
Georges Ribemont-Dessaignes

Hollywood, Cahfomia
Saint-Jeannet, France

John Rodker Harrydick and LiUian Bos Ross Andr6 Rousseaux

London, England Big Sur, California

Paris,

France

James
Mrs.

S.

Russell

Inverness, California

Mark

Saunders

Carmel, California

Tawfig Sayigh
Bezalel Schatz

Lebanon Big Sur, California

Beirut,

Dr. Olga Schatz

Berkeley, California

322

APFBNDIX
W.
J.

Schild

H. W. Schlamildi Emil Schnellock

Pierre Seghers

Lausanne, Switzerland Utrecht, Holland

Fredericksborg, Virginia
Paris,

France

Henri S^guy
Jack

Sarlat,

France

W.

Stauffadicr

San Francisco, Cabfomia

Frances Steloff

New York City, New York

Westport, Connecticut Paris, France Paris, France

Ruth Stephan
Irving Stettner

Carlo Suar^

W. T.

Symons

Richard

Thoma

London, England Limona, Florida

Paris,

Gny Tosi
Ckura Urquhart

France

Jean Varda Boris Vieren Alexander Victor Mme. Jean Voiher

Robert Vospef Kurt Wagenseil Alan W. Watts

Herbert F. West

Johannesburg, South Africa SausaHto, Califomia Carmel, Cahfomia Carmel, Cahfomia Paris, France Los Angeles, Califomia

Stamberg a/See, Germany

Evanston,
Illinois

Emil White Walker Winsk>w Bemhard Wolfe Kurt Wolff Jacob Yerushalmy
Dante T. Ziaccagnini

Hanover, New Hampshire Big Sur, Califomia Topeka, Kansas

New York City, New York New York City, New York
Berkeley, Califomia

Port Chester.

New York

323