"Delacroix's art speaks of extravagance, passion, violence, excess; yet his life was that of a self-defended man who feared passion and valued above all tranquillity, hoping and believing that man was 'destined one day to find out that calm stands above all else.' He qualified as a dandy, not by outer garb but by inner superiority of spirit . . . He was the most glamorous artistic personality since Rubens but he was also of a fastidious and somewhat miserly temperament, and recluse and an ascetic in everything but his pictorial imagination. . . . He also disliked the way those took his side 'enlisted me, whether I would or no, in the romantic coterie'. . . He judged man an 'ignoble and horrible animal,' whose natural condition was mediocrity. He thought truth existed only among superior individuals, not among the masses." (From Julian Barnes, "Cold Courtesies," TLS, May 7, 2010)
The huge popularity of the Raft of Medusa (1819) by his friend Gericault, showed him, Delacroix, which way the cultural wind was blowing: what the monied classes of the upper bourgeoisie wanted was passion, action, color, flesh, nudity, in exotic settings if possible, death and sex. And that's what he, Delacroix, and others, would give them.
It may be useful to think of romanticism as a product deliberately served up to satisfy the appetites and longings of a new bourgeois audience, sufficiently well educated and well-to-do, to buy books and pictures, or copies of pictures, and attend exhibitions. The artists, as they always have, more or less despised their patrons. And so it became fashionable, in literary and intellectual circles to despise the bourgeoisie who tended to be politically reactionary and religiously conservative. And there was a lot to fight about: the political feuds and vendettas inspired or released by the Revolution, and Bonaparte, and defeat, kept the political pot boiling not only in France but the rest of Europe, throughout the 19th century.
Works of pure (and impure) art have a way leaking into the attitudes, expectations and feelings that people have about life—their own and those of others. Romantic attitudes and expectations are almost by definition unrealistic, fantasies. That's what the medieval romances were all about. (Whatever happened to the wretched survivors of the Medusa, clinging to their raft, they didn't look like the people in Gericault's fantasy.) Don Quixote is the first novel about a man who confuses fiction and reality; Madame Bovary is the second. Don Quixote's fantasies ennoble him, raising him above the gross realities of ordinary life, for the books he reads so avidly contain and impose on him a high, chivalrous calling; the trashy novels that Emma Bovary secretly devours at the convent where she is supposedly being educated almost literally demoralize her. She is the first casualty, perhaps, of the modern mass media: poisoned by clichés.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Friday, April 23, 2010
How to read a poem
Here are two poems about people who inhabit or prefer the solitude of "untrodden" ways but differ in so many other ways as to be virtually incomparable—yet both poems are undeniably 'romantic' in some sense yet to be determined. I am not going to tell you who wrote these poems because that's information that you don't need to know; the biographies of these poets—and of most poets if they are any good—is irrelevant to their poems. Everything you need to know in order to read poems such as these intelligently is contained in the poetry—words, meter, rhyme, grammar, syntax. But of course you have to know what the words mean and how they are being used.
1
She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove.
A maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love;
A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from eye!
—Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me!
Let us begin with the first of these, #1, about a young woman, or "maid," who leads a life of nearly absolute seclusion without family or neighbors (or even a house for all we know), praised by none, loved by few—and is not even given a name, 'Lucy,' until she dies—or rather ceases "to be," as if the verb 'die' were almost too active for such a passive existence as hers: so passive indeed, so secluded or cut off from human contact that the poem compares her to a violet by a mossy stone or a single star implying that she'd be lost or indistinguishable in any group whatsoever. Strangest of all, in this very strange poem, is the vague, muted anguish of the poet at the thought of Lucy in her grave: "But Lucy is in her grave, and, oh, the difference to me." That "but" is intended, with but partial success, to enforce the contrast between the indifference of those who have nothing good to say about Lucy—and the few who love her—and the anguish of the poet who not only knew her but knows of her death: well, what difference has the death of Lucy made in the life of the poet? Not much, it would seem, despite his best efforts. Neither the life nor the death of Lucy, of whom we know so little, is of much consequence in this world—and that, it seems to me, is the point, or even the sting in the tail, of this poem. For most of the people in this world—and here I step outside the poem—lead lives not so very different in their anonymity from Lucy's. Whether this is a point that the poet intended to make is uncertain.
1
She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove.
A maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love;
A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from eye!
—Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me!
Let us begin with the first of these, #1, about a young woman, or "maid," who leads a life of nearly absolute seclusion without family or neighbors (or even a house for all we know), praised by none, loved by few—and is not even given a name, 'Lucy,' until she dies—or rather ceases "to be," as if the verb 'die' were almost too active for such a passive existence as hers: so passive indeed, so secluded or cut off from human contact that the poem compares her to a violet by a mossy stone or a single star implying that she'd be lost or indistinguishable in any group whatsoever. Strangest of all, in this very strange poem, is the vague, muted anguish of the poet at the thought of Lucy in her grave: "But Lucy is in her grave, and, oh, the difference to me." That "but" is intended, with but partial success, to enforce the contrast between the indifference of those who have nothing good to say about Lucy—and the few who love her—and the anguish of the poet who not only knew her but knows of her death: well, what difference has the death of Lucy made in the life of the poet? Not much, it would seem, despite his best efforts. Neither the life nor the death of Lucy, of whom we know so little, is of much consequence in this world—and that, it seems to me, is the point, or even the sting in the tail, of this poem. For most of the people in this world—and here I step outside the poem—lead lives not so very different in their anonymity from Lucy's. Whether this is a point that the poet intended to make is uncertain.
2
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence;
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
This second poem plays a trick on the reader at the same time that the poet is making fun of himself, and most of Frost's readers are taken in.
Two identical roads diverged in a yellow wood. The poem insists more than once that these roads were really about the same. The fact that one is chosen instead of the other is an accident, pure chance.
But the poet knows himself pretty well and he knows something about human nature: he knows that people will always try to find meaning in their lives even if they have to make it up. We all need to think well of ourselves and we will. The poet knows how he will tell this story in the future, that he will romanticize himself, as a loner who goes his own way, takes chances, lives life on his own terms. That's how autobiographies are written. "I shall be telling this with a sigh," he says knowing that he will do so with melodramatic intent—you can hear it in that repetition of "I", which, not irrelevantly, rhymes with "lie," which is not what he is doing exactly; it's just that he is not quite telling the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth which is that there was absolutely nothing to distinguish the one road from the other.
Most lives are lived almost randomly, especially when we are young. We don't know what we're doing most of the time; it is only later, looking back on our lives, that we lay claims to wisdom. See, it all made sense we say, though of course none of it did at the time.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Romantic Solitude
Consider this well-known poem by William Wordsworth:
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden daffodils,
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee;
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company;
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils. 1813
The poet is alone but no more lonely than a cloud and no less aimless. He is not looking for anyone or anything nor is he trying get anywhere or do anything. He's got nothing on his mind, including poetry, and no expectations. The daffodils, when he first sees them, "all at once," are just that, daffodils, lots of them, crowds of them. But then, as memory quickens, he elaborates: there are thousands of these flowers, in a continuous band, like the stars "on" the milky way; he begins to think of them as a crowd of people, dancing. (Though, if he had actually come upon a bunch of people there, along the shore of the lake, he'd have been mightily displeased.)
Throughout the poem—or at least until the last line—the poet gives the appearance of being entirely passive, even in his gaiety—which he seems to catch from the daffodils as if it were an infection: avoiding the more active first-person pronoun, he concedes dourly that "a poet could not but be gay" in such company. And, though his mind is actively taking notes on this "show," he is unaware of what it is doing: "I gazed—and gazed—but little thought what wealth the show to me had brought: for . . ." That "for" tells us, though, that unlike the first two stanzas, each of which comes to a full stop, the third will continue on into the fourth with what will turn out to be a very deep thought indeed.
This is a poem about solitude, which does not just mean 'alone' simply but absolutely alone, a possibility which no one had ever, or rarely, considered before; heretofore, one had always known that he or she was in the presence of God, if no one else. [Foot Note: When, in 1829, the Quakers of Pennsylvania began experimenting with enforced solitude—solitary confinement—as a method of spiritual reformation, it soon became clear, to some observers at least, that instead of forcing the inmates of those penitentiaries, so called, to become closer to God, they were driving them mad.]
It is also a poem about imagination which, as the poem makes clear, also works in mysterious ways; this power or faculty is not subject to the control of the rational mind. One can lament the absence or loss of this creative power [so called: notice that one can also 'create' a nuisance or a disaster] as Coleridge does in his "Dejection" Ode, but that's all. And that is Wordsworth's point: he gives as little thought to the memories that "flash upon" his inward eye as he does to the act of remembering them in the first place: he does not consciously try to summon them, but when they come unbidden, they are fully engaging and he becomes fully engaged in the experience: "And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils."). Such, for a romantic poet, when everything falls into place, is the bliss of solitude.
I should note, in passing, that no one much before 1800 had had anything good to say about the imagination (or, indeed much to say about it in any case) as anything but a source of illusions, delusions or madness.
Two years before Wordsworth wrote his first draft of this poem, his sister, Dorothy, had written the following description of [these same?] daffodils in her journal of April 15, 1802:
"When we were in the woods beyond Gowbarrow Park we saw a few daffodils close the water-side. We fancied that the lake had floated the seeds ashore, and that the little colony has so sprung up. But as we went along there were more and yet more; and at last, under the boughs of the trees, we saw that there was a long belt of them along the shore, about the breadth of a country turnpike road. I never saw daffodils so beautiful. They grew among the mossy stones about and about them; some rested their heads upon these stones as on a pillow for weariness; and the rest tossed and reeled and danced, and seemed as if they verily laughed with the wind, that flew upon them over the lake; they looked so gay, ever glancing, ever changing. This wind blew directly over the Lake to them. There was here and there a little knot, and a few stragglers a few yards higher up; but they were so few as not to disturb the simplicity, unity, and life of that one busy highway."
Should we conclude that when Wordsworth wrote this poem, he was not describing things in themselves—daffodils in the wild— but an already fully-formed work of art? Does it matter? Why? Or, if not, why not?
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Shakespeare and Tragedy
Of the origins of tragedy, little is known beyond the fact that it played an important role in the rites devoted to the worship of the god Dionysius in ancient (6th century BC) Greece; the word itself means "a goat tale." The plays now known to us as tragedies (a tiny fraction of what once existed) were performed in the fifth century BC in Athens, in the theater of Dionysius. Whatever else we know comes from the few plays that survive, and from Aristotle's Poetics, written in the 4th century BC.
Aristotle's comments on tragedy are highly abstract and on some points obscure but useful nonetheless: "Tragedy," he says, "is a representation of a serious, complete action which has magnitude, in embellished speech . . . represented by people acting and not by narration; and accomplishing by means of pity and terror the catharsis of such emotions." By "embellished speech" he means "that which has rhythm and melody, i.e. song. . . Key elements of the plot are reversals, recognition and suffering. The best plot should be complex. It should imitate actions arousing horror, fear and pity. . . . It is much better if a tragical accident occurs because of a mistake the hero makes instead of things that might happen anyway . . . . A hero may have made it knowingly as in Medea or unknowingly as in Oedipus."
In other words, tragedy does not concern itself with the random or accidental events or crimes that one might read about in a newspaper. It is a performance or representation, in poetry or song (spoken or sung by actors, on a stage of some sort, in a theater) of the consequences of some choice or mistake. Aristotle does allow for the possibility of unintentional choices—of choices made, in effect, by a failure to choose—and he gives Oedipus as an example. But Oedipus, who tries to avoid the fate that has been prophetically fastened on him, that he would kill his father and marry his mother, but walks into it anyway, the victim of some divine prank, neither chooses nor fails to choose this fate; it is out of his hands.
How much of this would Shakespeare have known when he began writing plays in the 1590s? Aristotle's works were available in Latin translations, which he read easily. More to the point, what were the prevailing assumptions about tragedy in the theaters of that time? Simple: tragedies are sad stories about the fall of kings, as Shakespeare's Richard II says in the play of that name. But Shakespeare's tragedies are not simple tales about the fall of great men or women; nor can they be made to fit Aristotle's prescriptions. Aside from Macbeth, who makes a bad choice and knows it long before it catches up with him, the choices that matter in Shakespeare's tragedies are the choices we don't know we are making. You know how it goes: you wake up one day to find yourself in a corner that you've unintentionally painted yourself into. Shakespeare's other tragedies are about the muddles and confusions that people unintentionally and for the most part innocently get themselves into. "What's in a name?" asks Juliet innocently; "a rose by any other name would smell as sweet." But names matter in human societies, which have histories which can't be ignored. Hamlet, averse to acting, politically or theatrically, thinks—innocently—that he can escape from a world of hypocritical seeming by just being his simple, ironical self; and ruins everything. Lear, Othello, Coriolanus, innocents all, ask the wrong questions and, totally muddled, corner and destroy themselves; Lear and Othello, like Hamlet, manage to destroy the people they love as well. Coriolanus comes to his senses in time to avoid that fate.
Aristotle's comments on tragedy are highly abstract and on some points obscure but useful nonetheless: "Tragedy," he says, "is a representation of a serious, complete action which has magnitude, in embellished speech . . . represented by people acting and not by narration; and accomplishing by means of pity and terror the catharsis of such emotions." By "embellished speech" he means "that which has rhythm and melody, i.e. song. . . Key elements of the plot are reversals, recognition and suffering. The best plot should be complex. It should imitate actions arousing horror, fear and pity. . . . It is much better if a tragical accident occurs because of a mistake the hero makes instead of things that might happen anyway . . . . A hero may have made it knowingly as in Medea or unknowingly as in Oedipus."
In other words, tragedy does not concern itself with the random or accidental events or crimes that one might read about in a newspaper. It is a performance or representation, in poetry or song (spoken or sung by actors, on a stage of some sort, in a theater) of the consequences of some choice or mistake. Aristotle does allow for the possibility of unintentional choices—of choices made, in effect, by a failure to choose—and he gives Oedipus as an example. But Oedipus, who tries to avoid the fate that has been prophetically fastened on him, that he would kill his father and marry his mother, but walks into it anyway, the victim of some divine prank, neither chooses nor fails to choose this fate; it is out of his hands.
How much of this would Shakespeare have known when he began writing plays in the 1590s? Aristotle's works were available in Latin translations, which he read easily. More to the point, what were the prevailing assumptions about tragedy in the theaters of that time? Simple: tragedies are sad stories about the fall of kings, as Shakespeare's Richard II says in the play of that name. But Shakespeare's tragedies are not simple tales about the fall of great men or women; nor can they be made to fit Aristotle's prescriptions. Aside from Macbeth, who makes a bad choice and knows it long before it catches up with him, the choices that matter in Shakespeare's tragedies are the choices we don't know we are making. You know how it goes: you wake up one day to find yourself in a corner that you've unintentionally painted yourself into. Shakespeare's other tragedies are about the muddles and confusions that people unintentionally and for the most part innocently get themselves into. "What's in a name?" asks Juliet innocently; "a rose by any other name would smell as sweet." But names matter in human societies, which have histories which can't be ignored. Hamlet, averse to acting, politically or theatrically, thinks—innocently—that he can escape from a world of hypocritical seeming by just being his simple, ironical self; and ruins everything. Lear, Othello, Coriolanus, innocents all, ask the wrong questions and, totally muddled, corner and destroy themselves; Lear and Othello, like Hamlet, manage to destroy the people they love as well. Coriolanus comes to his senses in time to avoid that fate.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Discrediting the Object: Modernism and Modernity
Vasily Kandinsky, seeing Claude Monet's "The Haystack" at an exhibition of French Impressionists in Moscow in 1896 said that this event "stamped my whole life and shook me to the depth of my being." What especially captivated Kandinsky was Monet's "discrediting of the object as an essential element within the picture." [I quote from Rachel Polonsky's richly informative review of Russian and Soviet Views of Modern Western Art in this week's edition of TLS (2-26-10)]
This phrase, "discrediting the object" aptly describes not only huge tracts of modern and modernist art but accounts for the fear and loathing it aroused in conservative or official minds. If the authority of the object is discredited, what's next? Impressionism set the alarm bells ringing in the 1880s and 90s and I'm not sure they have ever really stopped. A Russian critic writing in the 1890s about the "frightening" new art from the west said it seemed to be "penetrating secret and very dangerous places," another thought he saw the devil at work, another the "fruit of demonic possession." The totalitarian regimes of the 20th century were especially hostile to anything that might seem to discredit the authority of the state on any subject whatever. Democratic states on the other hand, which make no claims to omniscience, give a shrug of indifference: art, like religion, is of none of their business. So what if the authority of the object is being discredited? Objects don't have authority.
This phrase, "discrediting the object" aptly describes not only huge tracts of modern and modernist art but accounts for the fear and loathing it aroused in conservative or official minds. If the authority of the object is discredited, what's next? Impressionism set the alarm bells ringing in the 1880s and 90s and I'm not sure they have ever really stopped. A Russian critic writing in the 1890s about the "frightening" new art from the west said it seemed to be "penetrating secret and very dangerous places," another thought he saw the devil at work, another the "fruit of demonic possession." The totalitarian regimes of the 20th century were especially hostile to anything that might seem to discredit the authority of the state on any subject whatever. Democratic states on the other hand, which make no claims to omniscience, give a shrug of indifference: art, like religion, is of none of their business. So what if the authority of the object is being discredited? Objects don't have authority.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Tolstoy's War And Peace: Some Observations
I think it was Henry James who referred to Russian novels as great, loose, baggy monsters, and surely War And Peace is the biggest, loosest, baggiest of them all. Everything Tolstoy feels, knows or thinks he knows gets crammed into it. Please don't misunderstand me. War And Peace is certainly a wonderful book; but Tolstoy can also be very tiresome. For example he is fascinated by philosophies of history, as well he might for he is writing about a fateful moment in European as well as Russian history: Napoleon Bonaparte's misguided invasion of 1812, which cut his greatness and glory down to size and enhanced the power of Russia. But Tolstoy is not satisfied with being the painter of this epic tale; he considers himself a philosopher who can not only paint a picture but explain the historical laws that give this picture its particular form or structure. This is a subject that he never lets up on in the later parts of the novel. Yet for all his deep meditations on History, history itself eludes him. Though Napoleon is a character in his novel, Tolstoy makes no effort to understand either him or the great war (the first world war) for control of Europe which finally reaches Moscow.
There is something else that irks me: Tolstoy's use of his hero Pierre, Count Bezhukov, as his religious messenger.
Pierre, a gentle, good-natured, giant of a man, goes through life—or as much of his life as we are shown—passively, in a moral and intellectual fog. He marries a beautiful, empty, immoral woman whom he despises because he allows himself to be trapped into thinking that it's expected of him. And that's how it goes for him. He is a spiritual drifter. He drifts into Masonry and drifts into agricultural reform but is too incompetent as well passive and naive to get anything done that might have a chance of improving the lives of the serfs on his vast estates.
As the French army approaches Moscow, he drifts down to see what's going on and wanders onto the field of battle at Borodino—and finds himself at the critical point where all of Napoleon's artillery is aimed. Men are being smashed by cannon balls all round him but he is hardly aware of it. When the city of Moscow is being abandoned, he remains behind. Why? He has no idea. As the city burns, he saves a child from the flames and is captured by French soldiers who think he has been setting fires. He is sent off to be shot along with others but the firing squad quits work—for no particular reason— just before it gets to him. He is cooped up in a shed with a bunch of other prisoners and when the French army abandons Moscow, the prisoners are forced to set off also. Most of them die on the march but Pierre is so big and strong that cold and starvation don't seriously sicken him. Indeed, for the first time in his life he is happy: "In captivity, in the shed, Pierre had learned, not with his mind, but with his whole being, his life, that man is created for happiness, that happiness is within him, in the satisfying of natural human needs, and that all unhappiness comes not from lack, but from superfluity [Pierre is a very rich man]; but now, in these last three weeks of the march, he had learned a new and more comforting truth—he had learned that there is nothing frightening in the world. He had learned that, as there is no situation in the world in which a man can be happy and perfectly free, so there is no situation in which he can be unhappy and unfree. He had learned that there is a limit to suffering and limit to freedom . . ." And so on. And a little later, after he has been rescued from this death march and is recovering, he feels again this same "joyful feeling of freedom—that full, inalienable freedom proper to a human being . . . He was astonished at how this inner freedom, independent of external circumstances, was now as if surrounded by the superfluity, the luxury of external freedom as well . . . . 'Ah, good! How nice,' he said to himself,' when they moved a laid table up to him with clean linen and fragrant broth, or when in the evening he lay down on the soft clean bed, or when he remembered that his wife and the French were no more. . . . That which he had been tormented by before, which he had constantly sought, the purpose of life—now did not exist for him. . . . He could have no purpose, because he now had faith—not faith in some rules, or words, or thoughts but faith in a living, ever sensed God. Before he had sought for Him in the purposes he set for himself. This seeking for a purpose had only been a seeking for God . . . ."
So Pierre, the spiritual drifter, discovers God; it is a gift bestowed willfully and gratuitously by Tolstoy himself, as narrator, because he would have it so. Pierre's opposite, Prince Andrei, an active, intelligent, supremely accomplished man, is forced to die twice, virtually, so Tolstoy can tell us, twice, how much he has learned to love death. These are the devices writers use when they wish to be sure their readers get the point.
For the most part, though, no one learns anything and in this respect War And Peace resembles Flaubert's far more accomplished work of art, Sentimental Education, which was being written at about the same time (the 1860s). Frederick Moreau, the hero (if that's the word) of Flaubert's novel, is a fool and a knave as one gradually learns partly because he isn't sufficiently intelligent or adventurous to be anything else, but also because post-Napoleonic France never became a society open to talents. For fifteen years, Bonaparte had drained France of men—at the rate of 50,000/yr. for 15 years— and money and horses, in the pursuit of glory and had left no lasting liberal or constitutional legacy. The bourgeoisie closed in on itself and became reactionary. A young man had to have important connections if he wanted to make his way. Corruption became a way of life. Here's what Vautrin, the arch-criminal, has to say in Balzac's Pere Goriot: "Do you know what an honest man is? Here, in Paris, an honest man is the man who keeps his own counsel and will not divide the plunder. I am not speaking now of those poor bond-slaves who do the work of the world without a reward for their toil—God Almighty's outcasts, I call them. Among them, I grant you, is virtue in all the flower of its stupidity, but poverty is no less their portion. At this moment, I think I see the long faces those good folk would pull if God played a practical joke on them and stayed away from the Last Judgement.
Well, then, if you mean to make a fortune quickly, you must either be rich, or make people believe you are rich. It is no use playing here except for high stakes; once take to low stakes, it is all up with you . . . you can draw your own conclusions. Such is life. It is no cleaner than a kitchen; it reeks like a kitchen; and if you mean to cook your own dinner, you must expect to soil your hands; the real art is getting them clean again, and therein lies the whole morality of our epoch. If I take this tone with you in speaking of the world to you, I have the right to do so; I know it well. Do you think I am blaming it? Far from it; the world has always been as it is now. Moralists' strictures will never change. Mankind are not perfect, but one age is more or less hypocritical than another . . .I do not think that the rich are any worse than the poor. In a million of these human cattle there may be half a score of bold spirits who rise above the rest; I am one of them. And you, if you are cleverer than your fellows, make straight to your end, and hold your head high. But you must lay your account with envy and slander and mediocrity, and every man's hand will be against you." This pretty well describes the moral world that Balzac's
characters take for granted.
War and Peace shows us a society so bored, boring and out of touch with ordinary people—the upper classes speak French in preference to Russian which they regard as a barbaric language— that the young men escape to the battlefields as soon as they can, secretly longing to become Napoleons on their own. Though it is hard to imagine what Bonaparte would have done with Russia, had he managed to conquer it, it might have been a good thing if had. Thirty years later, nothing had changed, according to Chekov, who shows us in his plays a Russia whose ruling class has lost the capacity for managing its own affairs, let alone those of the nation.
There is something else that irks me: Tolstoy's use of his hero Pierre, Count Bezhukov, as his religious messenger.
Pierre, a gentle, good-natured, giant of a man, goes through life—or as much of his life as we are shown—passively, in a moral and intellectual fog. He marries a beautiful, empty, immoral woman whom he despises because he allows himself to be trapped into thinking that it's expected of him. And that's how it goes for him. He is a spiritual drifter. He drifts into Masonry and drifts into agricultural reform but is too incompetent as well passive and naive to get anything done that might have a chance of improving the lives of the serfs on his vast estates.
As the French army approaches Moscow, he drifts down to see what's going on and wanders onto the field of battle at Borodino—and finds himself at the critical point where all of Napoleon's artillery is aimed. Men are being smashed by cannon balls all round him but he is hardly aware of it. When the city of Moscow is being abandoned, he remains behind. Why? He has no idea. As the city burns, he saves a child from the flames and is captured by French soldiers who think he has been setting fires. He is sent off to be shot along with others but the firing squad quits work—for no particular reason— just before it gets to him. He is cooped up in a shed with a bunch of other prisoners and when the French army abandons Moscow, the prisoners are forced to set off also. Most of them die on the march but Pierre is so big and strong that cold and starvation don't seriously sicken him. Indeed, for the first time in his life he is happy: "In captivity, in the shed, Pierre had learned, not with his mind, but with his whole being, his life, that man is created for happiness, that happiness is within him, in the satisfying of natural human needs, and that all unhappiness comes not from lack, but from superfluity [Pierre is a very rich man]; but now, in these last three weeks of the march, he had learned a new and more comforting truth—he had learned that there is nothing frightening in the world. He had learned that, as there is no situation in the world in which a man can be happy and perfectly free, so there is no situation in which he can be unhappy and unfree. He had learned that there is a limit to suffering and limit to freedom . . ." And so on. And a little later, after he has been rescued from this death march and is recovering, he feels again this same "joyful feeling of freedom—that full, inalienable freedom proper to a human being . . . He was astonished at how this inner freedom, independent of external circumstances, was now as if surrounded by the superfluity, the luxury of external freedom as well . . . . 'Ah, good! How nice,' he said to himself,' when they moved a laid table up to him with clean linen and fragrant broth, or when in the evening he lay down on the soft clean bed, or when he remembered that his wife and the French were no more. . . . That which he had been tormented by before, which he had constantly sought, the purpose of life—now did not exist for him. . . . He could have no purpose, because he now had faith—not faith in some rules, or words, or thoughts but faith in a living, ever sensed God. Before he had sought for Him in the purposes he set for himself. This seeking for a purpose had only been a seeking for God . . . ."
So Pierre, the spiritual drifter, discovers God; it is a gift bestowed willfully and gratuitously by Tolstoy himself, as narrator, because he would have it so. Pierre's opposite, Prince Andrei, an active, intelligent, supremely accomplished man, is forced to die twice, virtually, so Tolstoy can tell us, twice, how much he has learned to love death. These are the devices writers use when they wish to be sure their readers get the point.
For the most part, though, no one learns anything and in this respect War And Peace resembles Flaubert's far more accomplished work of art, Sentimental Education, which was being written at about the same time (the 1860s). Frederick Moreau, the hero (if that's the word) of Flaubert's novel, is a fool and a knave as one gradually learns partly because he isn't sufficiently intelligent or adventurous to be anything else, but also because post-Napoleonic France never became a society open to talents. For fifteen years, Bonaparte had drained France of men—at the rate of 50,000/yr. for 15 years— and money and horses, in the pursuit of glory and had left no lasting liberal or constitutional legacy. The bourgeoisie closed in on itself and became reactionary. A young man had to have important connections if he wanted to make his way. Corruption became a way of life. Here's what Vautrin, the arch-criminal, has to say in Balzac's Pere Goriot: "Do you know what an honest man is? Here, in Paris, an honest man is the man who keeps his own counsel and will not divide the plunder. I am not speaking now of those poor bond-slaves who do the work of the world without a reward for their toil—God Almighty's outcasts, I call them. Among them, I grant you, is virtue in all the flower of its stupidity, but poverty is no less their portion. At this moment, I think I see the long faces those good folk would pull if God played a practical joke on them and stayed away from the Last Judgement.
Well, then, if you mean to make a fortune quickly, you must either be rich, or make people believe you are rich. It is no use playing here except for high stakes; once take to low stakes, it is all up with you . . . you can draw your own conclusions. Such is life. It is no cleaner than a kitchen; it reeks like a kitchen; and if you mean to cook your own dinner, you must expect to soil your hands; the real art is getting them clean again, and therein lies the whole morality of our epoch. If I take this tone with you in speaking of the world to you, I have the right to do so; I know it well. Do you think I am blaming it? Far from it; the world has always been as it is now. Moralists' strictures will never change. Mankind are not perfect, but one age is more or less hypocritical than another . . .I do not think that the rich are any worse than the poor. In a million of these human cattle there may be half a score of bold spirits who rise above the rest; I am one of them. And you, if you are cleverer than your fellows, make straight to your end, and hold your head high. But you must lay your account with envy and slander and mediocrity, and every man's hand will be against you." This pretty well describes the moral world that Balzac's
characters take for granted.
War and Peace shows us a society so bored, boring and out of touch with ordinary people—the upper classes speak French in preference to Russian which they regard as a barbaric language— that the young men escape to the battlefields as soon as they can, secretly longing to become Napoleons on their own. Though it is hard to imagine what Bonaparte would have done with Russia, had he managed to conquer it, it might have been a good thing if had. Thirty years later, nothing had changed, according to Chekov, who shows us in his plays a Russia whose ruling class has lost the capacity for managing its own affairs, let alone those of the nation.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Paradise Lost 4: Milton and Galileo
Satan is the father of lies, and here is a famous one which is often quoted but rarely attributed to him: "Farewel happy fields where Joy for ever dwells," he says, as he and his followers are trying to pull themselves together after their long fall, "Hail horrors, hail/ Infernal world, and thou profoundest Hell/ Receive thy new Possessor: One who brings/ A mind not to be chang'd by Place or Time./ The mind is its own place, and in itself/ Can make a Heav'n of Hell, a hell of Heav'n." Try telling that to someone who's being eaten by a bear or stung by thousands of bees. But we already know that Hell has no location in space and time, that it is not a place at the center of earth but a condition: "bottomless perdition."
Earth, however, has a definite place at the center of the universe which is where it should be as the 'theatre' where the divine comedy of sin and salvation is to be acted out. And indeed everything that Milton says about the cosmology of this universe would lead you to assume that the earth is at the center and that the sun, moon and planets revolve about it. The trouble is, he had met Galileo, seen his telescope, and he knew that Copernicus had got it right—as did most educated people in the 17th century. What to do. How do you justify the ways of God to man if this world is only one of many possible worlds and no where near the center of the universe if it even has one? Well, you go ahead and use the traditional cosmology as the framework for your poem while making a small gesture of acknowledgement to the man who invented modern astronomy and was the first to show how the motion of objects in uniform acceleration can be mathematically described.
As Satan is climbing out of the sea of "burning sulphur unconsumed", the "oblivious pool" where all his associates and copartners still lie "astonished," "groveling and prostrate," he turns his back on which is tied his "ponderous shield" of "ethereal temper, massy, large and round," so that we may see it:
the broad circumference
Hung on his shoulders like the Moon, whose Orb
Through Optic Glass the Tuscan artist views
At Ev'ning from the top of Fesole,
Or in Valdarno, to descry new Lands,
Rivers or Mountains in her spotty globe.
That Tuscan artist with his optic glass can only be Galileo, the only contemporary (approximate: he died in 1642), non-mythical human being that Milton ever refers to in this huge poem.
Earth, however, has a definite place at the center of the universe which is where it should be as the 'theatre' where the divine comedy of sin and salvation is to be acted out. And indeed everything that Milton says about the cosmology of this universe would lead you to assume that the earth is at the center and that the sun, moon and planets revolve about it. The trouble is, he had met Galileo, seen his telescope, and he knew that Copernicus had got it right—as did most educated people in the 17th century. What to do. How do you justify the ways of God to man if this world is only one of many possible worlds and no where near the center of the universe if it even has one? Well, you go ahead and use the traditional cosmology as the framework for your poem while making a small gesture of acknowledgement to the man who invented modern astronomy and was the first to show how the motion of objects in uniform acceleration can be mathematically described.
As Satan is climbing out of the sea of "burning sulphur unconsumed", the "oblivious pool" where all his associates and copartners still lie "astonished," "groveling and prostrate," he turns his back on which is tied his "ponderous shield" of "ethereal temper, massy, large and round," so that we may see it:
the broad circumference
Hung on his shoulders like the Moon, whose Orb
Through Optic Glass the Tuscan artist views
At Ev'ning from the top of Fesole,
Or in Valdarno, to descry new Lands,
Rivers or Mountains in her spotty globe.
That Tuscan artist with his optic glass can only be Galileo, the only contemporary (approximate: he died in 1642), non-mythical human being that Milton ever refers to in this huge poem.
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