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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/78306-0.txt b/78306-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..936cdaa --- /dev/null +++ b/78306-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1529 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78306 *** + + SCIENCE + AND + POETRY + + by + I. A. RICHARDS + + _Fellow of Magdalene College, Cambridge. + Author of “Principles of Literary Criticism.”_ + + + KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH, TRUBNER & Co. Ltd. + Broadway House; 68-74 Carter Lane, London, E.C. + + + _Printed in Great Britain by_ + R. I. SEVERS, CAMBRIDGE. + + + + + CONTENTS + + + PAGE + I. The General Situation 1 + + II. The Poetic Experience 7 + + III. What is Valuable 28 + + IV. The Command of Life 38 + + V. The Neutralization of Nature 43 + + VI. Poetry and Beliefs 55 + + VII. Some Contemporary Poets 68 + + [Footnotes] + + [Transcriber’s Note] + + + + + _The future of poetry is immense, because in poetry, + where it is worthy of its high destinies, our race, + as time goes on, will find an ever surer and surer + stay. There is not a creed which is not shaken, not an + accredited dogma which is not shown to be questionable, + not a received tradition which does not threaten to + dissolve. Our religion has materialised itself in the + fact, in the supposed fact; it has attached its emotion + to the fact, and now the fact is failing it. But for + poetry the idea is everything._--Matthew Arnold. + + + + +I. The General Situation + + +Man’s prospects are not at present so rosy that he can neglect any +means of improving them. He has recently made a number of changes +in his customs and ways of life, partly with intention, partly by +accident. These changes are involving such widespread further changes +that the fairly near future is likely to see an almost complete +reorganization of our lives, in their intimate aspects as much as in +their public. Man himself is changing, together with his circumstances; +he has changed in the past, it is true, but never perhaps so swiftly. +His circumstances are not known to have ever changed so much or so +suddenly before, with psychological as well as with economic, social +and political dangers. This suddenness threatens us. Some parts of +human nature resist change more than others. We risk disaster, if some +of our customs change, while others which should change with them stay +as they are. + +Habits that have endured for many thousands of years are not easy to +throw off--least of all when they are habits of thought, and when they +do not come into open conflict with changing circumstances, or do not +clearly involve us in loss or inconvenience. Yet the loss may be great +without our knowing anything about it. Before 1590 no one knew how +inconvenient were our natural habits of thought about the ways in which +a stone may fall; yet the modern world began when Galileo discovered +what really happens. Only persons thought to be crazy knew before 1800 +that ordinary traditional ideas as to cleanliness are dangerously +inadequate. The infant’s average ‘expectation of life’ has increased by +about 30 years since Lister upset them. Nobody before Sir Ronald Ross +knew what were the consequences of thinking about malaria in terms of +influences and miasmas instead of in terms of mosquitoes. The Roman +Empire might perhaps have still been flourishing if someone had found +this out before A.D. 100. + +With such examples all about us we can no longer, in any department +of life, so easily accept what was good enough for our fathers as good +enough for ourselves, or for our children. We are forced to wonder +whether our ideas, even upon subjects apparently of little practical +importance, such as poetry, may not be dangerously inadequate. It +becomes indeed somewhat alarming to recognize, as we must, that our +habits of thought remain, as regards most of our affairs much as +they were 5,000 years ago. The Sciences are, of course, simply the +exceptions to this rule. Outside the Sciences--and the greater part of +our thinking still goes on outside the Sciences--we think very much +as our ancestors thought a hundred or two hundred generations ago. +Certainly this is so as regards official views about poetry. Is it not +possible that these are wrong, as wrong as most ideas of an equally +hoary antiquity? Is it not possible that to the men of the future our +life to-day will seem a continual, ceaseless disaster due only to our +own stupidity, to the nervelessness with which we accept and transmit +ideas which do not and never have applied to anything? + +_The average educated man is growing more conscious_, an +extraordinarily significant change. It is probably due to the fact +that his life is becoming more complex, more intricate, his desires +and needs more varied and more apt to conflict. And as he becomes +more conscious he can no longer be content to drift in unreflecting +obedience to custom. He is forced to reflect. And if reflection often +takes the form of inconclusive worrying, that is no more than might be +expected in view of the unparalleled difficulty of the task. To live +reasonably is much more difficult to-day than it was in Dr. Johnson’s +time, and even then, as Boswell shows, it was difficult enough. + +To live reasonably is not to live by reason alone--the mistake is easy, +and, if carried far, disastrous--but to live in a way of which reason, +a clear full sense of the whole situation, would approve. And the most +important part of the whole situation, as always, is ourselves, our +own psychological make-up. The more we learn about the physical world, +about our bodies, for example, the more points we find at which our +ordinary behaviour is out of accord with the facts, inapplicable, +wasteful, disadvantageous, dangerous or absurd. Witness our habit of +boiling our vegetables. We have still to learn how to feed ourselves +satisfactorily. Similarly, the little that is yet known about the mind +already shows that our ways of thinking and feeling about very many of +the things with which we concern ourselves are out of accord with the +facts. This is pre-eminently true of our ways of thinking and feeling +about poetry. We think and talk in terms of states of affairs which +have never existed. We attribute to ourselves and to things, powers +which neither we nor they possess. And equally we overlook or misuse +powers which are all important to us. + +Day by day, in recent years, man is getting more out of place in +Nature. Where he is going to he does not yet know, he has not yet +decided. As a consequence he finds life more and more bewildering, +more and more difficult to live coherently. Thus he turns to consider +himself, his own nature. For the first step towards a reasonable way of +life is a better understanding of human nature. + +It has long been recognized that if only something could be done in +psychology remotely comparable to what has been achieved in physics, +practical consequences might be expected even more remarkable than any +that the engineer can contrive. The first positive steps in the science +of the mind have been slow in coming, but already they are beginning to +change man’s whole outlook. + + + + +II. The Poetic Experience + + +Extraordinary claims have often been made for poetry--Matthew Arnold’s +words quoted at the head of this essay are an example--claims which +very many people are inclined to view with astonishment or with +the smile which tolerance gives to the enthusiast. Indeed a more +representative modern view would be that the future of poetry is +_nil_. Peacock’s conclusion in his _The Four Ages of Poetry_ finds a +more general acceptance. “A poet in our times is a semi-barbarian in a +civilized community. He lives in the days that are past ... In whatever +degree poetry is cultivated, it must necessarily be to the neglect of +some branch of useful study: and it is a lamentable thing to see minds, +capable of better things, running to seed in the specious indolence of +these empty aimless mockeries of intellectual exertion. Poetry was the +mental rattle that awakened the attention of intellect in the infancy +of civil society: but for the maturity of mind to make a serious +business of the playthings of its childhood, is as absurd as for a +grown man to rub his gums with coral, and cry to be charmed asleep by +the jingle of silver bells.” And with more regret many others--Keats +was among them--have thought that the inevitable effect of the advance +of science would be to destroy the possibility of poetry. + +What is the truth in this matter? How is our estimate of poetry going +to be affected by science? And how will poetry itself be influenced? +The extreme importance which has in the past been assigned to poetry +is a fact which must be accounted for whether we conclude that it was +rightly assigned or not, and whether we consider that poetry will +continue to be held in such esteem or not. It indicates that the case +for poetry, whether right or wrong, is one which turns on momentous +issues. We shall not have dealt adequately with it unless we have +raised questions of great significance. + +Very much toil has gone to the endeavour to explain the high place +of poetry in human affairs, with, on the whole, few satisfactory or +convincing results. This is not surprising. For in order to show how +poetry is important it is first necessary to discover to some extent +what it is. Until recently this preliminary task could only be very +incompletely carried out; the psychology of instinct and emotion was +too little advanced; and, moreover, the wild speculations natural +in pre-scientific enquiry definitely stood in the way. Neither the +professional psychologist, whose interest in poetry is frequently not +intense, nor the man of letters, who as a rule has no adequate ideas +of the mind as a whole, has been equipped for the investigation. Both +a passionate knowledge of poetry and a capacity for dispassionate +psychological analysis are required if it is to be satisfactorily +prosecuted. + +It will be best to begin by asking ‘What _kind of a thing_, in the +widest sense, is poetry?’ When we have answered this we shall be ready +to ask ‘How can we use and misuse it?’ and ‘What reasons are there for +thinking it valuable?’ + +Let us take an experience, ten minutes of a person’s life, and describe +it in broad outline. It is now possible to indicate its general +structure, to point out what is important in it, what trivial and +accessory, which features depend upon which, how it has arisen, and how +it is probably going to influence his future experience. There are, of +course, wide gaps in this description, none the less it _is_ at last +possible to understand in general how the mind works in an experience, +and what sort of stream of events the experience is. + +A poem, let us say Wordsworth’s _Westminster Bridge_ sonnet, is such +an experience, it is the experience the right kind of reader has when +he peruses the verses. And the first step to an understanding of the +place and future of poetry in human affairs is to see what the general +structure of such an experience is. Let us begin by reading it very +slowly, preferably aloud, giving every syllable time to make its full +effect upon us. And let us read it experimentally, repeating it, +varying our tone of voice until we are satisfied that we have caught +its rhythm as well as we are able, and--whether our reading is such as +to please other people or not--we ourselves at least are certain how it +should ‘go.’ + + Earth has not anything to show more fair: + Dull would he be of soul who could pass by + A sight so touching in its majesty: + This City now doth like a garment wear + The beauty of the morning: silent, bare, + Ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples lie + Open to the fields, and to the sky; + All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. + Never did sun more beautifully steep + In his first splendour valley, rock or hill; + Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! + The river glideth at its own sweet will: + Dear God! the very houses seem asleep + And all that mighty heart is lying still! + +We may best make our analysis of the experience that arises through +reading these lines from the surface inwards, to speak metaphorically. +The surface is the impression of the printed words on the retina. This +sets up an agitation which we must follow as it goes deeper and deeper. + +The first things to occur (if they do not, the rest of the experience +will be gravely inadequate) are the sound of the words ‘in the mind’s +ear’ and the feel of the words imaginarily spoken.[1] These together +give the _full body_, as it were, to the words, and it is with the +full bodies of words that the poet works, not with their printed +signs. But many people lose nearly everything in poetry through these +indispensable parts escaping them. + +Next arise various pictures ‘in the mind’s eye’; not of words but +of things for which the words stand; perhaps of ships, perhaps of +hills; and together with them, it may be, other images of various +sorts. Images of what it feels like to stand leaning on the parapet of +Westminster Bridge. Perhaps that odd thing, an image of ‘silence.’ But, +unlike the image-bodies of the words themselves, those other images of +things are not vitally important. Those who have them may very well +think them indispensable, and _for them_ they may be necessary; but +other people may not require them at all. This is a point at which +differences between individual minds are very marked. + +Thence onwards the agitation which is the experience divides into a +major and a minor branch, though the two streams have innumerable +interconnections and influence one another intimately. Indeed it is +only as an expositor’s artifice that we may speak of them as two +streams. + +The minor branch we may call the intellectual stream; the other, which +we may call the active, or emotional, stream, is made up of the play of +our interests. + +The intellectual stream is fairly easy to follow; it follows itself, so +to speak; but it is the less important of the two. In poetry it matters +only _as a means_; it directs and excites the active stream. It is made +up of thoughts, which are not static little entities that bob up into +consciousness and down again out of it, but fluent happenings, events, +which reflect or point to the things the thoughts are ‘of.’ Exactly how +they do this is a matter which is still much disputed. + +This pointing to or reflecting things is all that thoughts do. They +appear to do much more; which is our chief illusion. The realm of +thought is never a sovereign state. Our thoughts are the servants of +our interests, and even when they seem to rebel it is usually our +interests that are in disorder. Our thoughts are pointers and it is the +other, the active, stream which deals with the things which thoughts +reflect or point to. + +Some people who read verse (they do not often read much of it), are so +constituted that very little more happens than this intellectual stream +of thoughts. It is perhaps superfluous to point out that they miss the +real poem. To exaggerate this part of the experience, and give it too +much importance on its own account, is a notable current tendency, and +for many people explains why they do not read poetry. + +The active branch is what really matters; for from it all the energy +of the whole agitation comes. The thinking which goes on is somewhat +like the play of an ingenious and invaluable ‘governor’ run by but +controlling the main machine. Every experience is essentially some +interest or group of interests swinging back to rest. + +To understand what an interest is we should picture the mind as a +system of very delicately poised balances, a system which so long as +we are in health is constantly growing. Every situation we come into +disturbs some of these balances to some degree. The ways in which they +swing back to a new equipoise are the impulses with which we respond +to the situation. And the chief balances in the system are our chief +interests. + +Suppose that we carry a magnetic compass about in the neighbourhood +of powerful magnets. The needle waggles as we move and comes to rest +pointing in a new direction whenever we stand still in a new position. +Suppose that instead of a single compass we carry an arrangement of +many magnetic needles, large and small, swung so that they influence +one another, some able only to swing horizontally, others vertically, +others hung freely. As we move, the perturbations in this system will +be very complicated. But for every position in which we place it there +will be a final position of rest for all the needles into which they +will in the end settle down, a general poise for the whole system. But +even a slight displacement may set the whole assemblage of needles +busily readjusting themselves. + +One further complication. Suppose that while all the needles influence +one another, some of them respond only to some of the outer magnets +among which the system is moving. The reader can easily draw a diagram +if his imagination needs a visual support. + +The mind is not unlike such a system if we imagine it to be incredibly +complex. The needles are our interests, varying in their importance, +that is in the degree to which any movement they make involves +movement in the other needles. Each new disequilibrium, which a shift +of position, a fresh situation, entails, corresponds to a need; and +the wagglings which ensue as the system rearranges itself are our +responses, the impulses through which we seek to meet the need. Often +the new poise is not found until long after the original disturbance. +Thus states of strain can arise which last for years. + +The child comes into the world as a comparatively simple arrangement. +Few things affect him, comparatively speaking, and his responses also +are few and simple, but he very quickly becomes more complicated. His +recurrent needs for food and for various attentions are constantly +setting all his needles swinging. Little by little separate needs +become departmentalized as it were, sub-systems are formed; hunger +causes one set of responses, the sight of his toys another, loud +noises yet another, and so on. But the sub-systems never become quite +independent. So he grows up, becoming susceptible to ever more numerous +and more delicate influences. + +He grows more discriminating in some respects, he is thrown out of +equilibrium by slighter differences in his situation. In other respects +he becomes more stable. From time to time, through growth, fresh +interests develop, sex is the outstanding example. His needs increase, +he becomes capable of being upset by quite new causes, he becomes +responsive to quite new aspects of the situation. + +This development takes a very indirect course. It would be still more +erratic if society did not mould and remould him at every stage, +reorganising him incompletely two or three times over before he grows +up. He reaches maturity in the form of a vast assemblage of major and +minor interests, partly a chaos, partly a system, with some tracts of +his personality fully developed and free to respond, others tangled and +jammed in all kinds of accidental ways. It is this incredibly complex +assemblage of interests to which the printed poem has to appeal. +Sometimes the poem is itself the influence which disturbs us, sometimes +it is merely the means by which an already existing disturbance can +right itself. More usually perhaps it is both at once. + +We must picture then the stream of the poetic experience as the +swinging back into equilibrium of these disturbed interests. We are +reading the poem in the first place only because we are in some way +interested in doing so, only because some interest is attempting to +regain its poise thereby. And whatever happens as we read happens only +for a similar reason. We understand the words (the intellectual branch +of the stream goes on its way successfully) only because an interest +is reacting through that means, and all the rest of the experience is +equally but more evidently our adaptation working itself out. + +The rest of the experience is made up of emotions and attitudes. +Emotions are what the reaction, with its reverberation in bodily +changes, feels like. Attitudes are the impulses towards one kind of +behaviour or another which are set ready by the response. They are, as +it were, its outward going part.[2] Sometimes, as here in _Westminster +Bridge_, they are very easily overlooked. But consider a simpler +case--a fit of laughter which it is absolutely essential to conceal, +in Church or during a solemn interview, for example. You contrive not +to laugh; but there is no doubt about the activity of the impulses in +their restricted form. The much more subtle and elaborate impulses +which a poem excites are not different in principle. They do not show +themselves as a rule, they do not come out into the open, largely +because they are so complex. When they have adjusted themselves to one +another and become organized into a coherent whole, the needs concerned +may be satisfied. _In a fully developed man a state of readiness +for action will take the place of action when the full appropriate +situation for action is not present._ The essential peculiarity of +poetry as of all the arts is that the full appropriate situation is +_not_ present. It is an _actor_ we are seeing upon the stage, not +Hamlet. So readiness for action takes the place of actual behaviour. + +This is the main plan then of the experience. Signs on the retina, +taken up by sets of needs (remember how many other impressions all +day long remain entirely _unnoticed_ because no interest responds to +them); thence an elaborate agitation of impulses, one branch of which +is _thoughts of_ what the words mean, the other an emotional response +leading to the development of _attitudes_, preparations, that is, for +actions which may or may not take place; the two branches being in +intimate connection. + +We must look now a little more closely at these connections. It may +seem odd that we do not more definitely make the thoughts the rulers +and causes of the rest of the response. To do just this has been in +fact the grand error of traditional psychology. Man prefers to stress +the features which distinguish him from monkey, and chief among these +are his intellectual capacities. Important though they are, he has +given them a rank to which they are not entitled. Intellect is an +adjunct to the interests, a means by which they adjust themselves more +successfully. Man is not in any sense primarily an intelligence; he is +a system of interests. Intelligence helps man but does not run him. + +Partly through this natural mistake, and partly because intellectual +operations are so much easier to study, the whole traditional analysis +of the working of the mind has been turned upside down. It is largely +as a remedy from the difficulties which this mistake involves that +poetry may have so much importance in the future. But let us look again +more closely at the poetic experience. + +In the first place, why is it essential in reading poetry to give the +words their full imagined sound and body? What is meant by saying that +the poet works with this sound and body? The answer is that even before +the words have been intellectually understood and the thoughts they +occasion formed and followed, the movement and sound of the words is +playing deeply and intimately upon the interests. How this happens is +a matter which has yet to be successfully investigated, but that it +happens no sensitive reader of poetry doubts. A good deal of poetry and +even some great poetry exists (_e.g._, some of Shakespeare’s Songs and, +in a different way, much of the best of Swinburne) in which the sense +of the words can be _almost_ entirely missed or neglected without loss. +Never perhaps entirely without effort however; though sometimes with +advantage. But the plain fact that the relative importance of grasping +the sense of the words may vary (compare Browning’s _Before_ with his +_After_) is enough for our purpose here. + +In nearly all poetry the sound and feel of the words, what is often +called the _form_ of the poem in opposition to its _content_, get +to work first, and the sense in which the words are taken is subtly +influenced by this fact. Most words are ambiguous as regards their +plain sense, especially in poetry. We can take them as we please in +a variety of senses. The sense we are pleased to choose is the one +which most suits the impulses already stirred through the form of the +verse. The same thing can be noticed in conversation. Not the strict +logical sense of what is said, but the tone of voice and the occasion +are the primary factors by which we interpret. Science, it is worth +noting, endeavours with increasing success to bar out these factors. +We believe a scientist because he can substantiate his remarks, not +because he is eloquent or forcible in his enunciation. In fact, we +distrust him when he seems to be influencing us by his manner. + +In its use of words poetry is just the reverse of science. Very +definite thoughts do occur, but not because the words are so chosen as +logically to bar out all possibilities but one. No. But because the +manner, the tone of voice, the cadence and the rhythm play upon our +interests and make _them_ pick out from among an indefinite number of +possibilities the precise particular thought which they need. This +is why poetical descriptions often seem so much more accurate than +prose descriptions. Language logically and scientifically used cannot +describe a landscape or a face. To do so it would need a prodigious +apparatus of names for shades and nuances, for precise particular +qualities. These names do not exist, so other means have to be used. +The poet, even when, like Ruskin or De Quincey, he writes in prose, +makes the reader pick out the precise particular sense required +from an indefinite number of possible senses which a word, phrase +or sentence may carry. The means by which he does this are many and +varied. Some of them have been mentioned above, but the way in which he +uses them is the poet’s own secret, something which cannot be taught. +He knows how to do it, but he does not himself know how it is done. + +Misunderstanding and under-estimation of poetry is mainly due to +over-estimation of the thought in it. We can see still more clearly +that thought is not the prime factor if we consider for a moment not +the experience of the reader but that of the poet. Why does the poet +use these words and no others? Not because they stand for a series of +thoughts which in themselves are what he is concerned to communicate. +It is never what a poem _says_ which matters, but what it _is_. The +poet is not writing as a scientist. He uses these words because the +interests which the situation calls into play combine to bring them, +just in this form, into his consciousness _as a means of ordering, +controlling and consolidating_ the whole experience. The experience +itself, the tide of impulses sweeping through the mind, is the source +and the sanction of the words. They represent this experience itself, +not any set of perceptions or reflections, though often to a reader +who approaches the poem wrongly they will seem to be only a series of +remarks about other things. But to a suitable reader the words--if they +actually spring from experience and are not due to verbal habits, to +the desire to be effective, to factitious excogitation, to imitation, +to irrelevant contrivances, or to any other of the failings which +prevent most people from writing poetry--the words will reproduce in +his mind a similar play of interests putting him for the while into a +similar situation and leading to the same response. + +Why this should happen is still somewhat of a mystery. An +extraordinarily intricate concourse of impulses brings the words +together. Then in another mind the affair in part reverses itself, the +words bring into being a similar concourse of impulses. The words +which seem to be the effect of the experience in the first instance, +seem to become the cause of a similar experience in the second. A very +odd thing to happen, not exactly paralleled outside communication. But +this description is not quite accurate. The words, as we have seen, +are not simply the effect in one case, nor the cause in the other. In +both cases they are the part of the experience which binds it together, +which gives it a definite structure and keeps it from being a mere +welter of disconnected impulses. They are _the key_, to borrow a useful +metaphor from McDougall, for this particular combination of impulses. +So regarded it is less strange that what the poet wrote should +reproduce his experience in the mind of the reader. + + + + +III. What is Valuable + + +Enough perhaps as to the kind of thing a poem is, as to the general +structure of these experiences. Let us now turn to the further +questions ‘Of what use is it?’ ‘Why and how is it valuable?’ + +The first point to be made is that poetic experiences are valuable +(when they are) in the same ways as any other experiences. They are to +be judged by the same standards. What are these? + +Extraordinarily diverse views have been held upon this point. Very +naturally, since such very different ideas have been entertained +as to what kind of thing an experience is. For our opinions as to +the differences between good and bad experiences depend inevitably +upon what we take an experience to be. As fashions have changed +in psychology men’s ethical theories have followed suit. When a +created, simple and eternal soul was the pivotal point, Good was +conformity with the will of the creator, Evil was rebellion. When the +associationist psychologists substituted a swarm of sensations and +images for the soul, Good became pleasure and Evil became pain, and so +on. A long chapter of the history of opinions has still to be written +tracing these changes. Now that the mind is seen to be a hierarchy of +interests, what will for this account be the difference between Good +and Evil? + +It is the difference between free and wasteful organization, between +fullness and narrowness of life. For if the mind is a system of +interests, and if an experience is their play, the worth of any +experience is a matter of the degree to which the mind, through this +experience attains a complete equilibrium. + +This is a first approximation. It needs qualifying and expanding if +it is to become a satisfactory theory. Let us see how some of these +amendments would run. + +Consider an hour of any person’s life. It holds out innumerable +possibilities. Which of these are realized depends upon two main +groups of factors:--the external situation in which he is living, his +surroundings, including the other people with whom he is in contact; +and, secondly, his psychological make-up. The first of these, the +external situation, is sometimes given too much importance. We have +only to notice what very different experiences different people undergo +when in closely similar situations to recognize this fact. A situation +which is dulness itself for one may be full of excitement for another. +What an individual responds to is not the whole situation but a +selection from it, and as a rule few people make the same selection. +What is selected is decided by the organization of the individual’s +interests. + +Now let us simplify the case by supposing that nothing which happens +during this hour is going to have any further consequences either in +our hypothetical person’s life or in anyone else’s. He is going to +cease to exist when the clock strikes--but for our purposes he must be +imagined not to know this--and no one is to be a whit the better or +worse whatever he thinks, feels or does during the hour. What shall we +say it would be best for him, if he could, to do? + +We need not bother to imagine the detail of the external situation +or the character of the man. We can answer our question in general +terms without doing so. The man has a certain definite instinctive +make-up--the result of his past history, including his heredity. There +will be many things which he cannot do which another man could, and +many things which he cannot do in this situation, whatever it is, which +he could do in other situations. But given this particular man in this +particular situation, our question is, which of the possibilities open +to him would be better than which others? How would we as friendly +observers like to see him living? + +Setting pain aside, we may perhaps agree that torpor would be the +worst choice. Complete inertness, lifelessness, would be the sorriest +spectacle--anticipating too nearly and unnecessarily what is to happen +when the hour strikes. We can then perhaps agree, though here more +resistance from preconceived ideas may be encountered, that the best +choice would be the opposite of torpor, that is to say, the fullest, +keenest, most active and completest kind of life. + +Such a life is one which brings into play as many as possible of the +_positive_ interests. We can leave out the negative interests. It would +be a pity for our friend to be frightened or disgusted even for a +minute of his precious hour. + +But this is not all. It is not enough that many interests should be +stirred. There is a more important point to be noted. + + The Gods approve + The depth and not the tumult of the soul. + +The interests must come into play and remain in play with as little +conflict among themselves as possible. In other words, the experience +must be organized so as to give all the impulses of which it is +composed the greatest possible degree of freedom.[3] + +It is in this respect that people differ most from one another. It +is this which separates the good life from the bad. Far more life +is wasted through muddled mental organization than through lack of +opportunity. Conflicts between different impulses are the greatest +evils which afflict mankind. + +The best life then which we can wish for our friend will be one in +which as much as possible of himself is engaged (as many of his +impulses as possible). And this with as little conflict, as little +mutual interference between different sub-systems of his activities +as there can be. The more he lives and the less he thwarts himself +the better. That briefly is our answer as psychologists, as outside +observers abstractly describing the state of affairs. And if it is +asked, what does such life feel like, how is it to live through? the +answer is that it feels like and is the experience of poetry. + +There are two ways in which conflict can be avoided or overcome. By +conquest and by conciliation. One or other of the contesting impulses +can be suppressed, or they can come to a mutual arrangement, they +can adjust themselves to one another. We owe to psycho-analysis--at +present still a rather undisciplined branch of psychology--a great +deal of striking evidence as to the extreme difficulty of suppressing +any vigorous impulse. When it seems to be suppressed it is often found +to be really as active as ever, but in some other form, generally +a troublesome one. Persistent mental imbalances are the source of +nearly all our troubles. For this reason, as well as for the simpler +reason that suppression is wasteful of life, conciliation is always +to be preferred to conquest. People who are always winning victories +over themselves might equally well be described as always enslaving +themselves. Their lives become unnecessarily narrow. The minds of many +saints have been like wells, they should have been like lakes or like +the sea. + +Unfortunately, most of us, left to ourselves, have no option but +to go in for extensive attempts at self-conquest. It is our only +means of escape from chaos. Our impulses must have some order, some +organization, or we do not live ten minutes without disaster. In the +past, Tradition, a kind of Treaty of Versailles assigning frontiers +and spheres of influence to the different interests, and based chiefly +upon conquest, ordered our lives in a moderately satisfactory manner. +But Tradition is weakening. Moral authorities are not as well backed by +beliefs as they were; their sanctions are declining in force. We are in +need of something to take the place of the old order. Not in need of a +new balance of power, a new arrangement of conquests, but of a League +of Nations for the moral ordering of the impulses; a new order based on +conciliation, not on attempted suppression. + +Only the rarest individuals hitherto have achieved this new order, and +never yet perhaps completely. But many have achieved it for a brief +while, for a particular phase of experience, and many have recorded it +for these phases. + +Of these records poetry consists. + +But before going on to this new point let us return for a moment to our +hypothetical friend who is enjoying his last hour, and suppose this +limitation removed. Instead of such an hour let us consider any hour, +one which has consequences for his future and for other people. Let us +consider any piece of any life. How far is our argument affected? Will +our standards of good and evil be altered? + +Clearly the case now is, in certain respects, different; it is much +more complicated. We have to take these consequences into account. We +have to regard his experience not in itself alone, but as a piece of +his life and as a probable factor in other people’s situations. If we +are to approve of the experience, it must not only be full of life and +free from conflict, but it must be likely to lead to other experiences, +both his own and those of other people, also full of life and free from +conflict. And often, in actual fact, it has to be less full of life +and more restricted than it might be in order to ensure these results. +A momentary individual good has often to be sacrificed for the sake +of a later or a general good. Conflicts are often necessary in order +that they should not occur later. The mutual adjustment of conflicting +impulses may take time, and an acute struggle may be the only way in +which they learn to co-operate peacefully in the future. + +But all these complications and qualifications do not disturb the +conclusion we arrived at through considering the simpler case. A good +experience is still one full of life, in the sense which we have +explained, or derivatively one conducive to experiences full of life. +An evil experience is one which is self-thwarting or conducive to +stultifying conflicts. So far then, all is sound and shipshape in the +argument, and we can go on to consider the poet. + + + + +IV. The Command of Life + + +The chief characteristic of poets is their amazing _command_ of words. +This is not a mere matter of vocabulary, though it is significant +that Shakespeare’s vocabulary is the richest and most varied that any +Englishman has ever used. It is not the quantity of words a writer +has at his disposal, but the way in which he disposes them that gives +him his rank as a poet. His sense of how they modify one another, how +their separate effects in the mind combine, how they fit into the whole +response, is what matters. As a rule the poet is not conscious of the +reasons why just these words and no others best serve. They fall into +their place without his conscious control, and a feeling of rightness, +of inevitability is commonly his sole conscious ground for his +certainty that he has ordered them aright. It would as a rule be idle +to ask him why he used a particular rhythm or a particular epithet. He +might give reasons, but they would probably be mere rationalizations +having nothing to do with the matter. For the choice of the rhythm or +the epithet was not an intellectual matter (though it may be capable of +an intellectual justification), but was due to an instinctive impulse +seeking to confirm itself, or to order itself with its fellows. + +It is very important to realize how deep are the motives which govern +the poet’s use of words. No study of other poets which is not an +impassioned study will help him. He can learn much from other poets, +but only by letting them influence him deeply, not by any superficial +examination of their ‘style.’ For the motives which shape a poem spring +from the root of the mind. The poet’s style is the direct outcome of +the way in which his interests are organized. That amazing capacity of +his for ordering speech is only a part of a more amazing capacity for +ordering his experience. + +This is the explanation of the fact that poetry cannot be written by +cunning and study, by craft and contrivance. To a superficial glance +the productions of the mere scholar, steeped in the poetry of the past +and animated by intense emulation and a passionate desire to place +himself among the poets will often look extraordinarily like poetry. +His words may seem as subtly and delicately ordered as words can be, +his epithets as happy, his transitions as daring, his simplicity as +perfect. By every intellectual test he may succeed. But unless the +ordering of the words sprang, not from knowledge of the technique of +poetry added to a desire to write some, but from an actual supreme +ordering of _experience_, a closer approach to his work will betray +it. Characteristically its rhythm will give it away. For rhythm is no +matter of tricks with syllables, but directly reflects personality. +It is not separable from the words to which it belongs. Moving rhythm +in poetry arises only from genuinely stirred impulses, and is a more +subtle index than any other to the order of the interests. + +Poetry, in other words, cannot be imitated; it cannot be faked so +as to baffle the only test that ought ever to be applied. It is +unfortunately true that this test is often very difficult to apply. +And it is sometimes hard to know whether the test has or has not been +applied. For the test is this--that only genuine poetry will give to +the reader who approaches it in the proper manner a response which is +as passionate, noble and serene as the experience of the poet, the +master of speech, because he is the master of experience itself. But +it is easy to read carelessly and shallowly, and easy to mistake for +the response something which does not properly belong to it at all. By +careless reading we miss what is in the poem. And in some states of +mind, for example, when intoxicated, the silliest doggerel may seem +sublime. What happened was not due to the doggerel but to the drink. + +With these general considerations in mind we may turn now from the +question--What can the dawning science of psychology tell us about +poetry?--to the allied questions--How is science in general, and the +new outlook upon the world which it induces, already affecting poetry, +and to what extent may science make obsolete the poetry of the past? To +answer these questions we need to sketch some of the changes which have +recently come about in our world-picture, and to consider anew what it +is that we demand from poetry. + + + + +V. The Neutralization of Nature + + +The poets are failing us, or we them, if after reading them we do not +find ourselves changed; not with a temporary change, such as luncheon +or slumber will produce, from which we inevitably work back to the +_status quo ante_, but with a permanent alteration of our possibilities +as responsive individuals in good or bad adjustment to an all but +overwhelming concourse of stimulations. How many living poets have the +power to make such deep changes? Let us set aside youthful enthusiasms; +there is a time in most lives when, rightly enough, Mr. Masefield, Mr. +Kipling, Mr. Drinkwater, or even Mr. Noyes or Mr. Studdert Kennedy may +profoundly affect the awakening mind; it is being introduced to poetry. +Later on, looking back, we can see that any one of a hundred other +poets would have served as well or better. Let us consider only the +experienced, the fairly hardened reader, who is familiar with a great +deal of the poetry of the past. + +Contemporary poetry which will, accidents apart, modify the attitudes +of this reader must be such as could not have been written in another +age than our own. It must have sprung in part from the contemporary +situation. It must correspond to needs, impulses, attitudes, which did +not arise in the same fashion for poets in the past, and criticism also +must take notice of the contemporary situation. Our attitudes to man, +to nature, and to the universe change with every generation, and have +changed with unusual violence in recent years. We cannot leave these +changes out of account in judging modern poetry. When attitudes are +changing neither criticism nor poetry can remain stationary. To those +who realise what the poet is this will be obvious; but all literary +history bears it out. + +It would be of little use to give a list of the chief recent +intellectual revolutions and to attempt to deduce therefrom what must +be happening to poetry. The effects upon our attitudes of changes of +opinion are too complex to be calculated so. What we have to consider +is not men’s current opinions but their attitudes--how they feel +about this or that as part of the world; what relative importance its +different aspects have for them; what they are prepared to sacrifice +for what; what they trust, what they are frightened by, what they +desire. To discover these things we must go to the poets. Unless they +are failing us, they will show us just these things. + +They will _show_ them, but, of course, they will not state them. Their +poetry will not be _about_ their attitudes in the sense in which a +treatise on anatomy is about the structure of the body. Their poetry +will arise out of their attitudes and will evoke them in an adequate +reader, but, as a rule, it will not mention any attitudes. We must, of +course, expect occasional essays in verse upon psychological topics, +but these should not mislead us. Most of the attitudes with which +poetry is concerned are indescribable--because psychology is still +in a primitive stage--and can only be named or spoken about as the +attitude of this poem or that. The poem, the actual experience as it +forms itself in the mind of the fit reader, controlling his responses +to the world and ordering his impulses, is our best evidence as to how +other men feel about things; and we read it, if we are serious, partly +to discover how life seems to another, partly to try how his attitudes +suit us, engaged as we also are in the same enterprise. + +Although we cannot--for lack of a sufficient psychology--describe +attitudes in terms which do not apply also to others which we are not +considering, and although we cannot deduce a poet’s attitudes from +the general intellectual background, none the less, after reading +his poetry, when his experience has become our own, we can sometimes +profitably look round us to see why these attitudes should be so very +different, in some ways, from those we find in the poetry of 100 or of +1,000 years ago. In so doing we gain a means of indicating what these +attitudes are, useful both for those who are constitutionally unable to +read poetry (an increasing number), and for those victims of education +who neglect modern poetry because they “don’t know what to make of it.” + +What, then, has been happening to the intellectual background, to +the world-picture, and in what ways may changes here have caused a +reorganization of our attitudes? + +The central dominant change may be described as the _Neutralization +of Nature_, the transference from the Magical View of the world +to the scientific, a change so great that it is perhaps only +paralleled historically by the change, from whatever adumbration of a +world-picture preceded the Magical View, to the Magical View itself. +By the Magical View I mean, roughly, the belief in a world of Spirits +and Powers which control events, and which can be evoked and, to +some extent, controlled themselves by human practices. The belief in +Inspiration and the beliefs underlying Ritual are representative parts +of this view. It has been decaying slowly for some 300 years, but its +definite overthrow has taken place only in the last 60. Vestiges and +survivals of it prompt and direct a great part of our daily affairs, +but it is no longer the world-picture which an informed mind most +easily accepts. There is some evidence that Poetry, together with the +other Arts, arose with this Magical View. It is a possibility to be +seriously considered that Poetry may pass away with it. + +The reasons for the downfall of the Magical View are familiar. It seems +to have arisen as a consequence of an increase in man’s knowledge of +and command over nature (the discovery of agriculture). It fell through +the extension of that knowledge of and command over nature. Throughout +its (10,000 years?) reign its stability has been due to its capacity +for satisfying men’s emotional needs through its adequacy as an object +for their attitudes. We must remember that human attitudes have +developed always _inside_ the social group; they are what a man feels, +the mainsprings of his behaviour towards his fellow-men, and they have +only a limited field of applicability. Thus the Magical View, being +an interpretation of nature in terms of man’s own most intimate and +most important affairs, very soon came to suit man’s emotional make-up +better than any other view possibly could. The attraction of the +Magical View lay very little in the actual command over nature which it +gave. That Galton was the first person to test the efficacy of prayer +experimentally is an indication of this. What did give the Magical +View its standing was the ease and adequacy with which the universe +therein presented could be emotionally handled, the scope offered for +man’s love and hatred, for his terror as well as for his hope and his +despair. It gave life a shape, a sharpness, and a coherence that no +other means could so easily secure. + +In its place we have the universe of the mathematician, a field +for the tracing out of ever wider and more general uniformities. A +field in which intellectual certainty is, almost for the first time, +available, and on an unlimited scale. Also the despondencies, the +emotional excitements accompanying research and discovery, again on an +unprecedented scale. Thus a number of men who might in other times +have been poets are to-day in bio-chemical laboratories--a fact of +which we might avail ourselves, did we feel the need, in defence of +an alleged present poverty in poetry. But apart from these thrills, +what has the world-picture of science to do with human emotions? +A god voluntarily or involuntarily subject to the General Theory +of Relativity does not make an emotional appeal. So this form of +compromise fails. Various emergent deities have been suggested--by Mr. +Wells, by Professors Alexander and Lloyd Morgan--but, alas! the reasons +for suggesting them have become too clear and conscious. They are there +to meet a demand, not to make one; they do not do the work for which +they were invented. + +The revolution brought about by science is, in short, too drastic to +be met by any such half-measures. It touches the central principle by +which the Mind has been deliberately organized in the past, and no +alteration in beliefs, however great, will restore equilibrium while +that principle is retained. I come now to the main purport of these +remarks. + +Ever since man first grew self-conscious and reflective he has +supposed that his feelings, his attitudes, and his conduct spring from +his knowledge. That as far as he could it would be wise for him to +organize himself in this way, with knowledge[4] as the foundation on +which should rest feeling, attitude, and behaviour. In point of fact, +he never has been so organised, knowledge having been until recently +too scarce; but he has constantly been persuaded that he was built on +this plan, and has endeavoured to carry the structure further on these +lines. He has sought for knowledge, supposing that it would itself +_directly_ excite a right orientation to existence, supposing that, if +he only knew what the world was like, this knowledge in itself would +show him how to feel towards it, what attitudes to adopt, and with what +aims to live. He has constantly called what he found in this quest, +‘knowledge,’ unaware that it was hardly ever pure, unaware that his +feelings, attitudes, and behaviour were _already_ orientated by his +physiological and social needs, and were themselves, for the most part, +the sources of whatever it was that he supposed himself to be knowing. + +Suddenly, not long ago, he began to get genuine knowledge on large +scale. The process went faster and faster; it snowballed. Now he has +to face the fact that the edifices of supposed knowledge, with which +he has for so long buttressed and supported his attitudes, will no +longer stand up, and, at the same time, he has to recognise that pure +knowledge is irrelevant to his aims, that it has no _direct_ bearing +upon what he should feel, or what he should attempt to do. + +For science, which is simply our most elaborate way of _pointing_ +to things systematically, tells us and can tell us nothing about +the nature of things in any _ultimate_ sense. It can never answer +any question of the form: _What_ is so and so? It can only tell us +_how_ so and so behaves. And it does not attempt to do more than +this. Nor, indeed, can more than this be done. Those ancient, deeply +troubling, formulations that begin with ‘What’ and ‘Why’ prove, when we +examine them, to be not questions at all; but requests--for emotional +satisfaction. They indicate our desire not for knowledge but for +assurance,[5] a point which appears clearly when we look into the ‘How’ +of questions and requests, of knowledge and desire. Science can tell us +about man’s place in the universe and his chances; that the place is +precarious, and the chances problematical. It can enormously increase +our chances if we can make wise use of it. But it cannot tell us what +we are or what this world is; not because these are in any sense +insoluble questions, but because they are not questions at all.[6] And +if science cannot answer these pseudo-questions no more can philosophy +or religion. So that all the varied answers which have for ages been +regarded as the keys of wisdom are dissolving together. + +The result is a biological crisis which is not likely to be decided +without trouble. It is one which we can, perhaps, decide for ourselves, +partly by thinking, partly by reorganizing our minds in other ways; if +we do not it may be decided for us, not in the way we should choose. +While it lasts it puts a strain on each individual and upon society, +which is part of the explanation of many modern difficulties, the +difficulties of the poet in particular, to come back to our present +subject. I have not really been far away. + + + + +VI. Poetry and Beliefs + + +The business of the poet, as we have seen, is to give order and +coherence, and so freedom, to a body of experience. To do so through +words which act as its skeleton, as a structure by which the impulses +which make up the experience are adjusted to one another, and act +together. The means by which words do this are many and varied. To work +them out is a problem for psychology. A beginning has been indicated +above, but only a beginning. What little can be done shows already that +most critical dogmas of the past are either false or nonsense. A little +knowledge is not here a danger, but clears the air in a remarkable way. + +Roughly and inadequately, even in the light of our present knowledge, +we can say that words work in the poem in two main fashions. As sensory +stimuli and as (in the _widest_ sense) symbols. We must refrain from +considering the sensory side of the poem, remarking only that it is +_not_ in the least independent of the other side, and that it has for +definite reasons prior importance in most poetry. We must confine +ourselves to the other function of words in the poem, or rather, +omitting much that is of secondary relevance, to one form of that +function, let me call it _pseudo-statement_. + +It will be admitted--by those who distinguish between scientific +statement, where truth is ultimately a matter of verification as this +is understood in the laboratory, and emotive utterance, where ‘truth’ +is primarily acceptability _by_ some attitude, and more remotely is the +acceptability _of_ this attitude itself--that it is _not_ the poet’s +business to make true statements. Yet poetry has constantly the air of +making statements, and important ones; which is one reason why some +mathematicians cannot read it. They find the alleged statements to be +_false_. It will be agreed that their approach to poetry and their +expectations from it are mistaken. But what exactly is the other, +the right, the poetic, approach and how does it differ from the +mathematical? + +The poetic approach evidently limits the framework of possible +consequences into which the pseudo-statement is taken. For the +scientific approach this framework is unlimited. Any and every +consequence is relevant. If any of the consequences of a statement +conflicts with acknowledged fact then so much the worse for the +statement. Not so with the pseudo-statement when poetically approached. +The problem is--just how does the limitation work? The usual account is +in terms of a supposed universe of discourse, a world of make-believe, +of imagination, of recognised fictions common to the poet and his +readers. A pseudo-statement which fits into this system of assumptions +would be regarded as ‘poetically true’; one which does not, as +‘poetically false.’ This attempt to treat ‘poetic truth’ on the model +of general ‘coherence theories’ is very natural for certain schools of +logicians; but is inadequate, on the wrong lines from the outset. To +mention two objections out of many; there is no means of discovering +what the ‘universe of discourse’ is on any occasion, and the kind of +coherence which must hold within it, supposing it to be discoverable, +is not an affair of logical relations. Attempt to define the system of +propositions into which + + “O Rose, thou art sick!” + +must fit, and the logical relations which must hold between them if it +is to be ‘poetically true’; the absurdity of the theory becomes evident. + +We must look further. In the poetic approach the relevant consequences +are not logical or to be arrived at by a partial relaxation of logic. +Except occasionally and by accident logic does not enter at all. They +are the consequences which arise through our emotional organisation. +The acceptance which a pseudo-statement receives is entirely governed +by its effects upon our feelings and attitudes. Logic only comes in, +if at all, in subordination, as a servant to our emotional response. +It is an unruly servant, however, as poets and readers are constantly +discovering. A pseudo-statement is ‘true’ if it suits and serves +some attitude or links together attitudes which on other grounds are +desirable. This kind of truth is so opposed to scientific ‘truth’ that +it is a pity to use so similar a word, but at present it is difficult +to avoid the malpractice.[7] + +This brief analysis may be sufficient to indicate the fundamental +disparity and opposition between pseudo-statements as they occur in +poetry and statements as they occur in science. A pseudo-statement is +a form of words which is justified entirely by its effect in releasing +or organizing our impulses and attitudes (due regard being had for the +better or worse organizations of these _inter se_); a statement, on the +other hand, is justified by its truth, _i.e._ its correspondence, in a +highly technical sense, with the fact to which it points. + +Statements true and false alike do of course constantly touch off +attitudes and action. Our daily practical existence is largely +guided by them. On the whole true statements are of more service to +us than false ones. None the less we do not and, at present, cannot +order our emotions and attitudes by true statements alone. Nor is +there any probability that we ever shall contrive to do so. This +is one of the great new dangers to which civilisation is exposed. +Countless pseudo-statements--about God, about the universe, about human +nature, the relations of mind to mind, about the soul, its rank and +destiny--pseudo-statements which are pivotal points in the organization +of the mind, vital to its well-being, have suddenly become, for +sincere, honest and informal minds, impossible to believe. For +centuries they have been believed; now they are gone, irrecoverably; +and the knowledge which has killed them is not of a kind upon which an +equally fine organization of the mind can be based. + +This is the contemporary situation. The remedy, since there is no +prospect of our gaining adequate knowledge, and since indeed it +is fairly clear that genuine knowledge cannot serve us here and +can only increase our practical control of Nature, is to cut our +pseudo-statements free from belief, and yet retain them, in this +released state, as the main instruments by which we order our attitudes +to one another and to the world. Not so desperate a remedy as may +appear, for poetry conclusively shows that even the most important +among our attitudes can be aroused and maintained without any belief +entering in at all. Those of Tragedy, for example. We need no +beliefs, and indeed we must have none, if we are to read _King Lear_. +Pseudo-statements to which we attach no belief and statements proper +such as science provides cannot conflict. It is only when we introduce +illicit beliefs into poetry that danger arises. To do so is from this +point of view a profanation of poetry. + +Yet an important branch of criticism which has attracted the best +talents from prehistoric times until to-day consists of the endeavour +to persuade men that the functions of science and poetry are identical, +or that the one is a ‘higher form’ of the other, or that they conflict +and we must choose between them. + +The root of this persistent endeavour has still to be mentioned; it +is the same as that from which the Magical View of the world arose. +If we give to a pseudo-statement the kind of unqualified acceptance +which belongs by right only to certified scientific statements, if +we can contrive to do this, the impulses and attitudes with which we +respond to it gain a notable stability and vigour. Briefly, if we can +contrive to believe poetry, then the world _seems_, while we do so, +to be transfigured. It used to be comparatively easy to do this, and +the habit has become well established. With the extension of science +and the neutralization of nature it has become difficult as well +as dangerous. Yet it is still alluring; it has many analogies with +drug-taking. Hence the endeavours of the critics referred to. Various +subterfuges have been devised along the lines of regarding Poetic Truth +as figurative, symbolic; or as more immediate, as a truth of Intuition, +not of reason; or as a higher form of the same truth as reason yields. +Such attempts to use poetry as a denial or as a corrective of science +are very common. One point can be made against them all: they are +never worked out in detail. There is no equivalent to Mill’s _Logic_ +expounding any such view. The language in which they are framed is +usually a blend of obsolete psychology and emotive exclamations. + +The long-established and much-encouraged habit of giving to emotive +utterances--whether pseudo-statements simple, or looser and larger +wholes taken as saying something figuratively--the kind of assent which +we give to established facts, has for most people debilitated a wide +range of their responses. A few scientists, caught young and brought +up in the laboratory, are free from it; but then, as a rule, they pay +no _serious_ attention to poetry. For most men the recognition of +the neutrality of nature brings about--through this habit--a divorce +from poetry. They are so used to having their responses propped up by +beliefs, however vague, that when these shadowy supports are removed +they are no longer able to respond. Their attitudes to so many +things have been forced in the past, over-encouraged. And when the +world-picture ceases to assist there is a collapse. Over whole tracts +of natural emotional response we are to-day like a bed of dahlias whose +sticks have been removed. And this effect of the neutralisation of +nature is only in its beginnings. Consider the probable effects upon +love-poetry in the near future of the kind of enquiry into basic human +constitution exemplified by psycho-analysis. + +A sense of desolation, of uncertainty, of futility, of the +groundlessness of aspirations, of the vanity of endeavour, and a +thirst for a life-giving water which seems suddenly to have failed, +are the signs in consciousness of this necessary reorganization of our +lives.[8] Our attitudes and impulses are being compelled to become +self-supporting; they are being driven back upon their biological +justification, made once again sufficient to themselves. And the only +impulses which seem strong enough to continue unflagging are commonly +so crude that, to more finely developed individuals, they hardly seem +worth having. Such people cannot live by warmth, food, fighting, drink, +and sex alone. Those who are least affected by the change are those +who are emotionally least removed from the animals. As we shall see at +the close of this essay, even a considerable poet may attempt to find +relief by a reversion to primitive mentality. + +It is important to diagnose the disease correctly and to put the +blame in the right quarter. Usually it is some alleged ‘materialism’ +of science which is denounced. This mistake is due partly to clumsy +thinking, but chiefly to relics of the Magical View. For even if the +Universe were ‘spiritual’ all through (whatever that assertion might +mean; all such assertions are probably nonsense), that would not make +it any more accordant to human attitudes. It is not what the universe +is made of but how it works, the law it follows, which makes knowledge +of it incapable of spurring on our emotional responses, and further the +nature of knowledge itself makes it inadequate. The contact with things +which we therein establish is too sketchy and indirect to help us. We +are beginning to know too much about the bond which unites the mind +to its object in knowledge for that old dream of a perfect knowledge +which would guarantee perfect life to retain its sanction. What was +thought to be pure knowledge, we see now to have been shot through with +hope and desire with fear and wonder, and these intrusive elements +indeed gave it all its power to support our lives. In knowledge, in +the ‘How?’ of events, we can find hints by which to take advantage of +circumstances in our favour and avoid mischances. But we cannot get +from it a _raison d’être_ or a justification of more than a relatively +lowly kind of life. + +The justification, or the reverse, of any attitude lies, not in +the object, but in itself, in its serviceableness to the whole +personality. Upon its place in the whole system of attitudes, which is +the personality, all its worth depends. This is true equally for the +subtle, finely compounded attitudes of the civilised individual as for +the simpler attitudes of the child. + +In brief, experience is its own justification; and this fact must be +faced, although sometimes--by a lover, for example--it may be very +difficult to accept. Once it is faced, it is apparent that all the +attitudes to other human beings and to the world in all its aspects, +which have been serviceable to humanity, remain as they were, as +valuable as ever. Hesitation felt in admitting this is a measure of +the strength of the evil habit we have described. But many of these +attitudes, valuable as ever, are, now that they are being set free, +more difficult to maintain, because we still hunger after a basis in +belief. + + + + +VII. Some Contemporary Poets + + +It is time to turn to those living poets through study of whose work +these reflections have arisen. Mr. Hardy is for every reason the poet +with whom it is most natural to begin. Not only does his work span the +whole period in which what I have called the neutralisation of nature +was finally effected, but it has throughout definitely reflected that +change. Short essays in verse are fairly frequent among his _Collected +Poems_, essays almost always dealing with this very topic; but these, +however suggestive, are not the ground for singling him out as the +poet who has most fully and courageously accepted the contemporary +background; nor are the poems which are most definitely _about_ +the neutrality of nature the ground for the assertion. There is an +opportunity for a misunderstanding at this point. The ground is the +tone, the handling and the rhythm of poems which treat other subjects, +for example _The Self Unseeing_, _The Voice_, _A Broken Appointment_, +and pre-eminently _After a Journey_. A poem does not necessarily accept +the situation because it gives it explicit recognition, but only +through the precise mutation of the attitudes of which it is composed. +Mr. Middleton Murry, against whose recent positions parts of this +essay may be suspected by the reader to be aimed, has best pointed +out, in his _Aspects of Literature_, how peculiarly “adequate to what +we know and have suffered” Mr. Hardy’s poetry is. “His reaction to +an episode has behind it and within it a reaction to the universe.” +This is not as I should put it were I making a statement; but read as +a pseudo-statement, emotively, it is excellent; it makes us remember +how we felt. Actually, it describes just what Hardy, at his best, +does not do. He makes no reaction to the universe, recognizing it as +something to which no reaction is more relevant than another. Mr. Murry +is again well inspired, this time both emotively and scientifically, +when he says: “Mr. Hardy stands high above all other modern poets +by the deliberate purity of his responsiveness. The contagion of the +world’s slow stain has not touched him; from the first he held aloof +from the general conspiracy to forget in which not only those who are +professional optimists take a part.” These extracts (from a writer more +agonizingly aware than others that some strange change has befallen +man in this generation, though his diagnosis is, I believe, mistaken) +indicate very well Mr. Hardy’s place and rank in English poetry. He is +the poet who has most steadily refused to be comforted. The comfort +of forgetfulness, the comfort of beliefs, he has put both these away. +Hence his singular preoccupation with death; because it is in the +contemplation of death that the necessity for human attitudes, in the +face of an indifferent universe, to become self-supporting is felt most +poignantly. Only the greatest tragic poets have achieved an equally +self-reliant and immitigable acceptance. + +From Mr. Hardy to Mr. De la Mare may seem a large transition, though +readers of Mr. De la Mare’s later work will agree that there are +interesting resemblances--in _Who’s That_ and in other poems in _The +Veil_ where Mr. De la Mare is notably less himself than when writing at +his best. In his best poetry, in _The Pigs and the Charcoal Burner_, +in _John Mouldy_, no intimation of the contemporary situation sounds. +He is writing of, and from, a world which knows nothing of these +difficulties, a world of pure phantasy for which the distinction +between knowledge and feeling has not yet dawned. When in other poems, +more reflective, in _The Tryst_, for example, Mr. De la Mare does seem +to be directly facing the indifference of the universe towards “poor +mortal longingness” a curious thing happens. His utterance, in spite +of his words, becomes not at all a recognition of this indifference, +but voices instead an impulse to turn away, to forget it, to seek +shelter in the warmth of his own familiar thickets of dream, not to +stay out in the wind. His rhythm, that indescribable personal note +which clings to all his best poetry, is a lulling rhythm, an anodyne, +an opiate, it gives sleep and visions, phantasmagoria; but it does +not give _vision_, it does not awaken. Even when he most appears to be +contemplating the fate of the modern, “whom the words of the wise have +made sad,” the drift of his verse is still “seeking after that sweet +golden clime” where the mental traveller’s journey _begins_. + +There is one exception to this charge (for in a sense it is an adverse +criticism, though not one to be pressed except against a great poet), +there is one poem in which there is no such reluctance to bear the +blast--_The Mad Prince’s Song_ in _Peacock Pie_. But here the spirit of +the poem, the impulse which gives it life, comes from a poet who more +than most refused to take shelter; _The Mad Prince’s Song_ derives from +_Hamlet_. + +Mr. Yeats and Mr. Lawrence present two further ways of dodging those +difficulties which come from being born into this generation rather +than into some earlier age. Mr. De la Mare takes shelter in the +dream-world of the child, Mr. Yeats retires into black velvet curtains +and the visions of the Hermetist, and Mr. Lawrence makes a magnificent +attempt to reconstruct in himself the mentality of the Bushman. There +are other modes of escape open to the poet. Mr. Blundell, to name one +other poet only, goes into the country, but few people follow him there +in his spirit, whereas Mr. Yeats and Mr. Lawrence, whether they are +widely read or not, do represent tendencies among the defeated which +are only too easily observable. + +Mr. Yeats’ work from the beginning was a repudiation of the most active +contemporary interests. But at first the poet of _The Wanderings +of Usheen_, _The Stolen Child_, and _Innisfree_ turned away from +contemporary civilization in favour of a world which he knew perfectly, +the world of folk-lore as it is accepted, neither with belief nor +disbelief, by the peasant. Folk-lore and the Irish landscape, its +winds, woods, waters, islets, and seagulls, and for a while an +unusually simple and direct kind of love poetry in which he became +something more than a minor poet, these were his refuge. Later, after +a drawn battle with the drama, he made a more violent repudiation, +not merely of current civilization but of life itself, in favour of a +supernatural world. But the world of the ‘eternal moods,’ of supernal +essences and immortal beings is not, like the Irish peasant stories +and the Irish landscape, part of his natural and familiar experience. +Now he turns to a world of symbolic phantasmagoria about which he is +desperately uncertain. He is uncertain because he has adopted as a +technique of inspiration the use of trance, of dissociated phases of +consciousness, and the revelations given in these dissociated states +are insufficiently connected with normal experience. This, in part, +explains the weakness of Mr. Yeats’ transcendental poetry. A deliberate +reversal of the natural relations of thought and feeling is the rest +of the explanation. Mr. Yeats takes certain feelings--feelings of +conviction attaching to certain visions--as evidence for the thoughts +which he supposes his visions to symbolize. To Mr. Yeats the value of +_The Phases of the Moon_ lies not in any attitudes which it arouses or +embodies but in the doctrine which for an initiate it promulgates. + +The resort to trance, and the effort to discover a new world-picture to +replace that given by science are the two most significant points for +our purpose in Mr. Yeats’ work. A third might be the singularly bitter +contempt for the generality of mankind which occasionally appears. + +The doctrinal problem arises again, but in a clearer form with Mr. +Lawrence. But here (Mr. Yeats’ promised treatise on the states of the +soul has not yet appeared) we have the advantage of an elaborate prose +exposition, _Phantasia of the Unconscious_, of the positions which +so many of the poems advocate. It is not unfair to put the matter in +this way, since there is little doubt possible that the bulk of Mr. +Lawrence’s published verse is prose, scientific prose too, jottings, in +fact, from a psychologist’s notebook, with a commentary interspersed. +Due allowance being made for the extreme psychological interest of +these observations, there remains the task of explaining how the poet +who wrote the _Ballad of Another Ophelia_ and _Aware_, and, above +all, _The White Peacock_, should have wandered, through his own zeal +misdirected, so far from the paths which once appeared to be his alone +to open. + +Mr. Lawrence’s revolt against civilization seems to have been +originally spontaneous, an emotional revulsion free from _ad hoc_ +beliefs. It sprang directly from experience. He came to abhor all +the attitudes men adopt, not through the direct prompting of their +instincts, but because of the supposed nature of the objects to +which they are directed. The conventions, the idealizations, which +come between man and man and between man and woman, which often +queer the pitch for the natural responses, seemed to him the source +of all evil. Part of his revolt was certainly justified. These +idealizations--representative examples are the dogma of the equality +of man and the doctrine that Love is primarily sympathy--are beliefs +illicitly interpolated in order to support and strengthen attitudes +in the manner discussed at length above. And Mr. Lawrence’s original +rejection of a morality not self-supporting but based upon beliefs, +makes his work an admirable illustration of my main thesis. But two +simple and avoidable mistakes deprived his revolt of the greater part +of its value. He overlooked the fact that such beliefs commonly arise +because the attitudes they support are already existent. He assumed +that a bad basis for an attitude meant a bad attitude. In general, it +does mean a forced attitude, but that is another matter. Secondly, +he tried to cure the disease by introducing other beliefs of his own +manufacture in place of the conventional beliefs and in support of very +different attitudes. + +The genesis of these beliefs is extremely interesting as an +illustration of primitive mentality. Since the attitudes on which he +fell back are those of a very early stage of human development, it is +not surprising that the means by which he has supported them should +be of the same era, or that the world-picture which he has worked out +should be similar to that described in _The Golden Bough_. The mental +process at work is schematically as follows: First, undergo an intense +emotion, located with unusual definiteness in the body, which can be +described as “a feeling _as though_ the solar plexus were connected by +a current of dark passional energy with another person.” Those whose +emotions tend to be localised will be familiar with such feelings. The +second step is to say “I must trust my feelings.” The third is to call +the feeling an intuition. The last is to say “_I know_ that my solar +plexus is, etc.” By this means we arrive at indubitable knowledge that +the sun’s energy is recruited from the life on the earth and that the +astronomers are wrong in what they say about the moon, and so on. + +The illicit steps in the argument are not quite so evident as they +appear to be in this analysis. To distinguish an intuition _of_ +an emotion from an intuition _by_ it is not always easy, nor is a +description of an emotion always in practice distinguishable from an +emotion. Certainly we must trust our feelings--in the sense of acting +upon them. We have nothing else to trust. And to confuse this trusting +with believing an emotive description of them is a mistake which all +traditional codes of morality encourage us to commit. + +The significance of such similar disasters in the work of poets so +unlike and yet so greatly gifted as Mr. Yeats and Mr. Lawrence is +noteworthy. For each the traditional scaffolding of conventional +beliefs has proved unsatisfying, unworkable as a basis for their +attitudes. Each has sought, in very different directions it is true, +a new set of beliefs as a remedy. For neither has the world-picture +of science seemed a possible substitute. And neither seems to have +envisaged the possibility of a poetry which is independent of all +beliefs, probably because, however much they differ, both are very +serious poets. A great deal of poetry can, of course, be written for +which total independence of all beliefs is an easy matter. But it +is never poetry of the more important kind, because the temptation +to introduce beliefs is a sign and measure of the importance of +the attitudes involved. At present it is not primarily religious +beliefs, in the stricter sense of the word, which are most likely +to be concerned. Emphases alter surprisingly. University societies +founded fifteen years ago, for example, to discuss religion, are +usually found to be discussing sex to-day. And serious love poetry, +which is independent of beliefs of one kind or another, traditional or +eccentric, is extremely rare. + +Yet the necessity for independence is increasing. This is not to say +that traditional poetry, into which beliefs readily enter, is becoming +obsolete; it is merely becoming more and more difficult to approach +without confusion; it demands a greater imaginative effort, a greater +purity in the reader. + +We must distinguish here, however. There are many feelings and +attitudes which, though in the past supported by beliefs now untenable, +can survive their removal because they have other, more natural, +supports and spring directly from the necessities of existence. To +the extent to which they have been undistorted by the beliefs which +have gathered round them they will remain as before. But there are +other attitudes which are very largely the product of belief and have +no other support. These will lapse if the changes here forecasted +continue. With their disappearance some forms of poetry--much minor +devotional verse, for example--will become obsolete. And with the +unravelling of the intellect _versus_ emotion entanglement, there +will be cases where even literature to which immense value has been +assigned--the speculative portions of the work of Dostoevsky may be +instanced--will lose much of its interest, except for the history of +the mind. It was because he belonged to our age that Dostoevsky had to +wrestle so terribly in these toils. A poet to-day, whose integrity is +equal to that of the greater poets of the past, is inevitably plagued +by the problem of thought and feeling as poets have never been plagued +before. + +A pioneer in modern research upon the origins of culture was asked +recently whether his work had any bearing upon religion. He replied +that it had, but that at present he was engaged merely in ‘getting the +guns into position.’ The same answer might be given with regard to +the probable consequences of recent progress in psychology, not only +for religion but for the whole fabric of our traditional beliefs about +ourselves. In many quarters there is a tendency to suppose that the +series of attacks upon received ideas which began, shall we say, with +Galileo and rose to a climax with Darwinism, has over-reached itself +with Einstein and Eddington, and that the battle is now due to die +down. This view seems to be too optimistic. The most dangerous of the +sciences is only now beginning to come into action. I am thinking less +of Psycho-analysis or of Behaviourism than of the whole subject which +includes them. It is very probable that the Hindenburg Line to which +the defence of our traditions retired as a result of the onslaughts +of the last century will be blown up in the near future. If this +should happen a mental chaos such as man has never experienced may be +expected. We shall then be thrown back, as Matthew Arnold foresaw, upon +poetry. It is capable of saving us; it is a perfectly possible means +of overcoming chaos. But whether man is capable of the reorientation +required, whether he can loosen in time the entanglement with belief +which now takes from poetry half its power and would then take all, is +another question, and too large for the scope of this essay. + + + + +Footnotes + + +[1] The view of the mind-body problem assumed here is defended and +maintained with references to the contemporary authorities who hold it, +in _The Meaning of Psychology_ by C. K. Ogden, Chapter II. (London, +Kegan Paul; New York, Harpers; 1926.) + +[2] For a further discussion of attitudes see the author’s _Principles +of Literary Criticism_, Chapter XV (International Library of +Psychology). + +[3] See _The Foundations of Aesthetics_, by C. K. Ogden, James Wood and +the author, pp. 74 ff. for a description of such experience. + +[4] _I.e._ thoughts which are both true and evidenced, in the narrower, +stricter senses. For a discussion of some relevant senses of ‘truth’ +and ‘knowledge’ see _Principles of Literary Criticism_, Chapters xxxiii +and xxxiv. + +[5] On this point the study of the child’s questions included in _The +Language and Thought of the Child_ by J. Piaget (Kegan Paul, 1926), is +illuminating. + +[6] The remarks of Wittgenstein (_Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus_, 6.5, +6.52), which superficially resemble this, should be consulted, if only +to show how important the _context_ of a statement may be; for what is +said above should lead not towards but away from all forms of mysticism. + +[7] For an account of the various senses of truth and of the ways in +which they may be distinguished in discussion cf. _The Meaning of +Meaning_, by C. K. Ogden and the author, Chapters VII and X. + +[8] To those familiar with Mr. Eliot’s _The Waste Land_, my +indebtedness to it at this point will be evident. He seems to me +by this poem, to have performed two considerable services for this +generation. He has given a perfect emotive description of a state +of mind which is probably inevitable for a while to all meditative +people. Secondly, by effecting a complete severance between his poetry +and _all_ beliefs, and this without any weakening of the poetry, he +has realised what might otherwise have remained largely a speculative +possibility, and has shown the way to the only solution of these +difficulties. “In the destructive element immerse. That is the way.” + + + + +Transcriber’s Note + + +_Underscores_ represent italics in plain text. + +This book was published as part of the series “Psyche Miniatures: +General Series #1”, from “Psyche: An Illustrated Quarterly Review of +General and Applied Psychology”. Related front matter and back matter, +which lists the series’ titles and contributors, is not included here. + +Later reprints of this book improved on the typesetting or editing of +this edition. The following quirks are original to this edition and +not transcription errors: the use of both single and double quotation +marks; and sentences that seem to lack appropriate commas. Some commas +have been added when present in the 1926 American edition (W. W. +Norton); for example, “a new order based on conciliation[+,] not on +attempted suppression”. + +The book cover image was made by the transcriber and is placed in the +public domain. + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78306 *** diff --git a/78306-h/78306-h.htm b/78306-h/78306-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bf98500 --- /dev/null +++ b/78306-h/78306-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,2753 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1"> + <meta name="format-detection" content="telephone=no,date=no,address=no,email=no,url=no"> + <title> + Science and poetry | Project Gutenberg + </title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +h1,h2 { + text-align: center; + clear: both; +} + +p { + text-indent: 1.5em; + margin-top: .5em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .5em; +} + +p.noindent, .footnote p { + text-indent: 0; +} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: 33.5%; + margin-right: 33.5%; + clear: both; + border: 0; + background: #bbb; + height: 1px; +} + +hr.chap {width: 30%; margin-left: 35%; margin-right: 35%;} +hr.front {width: 10%; margin-left: 45%; margin-right: 45%;} + +hr.chap {width: 50%; margin-left: 25%; margin-right: 25%;} +@media print {hr.chap {display: none; visibility: hidden;} } + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always;} +h2.nobreak {page-break-before: avoid;} + +table { + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; +} + +table td { padding: 0.25em; } + +.tdl {text-align: left;} +.tdr {text-align: right;} + +.pagenum { + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + font-style: normal; + font-weight: normal; + font-variant: normal; + text-indent: 0; + color: #999; +} + +blockquote { + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 5%; +} + +.center {text-align: center; text-indent: 0;} + +.right {text-align: right;} + +.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + +.allsmcap {font-variant: small-caps; text-transform: lowercase;} + +a {text-decoration: none;} +a:hover {text-decoration: underline;} + +/* Footnotes */ + +.footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + +.footnote .label {position: absolute; right: 84%; text-align: right;} + +.fnanchor { + vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; +} + +/* Poetry */ + +/* uncomment the next line for centered poetry */ +/* .poetry-container {display: flex; justify-content: center;} */ +.poetry-container {text-align: center;} +.poetry {text-align: left; margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%;} +.poetry .stanza {margin: 1em auto;} +.poetry .verse {text-indent: -3em; padding-left: 3em;} + +.transnote {background-color: #eeeeee; + margin:3em; + padding: 1.5em 2.5em 1.5em 2.5em; + font-size:smaller; +} + +/* Poetry indents */ +.poetry .indent0 {text-indent: -3.0em;} +.poetry .indent12 {text-indent: 3.0em;} + + </style> +</head> +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78306 ***</div> + + +<h1> +SCIENCE<br> +<span style="font-size:60%; vertical-align:middle;">AND</span><br> +POETRY +</h1> + +<p class="center"> +by<br> +<span style="font-size:larger">I. A. RICHARDS</span><br> +<br> +<i>Fellow of Magdalene College, Cambridge.</i><br> +<i>Author of “Principles of Literary Criticism.”</i><br> +<br> +<br> +KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH, TRUBNER & Co. Ltd.<br> +Broadway House; 68-74 Carter Lane, London, E.C. +</p> + +<hr class="front"> +<p class="center" style="font-size:smaller"> +<i>Printed in Great Britain by</i><br> +R. I. SEVERS, CAMBRIDGE. +</p> + +<hr class="front"> +<div class="chapter"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CONTENTS"> + CONTENTS + </h2> +</div> + +<table> + <tr><td></td><td></td><td class="tdr" style="font-size:x-small">PAGE</td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">I.</td><td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The General Situation</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">II.</td><td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Poetic Experience</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_7">7</a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">III.</td><td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">What is Valuable</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_28">28</a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">IV.</td><td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Command of Life</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_38">38</a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">V.</td><td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Neutralization of Nature</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_43">43</a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">VI.</td><td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Poetry and Beliefs</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_55">55</a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">VII.</td><td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Some Contemporary Poets</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_68">68</a></td></tr> + <tr><td></td><td>[<a href="#Footnotes"><span class="smcap">Footnotes</span></a>]</td><td></td></tr> + <tr><td></td><td>[<a href="#Transcribers_Note"><span class="smcap">Transcriber’s Note</span></a>]</td><td></td></tr> +</table> + +<hr class="front"> + +<blockquote style="max-width:20em; margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto"> +<p><i>The future of poetry is immense, +because in poetry, where it is worthy of +its high destinies, our race, as time goes +on, will find an ever surer and surer +stay. There is not a creed which is not +shaken, not an accredited dogma which +is not shown to be questionable, not a +received tradition which does not threaten +to dissolve. Our religion has materialised +itself in the fact, in the supposed +fact; it has attached its emotion to the +fact, and now the fact is failing it. But +for poetry the idea is everything.</i></p> + +<p class="right"> + —<span class="smcap">Matthew Arnold.</span> +</p> +</blockquote> + +<hr class="front"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_1">[1]</span></p> +<div class="chapter"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="I_The_General_Situation"> + I. <span class="smcap">The General Situation</span> + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>Man’s prospects are not at present +so rosy that he can neglect any means +of improving them. He has recently +made a number of changes in his customs +and ways of life, partly with +intention, partly by accident. These +changes are involving such widespread +further changes that the fairly near +future is likely to see an almost complete +reorganization of our lives, in +their intimate aspects as much as in +their public. Man himself is changing, +together with his circumstances; he +has changed in the past, it is true, but +never perhaps so swiftly. His circumstances +are not known to have ever +changed so much or so suddenly before, +with psychological as well as with +economic, social and political dangers. +This suddenness threatens us. Some +parts of human nature resist change +more than others. We risk disaster, +if some of our customs change, while +others which should change with them +stay as they are.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_2">[2]</span></p> + +<p>Habits that have endured for many +thousands of years are not easy to +throw off—least of all when they are +habits of thought, and when they do +not come into open conflict with +changing circumstances, or do not +clearly involve us in loss or inconvenience. +Yet the loss may be great +without our knowing anything about +it. Before 1590 no one knew how +inconvenient were our natural habits +of thought about the ways in which +a stone may fall; yet the modern +world began when Galileo discovered +what really happens. Only persons +thought to be crazy knew before 1800 +that ordinary traditional ideas as to +cleanliness are dangerously inadequate. +The infant’s average ‘expectation of +life’ has increased by about 30 years +since Lister upset them. Nobody before +Sir Ronald Ross knew what were the +consequences of thinking about malaria +in terms of influences and miasmas +instead of in terms of mosquitoes. The +Roman Empire might perhaps have +still been flourishing if someone had +found this out before <span class="allsmcap">A.D.</span> 100.</p> + +<p>With such examples all about us +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">[3]</span>we can no longer, in any department +of life, so easily accept what was good +enough for our fathers as good enough +for ourselves, or for our children. We +are forced to wonder whether our +ideas, even upon subjects apparently +of little practical importance, such as +poetry, may not be dangerously inadequate. +It becomes indeed somewhat +alarming to recognize, as we must, +that our habits of thought remain, as +regards most of our affairs much as +they were 5,000 years ago. The Sciences +are, of course, simply the exceptions +to this rule. Outside the Sciences—and +the greater part of our thinking +still goes on outside the Sciences—we +think very much as our ancestors +thought a hundred or two hundred +generations ago. Certainly this is so +as regards official views about poetry. +Is it not possible that these are wrong, +as wrong as most ideas of an equally +hoary antiquity? Is it not possible +that to the men of the future our life +to-day will seem a continual, ceaseless +disaster due only to our own stupidity, +to the nervelessness with which we +accept and transmit ideas which do +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">[4]</span>not and never have applied to anything?</p> + +<p><i>The average educated man is growing +more conscious</i>, an extraordinarily significant +change. It is probably due to +the fact that his life is becoming more +complex, more intricate, his desires +and needs more varied and more apt +to conflict. And as he becomes more +conscious he can no longer be content +to drift in unreflecting obedience to +custom. He is forced to reflect. And +if reflection often takes the form of +inconclusive worrying, that is no more +than might be expected in view of the +unparalleled difficulty of the task. To +live reasonably is much more difficult +to-day than it was in Dr. Johnson’s +time, and even then, as Boswell shows, +it was difficult enough.</p> + +<p>To live reasonably is not to live by +reason alone—the mistake is easy, +and, if carried far, disastrous—but +to live in a way of which reason, a +clear full sense of the whole situation, +would approve. And the most important +part of the whole situation, as +always, is ourselves, our own psychological +make-up. The more we learn +about the physical world, about our +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[5]</span>bodies, for example, the more points +we find at which our ordinary behaviour +is out of accord with the facts, +inapplicable, wasteful, disadvantageous, +dangerous or absurd. Witness +our habit of boiling our vegetables. +We have still to learn how to feed +ourselves satisfactorily. Similarly, the +little that is yet known about the +mind already shows that our ways of +thinking and feeling about very many +of the things with which we concern +ourselves are out of accord with the +facts. This is pre-eminently true of +our ways of thinking and feeling about +poetry. We think and talk in terms +of states of affairs which have never +existed. We attribute to ourselves and +to things, powers which neither we +nor they possess. And equally we overlook +or misuse powers which are all +important to us.</p> + +<p>Day by day, in recent years, man is +getting more out of place in Nature. +Where he is going to he does not yet +know, he has not yet decided. As a +consequence he finds life more and +more bewildering, more and more +difficult to live coherently. Thus he +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[6]</span>turns to consider himself, his own +nature. For the first step towards +a reasonable way of life is a better +understanding of human nature.</p> + +<p>It has long been recognized that if +only something could be done in +psychology remotely comparable to +what has been achieved in physics, +practical consequences might be expected +even more remarkable than any +that the engineer can contrive. The +first positive steps in the science of +the mind have been slow in coming, +but already they are beginning to +change man’s whole outlook.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[7]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="II_The_Poetic_Experience"> + II. <span class="smcap">The Poetic Experience</span> + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>Extraordinary claims have often +been made for poetry—Matthew +Arnold’s words quoted at the head of +this essay are an example—claims +which very many people are inclined +to view with astonishment or with the +smile which tolerance gives to the +enthusiast. Indeed a more representative +modern view would be that +the future of poetry is <i>nil</i>. Peacock’s +conclusion in his <i>The Four Ages of +Poetry</i> finds a more general acceptance. +“A poet in our times is a semi-barbarian +in a civilized community. He lives in +the days that are past ... In whatever +degree poetry is cultivated, it +must necessarily be to the neglect +of some branch of useful study: and +it is a lamentable thing to see minds, +capable of better things, running to +seed in the specious indolence of these +empty aimless mockeries of intellectual +exertion. Poetry was the mental rattle +that awakened the attention of intellect +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[8]</span>in the infancy of civil society: but for +the maturity of mind to make a serious +business of the playthings of its childhood, +is as absurd as for a grown man +to rub his gums with coral, and cry to +be charmed asleep by the jingle of +silver bells.” And with more regret +many others—Keats was among them—have +thought that the inevitable effect +of the advance of science would be to +destroy the possibility of poetry.</p> + +<p>What is the truth in this matter? +How is our estimate of poetry going to +be affected by science? And how will +poetry itself be influenced? The extreme +importance which has in the past been +assigned to poetry is a fact which must +be accounted for whether we conclude +that it was rightly assigned or not, and +whether we consider that poetry will +continue to be held in such esteem or +not. It indicates that the case for +poetry, whether right or wrong, is +one which turns on momentous issues. +We shall not have dealt adequately +with it unless we have raised questions +of great significance.</p> + +<p>Very much toil has gone to the endeavour +to explain the high place of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[9]</span>poetry in human affairs, with, on the +whole, few satisfactory or convincing +results. This is not surprising. For +in order to show how poetry is important +it is first necessary to discover to +some extent what it is. Until recently +this preliminary task could only be +very incompletely carried out; the +psychology of instinct and emotion +was too little advanced; and, moreover, +the wild speculations natural in pre-scientific +enquiry definitely stood in +the way. Neither the professional +psychologist, whose interest in poetry +is frequently not intense, nor the man +of letters, who as a rule has no adequate +ideas of the mind as a whole, has been +equipped for the investigation. Both +a passionate knowledge of poetry and +a capacity for dispassionate psychological +analysis are required if it is to +be satisfactorily prosecuted.</p> + +<p>It will be best to begin by asking +‘What <i>kind of a thing</i>, in the widest +sense, is poetry?’ When we have +answered this we shall be ready to ask +‘How can we use and misuse it?’ +and ‘What reasons are there for thinking +it valuable?’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[10]</span></p> + +<p>Let us take an experience, ten +minutes of a person’s life, and describe +it in broad outline. It is now possible +to indicate its general structure, to +point out what is important in it, +what trivial and accessory, which +features depend upon which, how it +has arisen, and how it is probably going +to influence his future experience. +There are, of course, wide gaps in this +description, none the less it <i>is</i> at last +possible to understand in general how +the mind works in an experience, +and what sort of stream of events the +experience is.</p> + +<p>A poem, let us say Wordsworth’s +<i>Westminster Bridge</i> sonnet, is such an +experience, it is the experience the +right kind of reader has when he +peruses the verses. And the first step +to an understanding of the place and +future of poetry in human affairs is to +see what the general structure of such +an experience is. Let us begin by +reading it very slowly, preferably +aloud, giving every syllable time to +make its full effect upon us. And let +us read it experimentally, repeating +it, varying our tone of voice until we +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[11]</span>are satisfied that we have caught its +rhythm as well as we are able, and—whether +our reading is such as to please +other people or not—we ourselves +at least are certain how it should ‘go.’</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Earth has not anything to show more fair:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Dull would he be of soul who could pass by</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A sight so touching in its majesty:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">This City now doth like a garment wear</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The beauty of the morning: silent, bare,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples lie</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Open to the fields, and to the sky;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Never did sun more beautifully steep</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In his first splendour valley, rock or hill;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The river glideth at its own sweet will:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Dear God! the very houses seem asleep</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And all that mighty heart is lying still!</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p>We may best make our analysis of +the experience that arises through +reading these lines from the surface +inwards, to speak metaphorically. The +surface is the impression of the printed +words on the retina. This sets up an +agitation which we must follow as +it goes deeper and deeper.</p> + +<p>The first things to occur (if they do +not, the rest of the experience will be +gravely inadequate) are the sound of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[12]</span>the words ‘in the mind’s ear’ and the +feel of the words imaginarily spoken.⁠<a id="FNanchor_1_1" href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> +These together give the <i>full body</i>, as it +were, to the words, and it is with the +full bodies of words that the poet +works, not with their printed signs. +But many people lose nearly everything +in poetry through these indispensable +parts escaping them.</p> + +<p>Next arise various pictures ‘in the +mind’s eye’; not of words but of things +for which the words stand; perhaps of +ships, perhaps of hills; and together +with them, it may be, other images +of various sorts. Images of what it +feels like to stand leaning on the +parapet of Westminster Bridge. Perhaps +that odd thing, an image of +‘silence.’ But, unlike the image-bodies +of the words themselves, those other +images of things are not vitally important. +Those who have them may very +well think them indispensable, and <i>for +them</i> they may be necessary; but other +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[13]</span>people may not require them at all. +This is a point at which differences +between individual minds are very +marked.</p> + +<p>Thence onwards the agitation which +is the experience divides into a major +and a minor branch, though the two +streams have innumerable interconnections +and influence one another intimately. +Indeed it is only as an +expositor’s artifice that we may speak +of them as two streams.</p> + +<p>The minor branch we may call the +intellectual stream; the other, which +we may call the active, or emotional, +stream, is made up of the play of our +interests.</p> + +<p>The intellectual stream is fairly easy +to follow; it follows itself, so to speak; +but it is the less important of the two. +In poetry it matters only <i>as a means</i>; it +directs and excites the active stream. +It is made up of thoughts, which are +not static little entities that bob up +into consciousness and down again out +of it, but fluent happenings, events, +which reflect or point to the things the +thoughts are ‘of.’ Exactly how they +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[14]</span>do this is a matter which is still much +disputed.</p> + +<p>This pointing to or reflecting things +is all that thoughts do. They appear +to do much more; which is our chief +illusion. The realm of thought is never +a sovereign state. Our thoughts are +the servants of our interests, and even +when they seem to rebel it is usually +our interests that are in disorder. +Our thoughts are pointers and it is +the other, the active, stream which +deals with the things which thoughts +reflect or point to.</p> + +<p>Some people who read verse (they do +not often read much of it), are so constituted +that very little more happens +than this intellectual stream of thoughts. +It is perhaps superfluous to point out +that they miss the real poem. To +exaggerate this part of the experience, +and give it too much importance on +its own account, is a notable current +tendency, and for many people explains +why they do not read poetry.</p> + +<p>The active branch is what really +matters; for from it all the energy of +the whole agitation comes. The thinking +which goes on is somewhat like the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[15]</span>play of an ingenious and invaluable +‘governor’ run by but controlling the +main machine. Every experience is +essentially some interest or group of +interests swinging back to rest.</p> + +<p>To understand what an interest is +we should picture the mind as a system +of very delicately poised balances, a +system which so long as we are in +health is constantly growing. Every +situation we come into disturbs some +of these balances to some degree. +The ways in which they swing back +to a new equipoise are the impulses +with which we respond to the situation. +And the chief balances in the system +are our chief interests.</p> + +<p>Suppose that we carry a magnetic +compass about in the neighbourhood +of powerful magnets. The needle +waggles as we move and comes to rest +pointing in a new direction whenever +we stand still in a new position. +Suppose that instead of a single compass +we carry an arrangement of many +magnetic needles, large and small, +swung so that they influence one another, +some able only to swing horizontally, +others vertically, others hung +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[16]</span>freely. As we move, the perturbations +in this system will be very complicated. +But for every position in which we +place it there will be a final position +of rest for all the needles into which +they will in the end settle down, a +general poise for the whole system. +But even a slight displacement may set +the whole assemblage of needles busily +readjusting themselves.</p> + +<p>One further complication. Suppose +that while all the needles influence one +another, some of them respond only +to some of the outer magnets among +which the system is moving. The reader +can easily draw a diagram if his +imagination needs a visual support.</p> + +<p>The mind is not unlike such a +system if we imagine it to be incredibly +complex. The needles are our +interests, varying in their importance, +that is in the degree to which any +movement they make involves movement +in the other needles. Each new +disequilibrium, which a shift of position, +a fresh situation, entails, corresponds +to a need; and the wagglings which +ensue as the system rearranges itself +are our responses, the impulses through +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[17]</span>which we seek to meet the need. Often +the new poise is not found until long +after the original disturbance. Thus +states of strain can arise which last +for years.</p> + +<p>The child comes into the world as +a comparatively simple arrangement. +Few things affect him, comparatively +speaking, and his responses also are +few and simple, but he very quickly +becomes more complicated. His recurrent +needs for food and for various +attentions are constantly setting all +his needles swinging. Little by little +separate needs become departmentalized +as it were, sub-systems are formed; +hunger causes one set of responses, the +sight of his toys another, loud noises +yet another, and so on. But the sub-systems +never become quite independent. +So he grows up, becoming susceptible +to ever more numerous and +more delicate influences.</p> + +<p>He grows more discriminating in +some respects, he is thrown out of +equilibrium by slighter differences in +his situation. In other respects he +becomes more stable. From time to +time, through growth, fresh interests +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[18]</span>develop, sex is the outstanding example. +His needs increase, he becomes capable +of being upset by quite new causes, +he becomes responsive to quite new +aspects of the situation.</p> + +<p>This development takes a very +indirect course. It would be still more +erratic if society did not mould and +remould him at every stage, reorganising +him incompletely two or three +times over before he grows up. He +reaches maturity in the form of a vast +assemblage of major and minor interests, +partly a chaos, partly a system, +with some tracts of his personality +fully developed and free to respond, +others tangled and jammed in all +kinds of accidental ways. It is this +incredibly complex assemblage of interests +to which the printed poem +has to appeal. Sometimes the poem +is itself the influence which disturbs +us, sometimes it is merely the means +by which an already existing disturbance +can right itself. More usually +perhaps it is both at once.</p> + +<p>We must picture then the stream +of the poetic experience as the swinging +back into equilibrium of these disturbed +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[19]</span>interests. We are reading the +poem in the first place only because +we are in some way interested in doing +so, only because some interest is +attempting to regain its poise thereby. +And whatever happens as we read +happens only for a similar reason. We +understand the words (the intellectual +branch of the stream goes on its way +successfully) only because an interest is +reacting through that means, and all +the rest of the experience is equally +but more evidently our adaptation +working itself out.</p> + +<p>The rest of the experience is made +up of emotions and attitudes. Emotions +are what the reaction, with its reverberation +in bodily changes, feels like. +Attitudes are the impulses towards one +kind of behaviour or another which +are set ready by the response. They +are, as it were, its outward going part.⁠<a id="FNanchor_2_2" href="#Footnote_2_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> +Sometimes, as here in <i>Westminster +Bridge</i>, they are very easily overlooked. +But consider a simpler case—a fit of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[20]</span>laughter which it is absolutely essential +to conceal, in Church or during a +solemn interview, for example. You +contrive not to laugh; but there is no +doubt about the activity of the impulses +in their restricted form. The +much more subtle and elaborate impulses +which a poem excites are not +different in principle. They do not +show themselves as a rule, they do not +come out into the open, largely because +they are so complex. When they have +adjusted themselves to one another +and become organized into a coherent +whole, the needs concerned may be +satisfied. <i>In a fully developed man a +state of readiness for action will take +the place of action when the full appropriate +situation for action is not present.</i> +The essential peculiarity of poetry +as of all the arts is that the full appropriate +situation is <i>not</i> present. It is +an <i>actor</i> we are seeing upon the stage, +not Hamlet. So readiness for action +takes the place of actual behaviour.</p> + +<p>This is the main plan then of the +experience. Signs on the retina, taken +up by sets of needs (remember how +many other impressions all day long +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[21]</span>remain entirely <i>unnoticed</i> because no +interest responds to them); thence an +elaborate agitation of impulses, one +branch of which is <i>thoughts of</i> what the +words mean, the other an emotional +response leading to the development +of <i>attitudes</i>, preparations, that is, for +actions which may or may not take +place; the two branches being in +intimate connection.</p> + +<p>We must look now a little more +closely at these connections. It may +seem odd that we do not more definitely +make the thoughts the rulers and +causes of the rest of the response. +To do just this has been in fact the +grand error of traditional psychology. +Man prefers to stress the features +which distinguish him from monkey, +and chief among these are his intellectual +capacities. Important though they +are, he has given them a rank to which +they are not entitled. Intellect is an +adjunct to the interests, a means by +which they adjust themselves more +successfully. Man is not in any sense +primarily an intelligence; he is a +system of interests. Intelligence helps +man but does not run him.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[22]</span></p> + +<p>Partly through this natural mistake, +and partly because intellectual operations +are so much easier to study, the +whole traditional analysis of the working +of the mind has been turned upside +down. It is largely as a remedy from +the difficulties which this mistake +involves that poetry may have so much +importance in the future. But let +us look again more closely at the poetic +experience.</p> + +<p>In the first place, why is it essential +in reading poetry to give the words +their full imagined sound and body? +What is meant by saying that the poet +works with this sound and body? +The answer is that even before the words +have been intellectually understood and +the thoughts they occasion formed and +followed, the movement and sound of +the words is playing deeply and intimately +upon the interests. How this +happens is a matter which has yet to +be successfully investigated, but that +it happens no sensitive reader of poetry +doubts. A good deal of poetry and +even some great poetry exists (<i>e.g.</i>, +some of Shakespeare’s Songs and, in +a different way, much of the best of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[23]</span>Swinburne) in which the sense of the +words can be <i>almost</i> entirely missed or +neglected without loss. Never perhaps +entirely without effort however; though +sometimes with advantage. But the +plain fact that the relative importance +of grasping the sense of the words may +vary (compare Browning’s <i>Before</i> with +his <i>After</i>) is enough for our purpose +here.</p> + +<p>In nearly all poetry the sound and +feel of the words, what is often called +the <i>form</i> of the poem in opposition to +its <i>content</i>, get to work first, and the +sense in which the words are taken is +subtly influenced by this fact. Most +words are ambiguous as regards their +plain sense, especially in poetry. We +can take them as we please in a variety +of senses. The sense we are pleased +to choose is the one which most suits +the impulses already stirred through +the form of the verse. The same thing +can be noticed in conversation. Not +the strict logical sense of what is said, +but the tone of voice and the occasion +are the primary factors by which we +interpret. Science, it is worth noting, +endeavours with increasing success +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[24]</span>to bar out these factors. We believe +a scientist because he can substantiate +his remarks, not because he is eloquent +or forcible in his enunciation. In fact, +we distrust him when he seems to be +influencing us by his manner.</p> + +<p>In its use of words poetry is just the +reverse of science. Very definite +thoughts do occur, but not because the +words are so chosen as logically to +bar out all possibilities but one. No. +But because the manner, the tone of +voice, the cadence and the rhythm +play upon our interests and make +<i>them</i> pick out from among an indefinite +number of possibilities the precise +particular thought which they need. +This is why poetical descriptions often +seem so much more accurate than +prose descriptions. Language logically +and scientifically used cannot describe +a landscape or a face. To do so it +would need a prodigious apparatus +of names for shades and nuances, for +precise particular qualities. These +names do not exist, so other means +have to be used. The poet, even when, +like Ruskin or De Quincey, he writes +in prose, makes the reader pick out +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[25]</span>the precise particular sense required +from an indefinite number of possible +senses which a word, phrase or sentence +may carry. The means by which he +does this are many and varied. Some +of them have been mentioned above, +but the way in which he uses them is +the poet’s own secret, something which +cannot be taught. He knows how to +do it, but he does not himself know +how it is done.</p> + +<p>Misunderstanding and under-estimation +of poetry is mainly due to over-estimation +of the thought in it. We +can see still more clearly that thought +is not the prime factor if we consider +for a moment not the experience of +the reader but that of the poet. Why +does the poet use these words and no +others? Not because they stand for +a series of thoughts which in themselves +are what he is concerned to communicate. +It is never what a poem +<i>says</i> which matters, but what it <i>is</i>. +The poet is not writing as a scientist. +He uses these words because the +interests which the situation calls +into play combine to bring them, just +in this form, into his consciousness +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[26]</span><i>as a means of ordering, controlling and +consolidating</i> the whole experience. +The experience itself, the tide of impulses +sweeping through the mind, is +the source and the sanction of the +words. They represent this experience +itself, not any set of perceptions or +reflections, though often to a reader +who approaches the poem wrongly +they will seem to be only a series of +remarks about other things. But to a +suitable reader the words—if they +actually spring from experience and +are not due to verbal habits, to the +desire to be effective, to factitious +excogitation, to imitation, to irrelevant +contrivances, or to any other of the +failings which prevent most people +from writing poetry—the words will +reproduce in his mind a similar play +of interests putting him for the while +into a similar situation and leading to +the same response.</p> + +<p>Why this should happen is still +somewhat of a mystery. An extraordinarily +intricate concourse of impulses +brings the words together. +Then in another mind the affair in +part reverses itself, the words bring +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[27]</span>into being a similar concourse of +impulses. The words which seem to +be the effect of the experience in the +first instance, seem to become the cause +of a similar experience in the second. +A very odd thing to happen, not +exactly paralleled outside communication. +But this description is not quite +accurate. The words, as we have +seen, are not simply the effect in one +case, nor the cause in the other. In +both cases they are the part of the +experience which binds it together, +which gives it a definite structure +and keeps it from being a mere welter +of disconnected impulses. They are +<i>the key</i>, to borrow a useful metaphor +from McDougall, for this particular +combination of impulses. So regarded +it is less strange that what the poet +wrote should reproduce his experience +in the mind of the reader.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[28]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="III_What_is_Valuable"> + III. <span class="smcap">What is Valuable</span> + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>Enough perhaps as to the kind of +thing a poem is, as to the general +structure of these experiences. Let us +now turn to the further questions ‘Of +what use is it?’ ‘Why and how is it +valuable?’</p> + +<p>The first point to be made is that +poetic experiences are valuable (when +they are) in the same ways as any other +experiences. They are to be judged +by the same standards. What are +these?</p> + +<p>Extraordinarily diverse views have +been held upon this point. Very +naturally, since such very different +ideas have been entertained as to what +kind of thing an experience is. For +our opinions as to the differences +between good and bad experiences +depend inevitably upon what we take +an experience to be. As fashions have +changed in psychology men’s ethical +theories have followed suit. When a +created, simple and eternal soul was +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[29]</span>the pivotal point, Good was conformity +with the will of the creator, Evil was +rebellion. When the associationist +psychologists substituted a swarm of +sensations and images for the soul, +Good became pleasure and Evil became +pain, and so on. A long chapter of +the history of opinions has still to be +written tracing these changes. Now +that the mind is seen to be a hierarchy +of interests, what will for this account +be the difference between Good and +Evil?</p> + +<p>It is the difference between free and +wasteful organization, between fullness +and narrowness of life. For if the +mind is a system of interests, and if an +experience is their play, the worth of +any experience is a matter of the +degree to which the mind, through this +experience attains a complete equilibrium.</p> + +<p>This is a first approximation. It +needs qualifying and expanding if it +is to become a satisfactory theory. +Let us see how some of these amendments +would run.</p> + +<p>Consider an hour of any person’s +life. It holds out innumerable possibilities. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[30]</span>Which of these are realized +depends upon two main groups of +factors:—the external situation in +which he is living, his surroundings, +including the other people with whom +he is in contact; and, secondly, his +psychological make-up. The first of +these, the external situation, is sometimes +given too much importance. +We have only to notice what very +different experiences different people +undergo when in closely similar situations +to recognize this fact. A situation +which is dulness itself for one may be +full of excitement for another. What +an individual responds to is not the +whole situation but a selection from it, +and as a rule few people make the +same selection. What is selected is +decided by the organization of the +individual’s interests.</p> + +<p>Now let us simplify the case by +supposing that nothing which happens +during this hour is going to have any +further consequences either in our +hypothetical person’s life or in anyone +else’s. He is going to cease to exist +when the clock strikes—but for our +purposes he must be imagined not to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[31]</span>know this—and no one is to be a whit +the better or worse whatever he thinks, +feels or does during the hour. What +shall we say it would be best for him, +if he could, to do?</p> + +<p>We need not bother to imagine the +detail of the external situation or the +character of the man. We can answer +our question in general terms without +doing so. The man has a certain +definite instinctive make-up—the result +of his past history, including his +heredity. There will be many things +which he cannot do which another +man could, and many things which he +cannot do in this situation, whatever +it is, which he could do in other situations. +But given this particular man +in this particular situation, our question +is, which of the possibilities open to +him would be better than which +others? How would we as friendly +observers like to see him living?</p> + +<p>Setting pain aside, we may perhaps +agree that torpor would be the worst +choice. Complete inertness, lifelessness, +would be the sorriest spectacle—anticipating +too nearly and unnecessarily +what is to happen when the hour +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[32]</span>strikes. We can then perhaps agree, +though here more resistance from preconceived +ideas may be encountered, +that the best choice would be the +opposite of torpor, that is to say, the +fullest, keenest, most active and completest +kind of life.</p> + +<p>Such a life is one which brings into +play as many as possible of the <i>positive</i> +interests. We can leave out the negative +interests. It would be a pity for +our friend to be frightened or disgusted +even for a minute of his precious hour.</p> + +<p>But this is not all. It is not enough +that many interests should be stirred. +There is a more important point to be +noted.</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent12">The Gods approve</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The depth and not the tumult of the soul.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="noindent">The interests must come into play and +remain in play with as little conflict +among themselves as possible. In +other words, the experience must be +organized so as to give all the impulses +of which it is composed the greatest +possible degree of freedom.⁠<a id="FNanchor_3_3" href="#Footnote_3_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[33]</span></p> + +<p>It is in this respect that people differ +most from one another. It is this which +separates the good life from the bad. +Far more life is wasted through +muddled mental organization than +through lack of opportunity. Conflicts +between different impulses are the +greatest evils which afflict mankind.</p> + +<p>The best life then which we can wish +for our friend will be one in which as +much as possible of himself is engaged +(as many of his impulses as possible). +And this with as little conflict, as little +mutual interference between different +sub-systems of his activities as there +can be. The more he lives and the +less he thwarts himself the better. +That briefly is our answer as psychologists, +as outside observers abstractly +describing the state of affairs. And if +it is asked, what does such life feel like, +how is it to live through? the answer is +that it feels like and is the experience +of poetry.</p> + +<p>There are two ways in which conflict +can be avoided or overcome. By +conquest and by conciliation. One +or other of the contesting impulses +can be suppressed, or they can come to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[34]</span>a mutual arrangement, they can adjust +themselves to one another. We owe +to psycho-analysis—at present still a +rather undisciplined branch of psychology—a +great deal of striking evidence +as to the extreme difficulty of suppressing +any vigorous impulse. When it +seems to be suppressed it is often found +to be really as active as ever, but in +some other form, generally a troublesome +one. Persistent mental imbalances +are the source of nearly all our troubles. +For this reason, as well as for the +simpler reason that suppression is +wasteful of life, conciliation is always +to be preferred to conquest. People +who are always winning victories over +themselves might equally well be +described as always enslaving themselves. +Their lives become unnecessarily +narrow. The minds of many +saints have been like wells, they should +have been like lakes or like the sea.</p> + +<p>Unfortunately, most of us, left to +ourselves, have no option but to go in +for extensive attempts at self-conquest. +It is our only means of escape from +chaos. Our impulses must have some +order, some organization, or we do not +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[35]</span>live ten minutes without disaster. In +the past, Tradition, a kind of Treaty +of Versailles assigning frontiers and +spheres of influence to the different +interests, and based chiefly upon conquest, +ordered our lives in a moderately +satisfactory manner. But Tradition is +weakening. Moral authorities are not +as well backed by beliefs as they were; +their sanctions are declining in force. +We are in need of something to take the +place of the old order. Not in need +of a new balance of power, a new +arrangement of conquests, but of a +League of Nations for the moral ordering +of the impulses; a new order based +on conciliation, not on attempted +suppression.</p> + +<p>Only the rarest individuals hitherto +have achieved this new order, and never +yet perhaps completely. But many +have achieved it for a brief while, for +a particular phase of experience, and +many have recorded it for these phases.</p> + +<p>Of these records poetry consists.</p> + +<p>But before going on to this new point +let us return for a moment to our +hypothetical friend who is enjoying +his last hour, and suppose this limitation +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[36]</span>removed. Instead of such an +hour let us consider any hour, one +which has consequences for his future +and for other people. Let us consider +any piece of any life. How far is our +argument affected? Will our standards +of good and evil be altered?</p> + +<p>Clearly the case now is, in certain +respects, different; it is much more +complicated. We have to take these +consequences into account. We have +to regard his experience not in itself +alone, but as a piece of his life and as a +probable factor in other people’s situations. +If we are to approve of the +experience, it must not only be full of +life and free from conflict, but it must +be likely to lead to other experiences, +both his own and those of other people, +also full of life and free from conflict. +And often, in actual fact, it has to be +less full of life and more restricted than +it might be in order to ensure these +results. A momentary individual good +has often to be sacrificed for the sake +of a later or a general good. Conflicts +are often necessary in order that they +should not occur later. The mutual +adjustment of conflicting impulses may +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[37]</span>take time, and an acute struggle may +be the only way in which they learn +to co-operate peacefully in the future.</p> + +<p>But all these complications and +qualifications do not disturb the conclusion +we arrived at through considering +the simpler case. A good experience +is still one full of life, in the sense which +we have explained, or derivatively one +conducive to experiences full of life. +An evil experience is one which is self-thwarting +or conducive to stultifying +conflicts. So far then, all is sound and +shipshape in the argument, and we can +go on to consider the poet.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[38]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="IV_The_Command_of_Life"> + IV. <span class="smcap">The Command of Life</span> + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>The chief characteristic of poets is +their amazing <i>command</i> of words. This +is not a mere matter of vocabulary, +though it is significant that Shakespeare’s +vocabulary is the richest and +most varied that any Englishman +has ever used. It is not the quantity +of words a writer has at his disposal, +but the way in which he disposes them +that gives him his rank as a poet. +His sense of how they modify one +another, how their separate effects in +the mind combine, how they fit into the +whole response, is what matters. As +a rule the poet is not conscious of the +reasons why just these words and no +others best serve. They fall into their +place without his conscious control, and +a feeling of rightness, of inevitability +is commonly his sole conscious ground +for his certainty that he has ordered +them aright. It would as a rule be +idle to ask him why he used a particular +rhythm or a particular epithet. He +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[39]</span>might give reasons, but they would +probably be mere rationalizations +having nothing to do with the matter. +For the choice of the rhythm or the +epithet was not an intellectual matter +(though it may be capable of an intellectual +justification), but was due +to an instinctive impulse seeking to +confirm itself, or to order itself with +its fellows.</p> + +<p>It is very important to realize how +deep are the motives which govern +the poet’s use of words. No study +of other poets which is not an impassioned +study will help him. He +can learn much from other poets, but +only by letting them influence him +deeply, not by any superficial examination +of their ‘style.’ For the motives +which shape a poem spring from the +root of the mind. The poet’s style +is the direct outcome of the way in +which his interests are organized. +That amazing capacity of his for ordering +speech is only a part of a more +amazing capacity for ordering his +experience.</p> + +<p>This is the explanation of the fact +that poetry cannot be written by +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[40]</span>cunning and study, by craft and contrivance. +To a superficial glance the +productions of the mere scholar, steeped +in the poetry of the past and animated +by intense emulation and a passionate +desire to place himself among the +poets will often look extraordinarily +like poetry. His words may seem as +subtly and delicately ordered as words +can be, his epithets as happy, his +transitions as daring, his simplicity as +perfect. By every intellectual test +he may succeed. But unless the +ordering of the words sprang, not from +knowledge of the technique of poetry +added to a desire to write some, but +from an actual supreme ordering of +<i>experience</i>, a closer approach to his +work will betray it. Characteristically +its rhythm will give it away. For +rhythm is no matter of tricks with +syllables, but directly reflects personality. +It is not separable from the words +to which it belongs. Moving rhythm +in poetry arises only from genuinely +stirred impulses, and is a more subtle +index than any other to the order of +the interests.</p> + +<p>Poetry, in other words, cannot be +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[41]</span>imitated; it cannot be faked so as +to baffle the only test that ought ever +to be applied. It is unfortunately +true that this test is often very difficult +to apply. And it is sometimes hard +to know whether the test has or has +not been applied. For the test is this—that +only genuine poetry will give to +the reader who approaches it in the +proper manner a response which is as +passionate, noble and serene as the +experience of the poet, the master of +speech, because he is the master of +experience itself. But it is easy to +read carelessly and shallowly, and easy +to mistake for the response something +which does not properly belong to it +at all. By careless reading we miss +what is in the poem. And in some +states of mind, for example, when +intoxicated, the silliest doggerel may +seem sublime. What happened was not +due to the doggerel but to the drink.</p> + +<p>With these general considerations in +mind we may turn now from the +question—What can the dawning +science of psychology tell us about +poetry?—to the allied questions—How +is science in general, and the new +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[42]</span>outlook upon the world which it +induces, already affecting poetry, and +to what extent may science make +obsolete the poetry of the past? To +answer these questions we need to +sketch some of the changes which have +recently come about in our world-picture, +and to consider anew what +it is that we demand from poetry.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[43]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="V_The_Neutralization_of_Nature"> + V. <span class="smcap">The Neutralization of Nature</span> + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>The poets are failing us, or we them, +if after reading them we do not find +ourselves changed; not with a temporary +change, such as luncheon or +slumber will produce, from which we +inevitably work back to the <i>status quo +ante</i>, but with a permanent alteration +of our possibilities as responsive individuals +in good or bad adjustment +to an all but overwhelming concourse +of stimulations. How many living +poets have the power to make such +deep changes? Let us set aside youthful +enthusiasms; there is a time in most +lives when, rightly enough, Mr. Masefield, +Mr. Kipling, Mr. Drinkwater, or +even Mr. Noyes or Mr. Studdert +Kennedy may profoundly affect the +awakening mind; it is being introduced +to poetry. Later on, looking back, we +can see that any one of a hundred +other poets would have served as well +or better. Let us consider only the +experienced, the fairly hardened reader, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[44]</span>who is familiar with a great deal of +the poetry of the past.</p> + +<p>Contemporary poetry which will, +accidents apart, modify the attitudes +of this reader must be such as could not +have been written in another age than +our own. It must have sprung in part +from the contemporary situation. It +must correspond to needs, impulses, attitudes, +which did not arise in the same +fashion for poets in the past, and criticism +also must take notice of the contemporary +situation. Our attitudes +to man, to nature, and to the universe +change with every generation, and +have changed with unusual violence +in recent years. We cannot leave these +changes out of account in judging +modern poetry. When attitudes are +changing neither criticism nor poetry +can remain stationary. To those who +realise what the poet is this will be +obvious; but all literary history bears +it out.</p> + +<p>It would be of little use to give a +list of the chief recent intellectual +revolutions and to attempt to deduce +therefrom what must be happening to +poetry. The effects upon our attitudes +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[45]</span>of changes of opinion are too complex +to be calculated so. What we have to +consider is not men’s current opinions +but their attitudes—how they feel about +this or that as part of the world; what +relative importance its different aspects +have for them; what they are prepared +to sacrifice for what; what they trust, +what they are frightened by, what they +desire. To discover these things we +must go to the poets. Unless they are +failing us, they will show us just these +things.</p> + +<p>They will <i>show</i> them, but, of course, +they will not state them. Their poetry +will not be <i>about</i> their attitudes in the +sense in which a treatise on anatomy +is about the structure of the body. +Their poetry will arise out of their +attitudes and will evoke them in an +adequate reader, but, as a rule, it will +not mention any attitudes. We must, +of course, expect occasional essays in +verse upon psychological topics, but +these should not mislead us. Most of +the attitudes with which poetry is +concerned are indescribable—because +psychology is still in a primitive +stage—and can only be named or +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[46]</span>spoken about as the attitude of this +poem or that. The poem, the actual +experience as it forms itself in the mind +of the fit reader, controlling his +responses to the world and ordering his +impulses, is our best evidence as to how +other men feel about things; and we +read it, if we are serious, partly to +discover how life seems to another, +partly to try how his attitudes suit us, +engaged as we also are in the same +enterprise.</p> + +<p>Although we cannot—for lack of a +sufficient psychology—describe attitudes +in terms which do not apply also +to others which we are not considering, +and although we cannot deduce a +poet’s attitudes from the general intellectual +background, none the less, +after reading his poetry, when his +experience has become our own, we can +sometimes profitably look round us +to see why these attitudes should be so +very different, in some ways, from +those we find in the poetry of 100 or +of 1,000 years ago. In so doing we +gain a means of indicating what these +attitudes are, useful both for those +who are constitutionally unable to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[47]</span>read poetry (an increasing number), +and for those victims of education who +neglect modern poetry because they +“don’t know what to make of it.”</p> + +<p>What, then, has been happening to +the intellectual background, to the +world-picture, and in what ways may +changes here have caused a reorganization +of our attitudes?</p> + +<p>The central dominant change may be +described as the <i>Neutralization of +Nature</i>, the transference from the +Magical View of the world to the +scientific, a change so great that it is +perhaps only paralleled historically +by the change, from whatever adumbration +of a world-picture preceded the +Magical View, to the Magical View +itself. By the Magical View I mean, +roughly, the belief in a world of Spirits +and Powers which control events, and +which can be evoked and, to some +extent, controlled themselves by human +practices. The belief in Inspiration +and the beliefs underlying Ritual are +representative parts of this view. It +has been decaying slowly for some 300 +years, but its definite overthrow has +taken place only in the last 60. Vestiges +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[48]</span>and survivals of it prompt and direct +a great part of our daily affairs, but +it is no longer the world-picture which +an informed mind most easily accepts. +There is some evidence that Poetry, +together with the other Arts, arose with +this Magical View. It is a possibility +to be seriously considered that Poetry +may pass away with it.</p> + +<p>The reasons for the downfall of the +Magical View are familiar. It seems +to have arisen as a consequence of an +increase in man’s knowledge of and +command over nature (the discovery +of agriculture). It fell through the +extension of that knowledge of and +command over nature. Throughout its +(10,000 years?) reign its stability has +been due to its capacity for satisfying +men’s emotional needs through its +adequacy as an object for their attitudes. +We must remember that human +attitudes have developed always <i>inside</i> +the social group; they are what a man +feels, the mainsprings of his behaviour +towards his fellow-men, and they have +only a limited field of applicability. +Thus the Magical View, being an interpretation +of nature in terms of man’s +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[49]</span>own most intimate and most important +affairs, very soon came to suit man’s +emotional make-up better than any +other view possibly could. The attraction +of the Magical View lay very +little in the actual command over +nature which it gave. That Galton was +the first person to test the efficacy of +prayer experimentally is an indication +of this. What did give the Magical +View its standing was the ease and +adequacy with which the universe +therein presented could be emotionally +handled, the scope offered for man’s +love and hatred, for his terror as well +as for his hope and his despair. It +gave life a shape, a sharpness, and a +coherence that no other means could +so easily secure.</p> + +<p>In its place we have the universe of +the mathematician, a field for the +tracing out of ever wider and more +general uniformities. A field in which +intellectual certainty is, almost for +the first time, available, and on an +unlimited scale. Also the despondencies, +the emotional excitements accompanying +research and discovery, again on an +unprecedented scale. Thus a number +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[50]</span>of men who might in other times have +been poets are to-day in bio-chemical +laboratories—a fact of which we might +avail ourselves, did we feel the need, in +defence of an alleged present poverty +in poetry. But apart from these +thrills, what has the world-picture of +science to do with human emotions? +A god voluntarily or involuntarily +subject to the General Theory of Relativity +does not make an emotional +appeal. So this form of compromise +fails. Various emergent deities have +been suggested—by Mr. Wells, by +Professors Alexander and Lloyd Morgan—but, +alas! the reasons for suggesting +them have become too clear and conscious. +They are there to meet a +demand, not to make one; they do not +do the work for which they were invented.</p> + +<p>The revolution brought about by +science is, in short, too drastic to be +met by any such half-measures. It +touches the central principle by which +the Mind has been deliberately organized +in the past, and no alteration in beliefs, +however great, will restore equilibrium +while that principle is retained. I +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[51]</span>come now to the main purport of these +remarks.</p> + +<p>Ever since man first grew self-conscious +and reflective he has supposed +that his feelings, his attitudes, and his +conduct spring from his knowledge. +That as far as he could it would be +wise for him to organize himself in this +way, with knowledge⁠<a id="FNanchor_4_4" href="#Footnote_4_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a> as the foundation +on which should rest feeling, attitude, +and behaviour. In point of fact, he +never has been so organised, knowledge +having been until recently too scarce; +but he has constantly been persuaded +that he was built on this plan, and has +endeavoured to carry the structure +further on these lines. He has sought +for knowledge, supposing that it would +itself <i>directly</i> excite a right orientation +to existence, supposing that, if he only +knew what the world was like, this +knowledge in itself would show him +how to feel towards it, what attitudes +to adopt, and with what aims to live. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[52]</span>He has constantly called what he +found in this quest, ‘knowledge,’ +unaware that it was hardly ever pure, +unaware that his feelings, attitudes, +and behaviour were <i>already</i> orientated +by his physiological and social needs, +and were themselves, for the most +part, the sources of whatever it was +that he supposed himself to be knowing.</p> + +<p>Suddenly, not long ago, he began to +get genuine knowledge on large scale. +The process went faster and faster; it +snowballed. Now he has to face the +fact that the edifices of supposed +knowledge, with which he has for so +long buttressed and supported his +attitudes, will no longer stand up, +and, at the same time, he has to +recognise that pure knowledge is irrelevant +to his aims, that it has no <i>direct</i> +bearing upon what he should feel, or +what he should attempt to do.</p> + +<p>For science, which is simply our most +elaborate way of <i>pointing</i> to things +systematically, tells us and can tell us +nothing about the nature of things +in any <i>ultimate</i> sense. It can never +answer any question of the form: +<i>What</i> is so and so? It can only tell us +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[53]</span><i>how</i> so and so behaves. And it does +not attempt to do more than this. +Nor, indeed, can more than this be +done. Those ancient, deeply troubling, +formulations that begin with ‘What’ +and ‘Why’ prove, when we examine +them, to be not questions at all; but +requests—for emotional satisfaction. +They indicate our desire not for knowledge +but for assurance,⁠<a id="FNanchor_5_5" href="#Footnote_5_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a> a point which +appears clearly when we look into the +‘How’ of questions and requests, of +knowledge and desire. Science can +tell us about man’s place in the universe +and his chances; that the place is +precarious, and the chances problematical. +It can enormously increase our +chances if we can make wise use of it. +But it cannot tell us what we are or +what this world is; not because these +are in any sense insoluble questions, +but because they are not questions at +all.⁠<a id="FNanchor_6_6" href="#Footnote_6_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a> And if science cannot answer +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[54]</span>these pseudo-questions no more can +philosophy or religion. So that all +the varied answers which have for ages +been regarded as the keys of wisdom +are dissolving together.</p> + +<p>The result is a biological crisis which +is not likely to be decided without +trouble. It is one which we can, +perhaps, decide for ourselves, partly +by thinking, partly by reorganizing our +minds in other ways; if we do not it +may be decided for us, not in the way +we should choose. While it lasts it +puts a strain on each individual and +upon society, which is part of the +explanation of many modern difficulties, +the difficulties of the poet in particular, +to come back to our present subject. I +have not really been far away.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[55]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="VI_Poetry_and_Beliefs"> + VI. <span class="smcap">Poetry and Beliefs</span> + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>The business of the poet, as we have +seen, is to give order and coherence, +and so freedom, to a body of experience. +To do so through words which act as +its skeleton, as a structure by which +the impulses which make up the +experience are adjusted to one another, +and act together. The means by which +words do this are many and varied. +To work them out is a problem for +psychology. A beginning has been +indicated above, but only a beginning. +What little can be done shows already +that most critical dogmas of the past +are either false or nonsense. A little +knowledge is not here a danger, but +clears the air in a remarkable way.</p> + +<p>Roughly and inadequately, even in +the light of our present knowledge, we +can say that words work in the poem +in two main fashions. As sensory +stimuli and as (in the <i>widest</i> sense) +symbols. We must refrain from considering +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[56]</span>the sensory side of the poem, +remarking only that it is <i>not</i> in the least +independent of the other side, and that +it has for definite reasons prior importance +in most poetry. We must confine +ourselves to the other function of words +in the poem, or rather, omitting much +that is of secondary relevance, to one +form of that function, let me call it +<i>pseudo-statement</i>.</p> + +<p>It will be admitted—by those who +distinguish between scientific statement, +where truth is ultimately a +matter of verification as this is understood +in the laboratory, and emotive +utterance, where ‘truth’ is primarily +acceptability <i>by</i> some attitude, and +more remotely is the acceptability <i>of</i> +this attitude itself—that it is <i>not</i> the +poet’s business to make true statements. +Yet poetry has constantly the air of +making statements, and important +ones; which is one reason why some +mathematicians cannot read it. They +find the alleged statements to be <i>false</i>. +It will be agreed that their approach +to poetry and their expectations from +it are mistaken. But what exactly +is the other, the right, the poetic, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[57]</span>approach and how does it differ from +the mathematical?</p> + +<p>The poetic approach evidently limits +the framework of possible consequences +into which the pseudo-statement is +taken. For the scientific approach +this framework is unlimited. Any and +every consequence is relevant. If any +of the consequences of a statement +conflicts with acknowledged fact then +so much the worse for the statement. +Not so with the pseudo-statement +when poetically approached. The problem +is—just how does the limitation +work? The usual account is in terms +of a supposed universe of discourse, a +world of make-believe, of imagination, +of recognised fictions common to the +poet and his readers. A pseudo-statement +which fits into this system +of assumptions would be regarded as +‘poetically true’; one which does not, +as ‘poetically false.’ This attempt +to treat ‘poetic truth’ on the model +of general ‘coherence theories’ is +very natural for certain schools of +logicians; but is inadequate, on the +wrong lines from the outset. To +mention two objections out of many; +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[58]</span>there is no means of discovering what +the ‘universe of discourse’ is on any +occasion, and the kind of coherence +which must hold within it, supposing +it to be discoverable, is not an affair +of logical relations. Attempt to define +the system of propositions into which</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“O Rose, thou art sick!”</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="noindent">must fit, and the logical relations which +must hold between them if it is to be +‘poetically true’; the absurdity of +the theory becomes evident.</p> + +<p>We must look further. In the poetic +approach the relevant consequences +are not logical or to be arrived at by +a partial relaxation of logic. Except +occasionally and by accident logic +does not enter at all. They are the +consequences which arise through our +emotional organisation. The acceptance +which a pseudo-statement receives is +entirely governed by its effects upon +our feelings and attitudes. Logic only +comes in, if at all, in subordination, as +a servant to our emotional response. +It is an unruly servant, however, as +poets and readers are constantly discovering. +A pseudo-statement is ‘true’ +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[59]</span>if it suits and serves some attitude or +links together attitudes which on other +grounds are desirable. This kind of +truth is so opposed to scientific ‘truth’ +that it is a pity to use so similar a word, +but at present it is difficult to avoid +the malpractice.⁠<a id="FNanchor_7_7" href="#Footnote_7_7" class="fnanchor">[7]</a></p> + +<p>This brief analysis may be sufficient +to indicate the fundamental disparity +and opposition between pseudo-statements +as they occur in poetry and +statements as they occur in science. +A pseudo-statement is a form of words +which is justified entirely by its effect +in releasing or organizing our impulses +and attitudes (due regard being had +for the better or worse organizations +of these <i>inter se</i>); a statement, on the +other hand, is justified by its truth, +<i>i.e.</i> its correspondence, in a highly +technical sense, with the fact to which +it points.</p> + +<p>Statements true and false alike do of +course constantly touch off attitudes +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[60]</span>and action. Our daily practical existence +is largely guided by them. On the +whole true statements are of more +service to us than false ones. None the +less we do not and, at present, cannot +order our emotions and attitudes by +true statements alone. Nor is there +any probability that we ever shall +contrive to do so. This is one of the +great new dangers to which civilisation +is exposed. Countless pseudo-statements—about +God, about the universe, +about human nature, the relations of +mind to mind, about the soul, its rank +and destiny—pseudo-statements which +are pivotal points in the organization of +the mind, vital to its well-being, have +suddenly become, for sincere, honest +and informal minds, impossible to +believe. For centuries they have been +believed; now they are gone, irrecoverably; +and the knowledge which has +killed them is not of a kind upon which +an equally fine organization of the mind +can be based.</p> + +<p>This is the contemporary situation. +The remedy, since there is no prospect +of our gaining adequate knowledge, +and since indeed it is fairly clear that +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[61]</span>genuine knowledge cannot serve us +here and can only increase our practical +control of Nature, is to cut our pseudo-statements +free from belief, and yet +retain them, in this released state, as +the main instruments by which we +order our attitudes to one another and +to the world. Not so desperate a +remedy as may appear, for poetry conclusively +shows that even the most +important among our attitudes can be +aroused and maintained without any +belief entering in at all. Those of +Tragedy, for example. We need no +beliefs, and indeed we must have none, +if we are to read <i>King Lear</i>. Pseudo-statements +to which we attach no belief +and statements proper such as science +provides cannot conflict. It is only +when we introduce illicit beliefs into +poetry that danger arises. To do so is +from this point of view a profanation +of poetry.</p> + +<p>Yet an important branch of criticism +which has attracted the best talents +from prehistoric times until to-day +consists of the endeavour to persuade +men that the functions of science and +poetry are identical, or that the one is +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[62]</span>a ‘higher form’ of the other, or that +they conflict and we must choose +between them.</p> + +<p>The root of this persistent endeavour +has still to be mentioned; it is the same +as that from which the Magical View +of the world arose. If we give to a +pseudo-statement the kind of unqualified +acceptance which belongs by +right only to certified scientific statements, +if we can contrive to do this, the +impulses and attitudes with which we +respond to it gain a notable stability +and vigour. Briefly, if we can contrive +to believe poetry, then the world <i>seems</i>, +while we do so, to be transfigured. It +used to be comparatively easy to do +this, and the habit has become well +established. With the extension of +science and the neutralization of nature +it has become difficult as well as +dangerous. Yet it is still alluring; it +has many analogies with drug-taking. +Hence the endeavours of the critics +referred to. Various subterfuges have +been devised along the lines of regarding +Poetic Truth as figurative, symbolic; +or as more immediate, as a truth of +Intuition, not of reason; or as a higher +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[63]</span>form of the same truth as reason yields. +Such attempts to use poetry as a denial +or as a corrective of science are very +common. One point can be made +against them all: they are never worked +out in detail. There is no equivalent +to Mill’s <i>Logic</i> expounding any such +view. The language in which they are +framed is usually a blend of obsolete +psychology and emotive exclamations.</p> + +<p>The long-established and much-encouraged +habit of giving to emotive +utterances—whether pseudo-statements +simple, or looser and larger +wholes taken as saying something +figuratively—the kind of assent which +we give to established facts, has for +most people debilitated a wide range +of their responses. A few scientists, +caught young and brought up in the +laboratory, are free from it; but then, +as a rule, they pay no <i>serious</i> attention +to poetry. For most men the +recognition of the neutrality of nature +brings about—through this habit—a +divorce from poetry. They are so used +to having their responses propped +up by beliefs, however vague, that when +these shadowy supports are removed +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[64]</span>they are no longer able to respond. +Their attitudes to so many things have +been forced in the past, over-encouraged. +And when the world-picture +ceases to assist there is a collapse. +Over whole tracts of natural emotional +response we are to-day like a bed of +dahlias whose sticks have been removed. +And this effect of the neutralisation of +nature is only in its beginnings. Consider +the probable effects upon love-poetry +in the near future of the kind +of enquiry into basic human constitution +exemplified by psycho-analysis.</p> + +<p>A sense of desolation, of uncertainty, +of futility, of the groundlessness of +aspirations, of the vanity of endeavour, +and a thirst for a life-giving water +which seems suddenly to have failed, +are the signs in consciousness of this +necessary reorganization of our lives.⁠<a id="FNanchor_8_8" href="#Footnote_8_8" class="fnanchor">[8]</a> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[65]</span>Our attitudes and impulses are being +compelled to become self-supporting; +they are being driven back upon their +biological justification, made once again +sufficient to themselves. And the only +impulses which seem strong enough to +continue unflagging are commonly so +crude that, to more finely developed +individuals, they hardly seem worth +having. Such people cannot live by +warmth, food, fighting, drink, and sex +alone. Those who are least affected +by the change are those who are +emotionally least removed from the +animals. As we shall see at the close of +this essay, even a considerable poet +may attempt to find relief by a reversion +to primitive mentality.</p> + +<p>It is important to diagnose the disease +correctly and to put the blame in the +right quarter. Usually it is some +alleged ‘materialism’ of science which +is denounced. This mistake is due +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[66]</span>partly to clumsy thinking, but chiefly +to relics of the Magical View. For +even if the Universe were ‘spiritual’ +all through (whatever that assertion +might mean; all such assertions are +probably nonsense), that would not +make it any more accordant to human +attitudes. It is not what the universe +is made of but how it works, the law +it follows, which makes knowledge of +it incapable of spurring on our emotional +responses, and further the nature of +knowledge itself makes it inadequate. +The contact with things which we therein +establish is too sketchy and indirect +to help us. We are beginning to know +too much about the bond which unites +the mind to its object in knowledge +for that old dream of a perfect knowledge +which would guarantee perfect +life to retain its sanction. What was +thought to be pure knowledge, we see +now to have been shot through with +hope and desire with fear and wonder, +and these intrusive elements indeed +gave it all its power to support our lives. +In knowledge, in the ‘How?’ of events, +we can find hints by which to take +advantage of circumstances in our +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[67]</span>favour and avoid mischances. But we +cannot get from it a <i>raison d’être</i> or a +justification of more than a relatively +lowly kind of life.</p> + +<p>The justification, or the reverse, of any +attitude lies, not in the object, but in +itself, in its serviceableness to the whole +personality. Upon its place in the whole +system of attitudes, which is the personality, +all its worth depends. This is true +equally for the subtle, finely compounded +attitudes of the civilised individual as for +the simpler attitudes of the child.</p> + +<p>In brief, experience is its own justification; +and this fact must be faced, +although sometimes—by a lover, for +example—it may be very difficult to +accept. Once it is faced, it is apparent +that all the attitudes to other human +beings and to the world in all its aspects, +which have been serviceable to humanity, +remain as they were, as valuable as +ever. Hesitation felt in admitting +this is a measure of the strength of the +evil habit we have described. But +many of these attitudes, valuable as +ever, are, now that they are being set +free, more difficult to maintain, because +we still hunger after a basis in belief.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[68]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="VII_Some_Contemporary_Poets"> + VII. <span class="smcap">Some Contemporary Poets</span> + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>It is time to turn to those living poets +through study of whose work these +reflections have arisen. Mr. Hardy +is for every reason the poet with whom +it is most natural to begin. Not +only does his work span the whole +period in which what I have called +the neutralisation of nature was finally +effected, but it has throughout definitely +reflected that change. Short essays +in verse are fairly frequent among his +<i>Collected Poems</i>, essays almost always +dealing with this very topic; but these, +however suggestive, are not the ground +for singling him out as the poet who +has most fully and courageously +accepted the contemporary background; +nor are the poems which are +most definitely <i>about</i> the neutrality +of nature the ground for the assertion. +There is an opportunity for a misunderstanding +at this point. The +ground is the tone, the handling and +the rhythm of poems which treat +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[69]</span>other subjects, for example <i>The Self +Unseeing</i>, <i>The Voice</i>, <i>A Broken +Appointment</i>, and pre-eminently <i>After +a Journey</i>. A poem does not necessarily +accept the situation because +it gives it explicit recognition, but only +through the precise mutation of the +attitudes of which it is composed. Mr. +Middleton Murry, against whose recent +positions parts of this essay may be +suspected by the reader to be aimed, +has best pointed out, in his <i>Aspects of +Literature</i>, how peculiarly “adequate +to what we know and have suffered” +Mr. Hardy’s poetry is. “His reaction to +an episode has behind it and within it +a reaction to the universe.” This is +not as I should put it were I making +a statement; but read as a pseudo-statement, +emotively, it is excellent; +it makes us remember how we felt. +Actually, it describes just what Hardy, +at his best, does not do. He makes +no reaction to the universe, recognizing +it as something to which no reaction +is more relevant than another. Mr. +Murry is again well inspired, this time +both emotively and scientifically, when +he says: “Mr. Hardy stands high above +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[70]</span>all other modern poets by the deliberate +purity of his responsiveness. The contagion +of the world’s slow stain has +not touched him; from the first he held +aloof from the general conspiracy to +forget in which not only those who are +professional optimists take a part.” +These extracts (from a writer more +agonizingly aware than others that some +strange change has befallen man in this +generation, though his diagnosis is, I +believe, mistaken) indicate very well +Mr. Hardy’s place and rank in English +poetry. He is the poet who has most +steadily refused to be comforted. +The comfort of forgetfulness, the +comfort of beliefs, he has put both +these away. Hence his singular preoccupation +with death; because it is +in the contemplation of death that the +necessity for human attitudes, in the +face of an indifferent universe, to +become self-supporting is felt most +poignantly. Only the greatest tragic +poets have achieved an equally self-reliant +and immitigable acceptance.</p> + +<p>From Mr. Hardy to Mr. De la Mare +may seem a large transition, though +readers of Mr. De la Mare’s later work +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[71]</span>will agree that there are interesting +resemblances—in <i>Who’s That</i> and in +other poems in <i>The Veil</i> where Mr. +De la Mare is notably less himself than +when writing at his best. In his best +poetry, in <i>The Pigs and the Charcoal +Burner</i>, in <i>John Mouldy</i>, no intimation +of the contemporary situation sounds. +He is writing of, and from, a world +which knows nothing of these difficulties, +a world of pure phantasy for +which the distinction between knowledge +and feeling has not yet dawned. +When in other poems, more reflective, +in <i>The Tryst</i>, for example, Mr. De la +Mare does seem to be directly facing +the indifference of the universe towards +“poor mortal longingness” a curious +thing happens. His utterance, in spite +of his words, becomes not at all a +recognition of this indifference, but +voices instead an impulse to turn away, +to forget it, to seek shelter in the +warmth of his own familiar thickets of +dream, not to stay out in the wind. +His rhythm, that indescribable personal +note which clings to all his best +poetry, is a lulling rhythm, an anodyne, +an opiate, it gives sleep and visions, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[72]</span>phantasmagoria; but it does not give +<i>vision</i>, it does not awaken. Even when +he most appears to be contemplating +the fate of the modern, “whom the +words of the wise have made sad,” +the drift of his verse is still “seeking +after that sweet golden clime” where +the mental traveller’s journey <i>begins</i>.</p> + +<p>There is one exception to this charge +(for in a sense it is an adverse criticism, +though not one to be pressed except +against a great poet), there is one poem +in which there is no such reluctance +to bear the blast—<i>The Mad Prince’s +Song</i> in <i>Peacock Pie</i>. But here the +spirit of the poem, the impulse which +gives it life, comes from a poet who +more than most refused to take +shelter; <i>The Mad Prince’s Song</i> derives +from <i>Hamlet</i>.</p> + +<p>Mr. Yeats and Mr. Lawrence present +two further ways of dodging those +difficulties which come from being born +into this generation rather than into +some earlier age. Mr. De la Mare +takes shelter in the dream-world of +the child, Mr. Yeats retires into black +velvet curtains and the visions of the +Hermetist, and Mr. Lawrence makes +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[73]</span>a magnificent attempt to reconstruct +in himself the mentality of the Bushman. +There are other modes of escape +open to the poet. Mr. Blundell, to +name one other poet only, goes into +the country, but few people follow +him there in his spirit, whereas Mr. +Yeats and Mr. Lawrence, whether they +are widely read or not, do represent +tendencies among the defeated which +are only too easily observable.</p> + +<p>Mr. Yeats’ work from the beginning +was a repudiation of the most active +contemporary interests. But at first +the poet of <i>The Wanderings of Usheen</i>, +<i>The Stolen Child</i>, and <i>Innisfree</i> turned +away from contemporary civilization in +favour of a world which he knew +perfectly, the world of folk-lore as +it is accepted, neither with belief nor +disbelief, by the peasant. Folk-lore +and the Irish landscape, its winds, +woods, waters, islets, and seagulls, +and for a while an unusually simple +and direct kind of love poetry in which +he became something more than a +minor poet, these were his refuge. +Later, after a drawn battle with the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[74]</span>drama, he made a more violent repudiation, +not merely of current civilization +but of life itself, in favour of a supernatural +world. But the world of the +‘eternal moods,’ of supernal essences +and immortal beings is not, like the +Irish peasant stories and the Irish +landscape, part of his natural and +familiar experience. Now he turns +to a world of symbolic phantasmagoria +about which he is desperately uncertain. +He is uncertain because he has adopted +as a technique of inspiration the use of +trance, of dissociated phases of consciousness, +and the revelations given +in these dissociated states are insufficiently +connected with normal experience. +This, in part, explains the +weakness of Mr. Yeats’ transcendental +poetry. A deliberate reversal of the +natural relations of thought and feeling +is the rest of the explanation. Mr. +Yeats takes certain feelings—feelings +of conviction attaching to certain +visions—as evidence for the thoughts +which he supposes his visions to +symbolize. To Mr. Yeats the value +of <i>The Phases of the Moon</i> lies not in +any attitudes which it arouses or +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[75]</span>embodies but in the doctrine which for +an initiate it promulgates.</p> + +<p>The resort to trance, and the effort +to discover a new world-picture to +replace that given by science are the +two most significant points for our +purpose in Mr. Yeats’ work. A third +might be the singularly bitter contempt +for the generality of mankind which +occasionally appears.</p> + +<p>The doctrinal problem arises again, +but in a clearer form with Mr. Lawrence. +But here (Mr. Yeats’ promised treatise +on the states of the soul has not yet +appeared) we have the advantage of +an elaborate prose exposition, <i>Phantasia +of the Unconscious</i>, of the positions +which so many of the poems advocate. +It is not unfair to put the matter in +this way, since there is little doubt +possible that the bulk of Mr. Lawrence’s +published verse is prose, scientific +prose too, jottings, in fact, from a +psychologist’s notebook, with a commentary +interspersed. Due allowance +being made for the extreme psychological +interest of these observations, +there remains the task of explaining +how the poet who wrote the <i>Ballad of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[76]</span>Another Ophelia</i> and <i>Aware</i>, and, above +all, <i>The White Peacock</i>, should have +wandered, through his own zeal misdirected, +so far from the paths which +once appeared to be his alone to open.</p> + +<p>Mr. Lawrence’s revolt against civilization +seems to have been originally +spontaneous, an emotional revulsion +free from <i>ad hoc</i> beliefs. It sprang +directly from experience. He came to +abhor all the attitudes men adopt, not +through the direct prompting of their +instincts, but because of the supposed +nature of the objects to which they +are directed. The conventions, the +idealizations, which come between man +and man and between man and woman, +which often queer the pitch for the +natural responses, seemed to him the +source of all evil. Part of his revolt +was certainly justified. These idealizations—representative +examples are the +dogma of the equality of man and the +doctrine that Love is primarily sympathy—are +beliefs illicitly interpolated +in order to support and strengthen +attitudes in the manner discussed at +length above. And Mr. Lawrence’s +original rejection of a morality not +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[77]</span>self-supporting but based upon beliefs, +makes his work an admirable illustration +of my main thesis. But two +simple and avoidable mistakes deprived +his revolt of the greater part of its +value. He overlooked the fact that +such beliefs commonly arise because +the attitudes they support are already +existent. He assumed that a bad +basis for an attitude meant a bad +attitude. In general, it does mean a +forced attitude, but that is another +matter. Secondly, he tried to cure the +disease by introducing other beliefs +of his own manufacture in place of +the conventional beliefs and in support +of very different attitudes.</p> + +<p>The genesis of these beliefs is extremely +interesting as an illustration +of primitive mentality. Since the +attitudes on which he fell back are +those of a very early stage of human +development, it is not surprising that +the means by which he has supported +them should be of the same era, or +that the world-picture which he has +worked out should be similar to that +described in <i>The Golden Bough</i>. The +mental process at work is schematically +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[78]</span>as follows: First, undergo an intense +emotion, located with unusual definiteness +in the body, which can be described +as “a feeling <i>as though</i> the solar plexus +were connected by a current of dark +passional energy with another person.” +Those whose emotions tend to be +localised will be familiar with such +feelings. The second step is to say +“I must trust my feelings.” The +third is to call the feeling an intuition. +The last is to say “<i>I know</i> that my +solar plexus is, etc.” By this means +we arrive at indubitable knowledge +that the sun’s energy is recruited from +the life on the earth and that the +astronomers are wrong in what they +say about the moon, and so on.</p> + +<p>The illicit steps in the argument are +not quite so evident as they appear +to be in this analysis. To distinguish +an intuition <i>of</i> an emotion from an +intuition <i>by</i> it is not always easy, nor +is a description of an emotion always +in practice distinguishable from an +emotion. Certainly we must trust our +feelings—in the sense of acting upon +them. We have nothing else to trust. +And to confuse this trusting with +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[79]</span>believing an emotive description of +them is a mistake which all traditional +codes of morality encourage us to +commit.</p> + +<p>The significance of such similar +disasters in the work of poets so unlike +and yet so greatly gifted as Mr. Yeats +and Mr. Lawrence is noteworthy. For +each the traditional scaffolding of +conventional beliefs has proved unsatisfying, +unworkable as a basis for +their attitudes. Each has sought, in +very different directions it is true, a +new set of beliefs as a remedy. For +neither has the world-picture of science +seemed a possible substitute. And +neither seems to have envisaged the +possibility of a poetry which is +independent of all beliefs, probably +because, however much they differ, +both are very serious poets. A great +deal of poetry can, of course, be written +for which total independence of all +beliefs is an easy matter. But it is +never poetry of the more important +kind, because the temptation to introduce +beliefs is a sign and measure of +the importance of the attitudes involved. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[80]</span>At present it is not primarily +religious beliefs, in the stricter sense +of the word, which are most likely to +be concerned. Emphases alter surprisingly. +University societies founded +fifteen years ago, for example, to +discuss religion, are usually found to +be discussing sex to-day. And serious +love poetry, which is independent of +beliefs of one kind or another, traditional +or eccentric, is extremely rare.</p> + +<p>Yet the necessity for independence +is increasing. This is not to say that +traditional poetry, into which beliefs +readily enter, is becoming obsolete; it +is merely becoming more and more +difficult to approach without confusion; +it demands a greater imaginative effort, +a greater purity in the reader.</p> + +<p>We must distinguish here, however. +There are many feelings and attitudes +which, though in the past supported +by beliefs now untenable, can survive +their removal because they have other, +more natural, supports and spring +directly from the necessities of existence. +To the extent to which they have +been undistorted by the beliefs which +have gathered round them they will +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[81]</span>remain as before. But there are other +attitudes which are very largely the +product of belief and have no other +support. These will lapse if the changes +here forecasted continue. With their +disappearance some forms of poetry—much +minor devotional verse, for +example—will become obsolete. And +with the unravelling of the intellect +<i>versus</i> emotion entanglement, there will +be cases where even literature to which +immense value has been assigned—the +speculative portions of the work of +Dostoevsky may be instanced—will +lose much of its interest, except for the +history of the mind. It was because +he belonged to our age that Dostoevsky +had to wrestle so terribly in these toils. +A poet to-day, whose integrity is equal +to that of the greater poets of the past, +is inevitably plagued by the problem +of thought and feeling as poets have +never been plagued before.</p> + +<p>A pioneer in modern research upon +the origins of culture was asked recently +whether his work had any bearing upon +religion. He replied that it had, but +that at present he was engaged merely +in ‘getting the guns into position.’ +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[82]</span>The same answer might be given with +regard to the probable consequences +of recent progress in psychology, not +only for religion but for the whole +fabric of our traditional beliefs about +ourselves. In many quarters there is +a tendency to suppose that the series +of attacks upon received ideas which +began, shall we say, with Galileo and +rose to a climax with Darwinism, has +over-reached itself with Einstein and +Eddington, and that the battle is now +due to die down. This view seems to +be too optimistic. The most dangerous +of the sciences is only now +beginning to come into action. I am +thinking less of Psycho-analysis or of +Behaviourism than of the whole subject +which includes them. It is very probable +that the Hindenburg Line to which +the defence of our traditions retired +as a result of the onslaughts of the last +century will be blown up in the near +future. If this should happen a mental +chaos such as man has never experienced +may be expected. We shall +then be thrown back, as Matthew +Arnold foresaw, upon poetry. It is +capable of saving us; it is a perfectly +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[83]</span>possible means of overcoming chaos. +But whether man is capable of the +reorientation required, whether he can +loosen in time the entanglement with +belief which now takes from poetry half +its power and would then take all, is +another question, and too large for the +scope of this essay.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="Footnotes"> + <span class="smcap">Footnotes</span> + </h2> +</div> + + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_1_1" href="#FNanchor_1_1" class="label">[1]</a> The view of the mind-body problem +assumed here is defended and maintained +with references to the contemporary authorities +who hold it, in <i>The Meaning of Psychology</i> +by C. K. Ogden, Chapter II. (London, Kegan +Paul; New York, Harpers; 1926.)</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_2_2" href="#FNanchor_2_2" class="label">[2]</a> For a further discussion of attitudes see +the author’s <i>Principles of Literary Criticism</i>, +Chapter XV (International Library of Psychology).</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_3_3" href="#FNanchor_3_3" class="label">[3]</a> See <i>The Foundations of Aesthetics</i>, by +C. K. Ogden, James Wood and the author, pp. +74 ff. for a description of such experience.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_4_4" href="#FNanchor_4_4" class="label">[4]</a> <i>I.e.</i> thoughts which are both true and +evidenced, in the narrower, stricter senses. +For a discussion of some relevant senses of +‘truth’ and ‘knowledge’ see <i>Principles of +Literary Criticism</i>, Chapters xxxiii and xxxiv.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_5_5" href="#FNanchor_5_5" class="label">[5]</a> On this point the study of the child’s +questions included in <i>The Language and +Thought of the Child</i> by J. Piaget (Kegan +Paul, 1926), is illuminating.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_6_6" href="#FNanchor_6_6" class="label">[6]</a> The remarks of Wittgenstein (<i>Tractatus +Logico-Philosophicus</i>, 6.5, 6.52), which superficially +resemble this, should be consulted, if +only to show how important the <i>context</i> of a +statement may be; for what is said above +should lead not towards but away from all +forms of mysticism.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_7_7" href="#FNanchor_7_7" class="label">[7]</a> For an account of the various senses of +truth and of the ways in which they may be +distinguished in discussion cf. <i>The Meaning of Meaning</i>, +by C. K. Ogden and the author, +Chapters VII and X.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_8_8" href="#FNanchor_8_8" class="label">[8]</a> To those familiar with Mr. Eliot’s <i>The +Waste Land</i>, my indebtedness to it at this +point will be evident. He seems to me by +this poem, to have performed two considerable +services for this generation. He has given a +perfect emotive description of a state of mind +which is probably inevitable for a while to all +meditative people. Secondly, by effecting +a complete severance between his poetry +and <i>all</i> beliefs, and this without any weakening +of the poetry, he has realised what might +otherwise have remained largely a speculative +possibility, and has shown the way to the +only solution of these difficulties. “In the +destructive element immerse. That is the +way.”</p></div> + + +<div class="transnote"> +<div class="chapter"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="Transcribers_Note"> + <span class="smcap">Transcriber’s Note</span> + </h2> +</div> + +<p>This book was published as part of the series “Psyche Miniatures: +General Series #1”, from “Psyche: An Illustrated Quarterly Review of +General and Applied Psychology”. Related front matter and back matter, +which lists the series’ titles and contributors, is not included here.</p> + +<p>Later reprints of this book improved on the typesetting or editing of +this edition. The following quirks are original to this edition +and not transcription errors: the use of both single and double quotation +marks; and sentences that seem to lack appropriate commas. Some commas +have been added when present in the 1926 American edition (W. W. Norton); +for example, “a new order based on conciliation[+,] not on attempted +suppression”.</p> + +<p>The book cover image was made by the transcriber and is placed in +the public domain.</p> +</div> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78306 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/78306-h/images/cover.jpg b/78306-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..7540ed3 --- /dev/null +++ b/78306-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6c72794 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This book, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. 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