Survival Till Seventeen

Now that poetry has served us so patiently in unriddling the mystery of mysticism and art, it would be ungrateful of me not to pay it a few compliments for itself. I cannot do this by defining it, as I have already stated. Nor by telling how much I admire it, which I have been doing all along. I can only point it out and present it. It is sufficiently capable of introducing itself.

Poetry stands midway between philosophy and mysticism, and is at the service of both, but in itself is neither the one nor the other. Poetry is the field in which philosophy tries to become lovable. Poetry is the field in which mysticism tries to become intelligible. Truth expresses itself in poetry by way of illustration. Love expresses itself in poetry by way of symbol. Illustration is the art of the singular in universal things. Symbol is the art of the universal in singular things. Poetry is the art of illustration and symbol: the illustration of truth and the symbolization of love.

Truth lends itself to illustration reluctantly, because it thrives on exactness and is tolerant of nothing short of a perfect illustration. Love lends itself to symbol freely, because it thrives on excess, and is lenient toward any symbol that will serve it. Somewhere, ideally, there is a perfect illustration of truth. Nowhere, save arbitrarily, is there a perfect symbol of love.

The philosopher is concerned with the universal in things, and that is why he seeks the singular in illustration. The mystic is concerned with the singular in things, and that is why he seeks the universal in symbol. The philosopher is the guardian of the chastity of being, the mystic the fosterer of its charity. When being “stays at home” it is truth, and it is the philosopher’s purpose to keep it at home as much as possible. When being “goes abroad” it is love, and it is the mystic’s purpose to send it abroad as much as possible. The philosopher follows being when it goes abroad in the rôle of chaperone, so as to make abroad seem at home. The mystic joins being at home in the role of governess, so as to make at home seem abroad.

The philosophic error against God is pantheism; against the world, monism; against origin, evolution. The mystic error against God is polytheism; against the world, manichaeism; against origin, myth. The fruit of the philosophical error is scepticism. The fruit of the mystical error is superstition. The psychological escape in scepticism is stoicism. The psychological escape in superstition is neuroticism. It not infrequently happens that the evils of both sides are dumped into the field of art, and you find the poet in the form of the pantheistic polytheist, the superstitious sceptic, the stoical neurotic, in a word: the madman. Fortunately in our day he never comes much closer to literature than the “psychological novel,” in which it is impossible for poetry to understand him, much less be harmed by him. Fortunately also in our day he is coming no closer to art than some form of “dadaism” or “surrealism” in which states poetry can wither him without raising an eyebrow. Let us do so.

Though art be on vacation,
The studio remains;
The well of inspiration
Is backing out of drains.

Come, let us daub, my crazies,
Surrealize the thrill
Of soapsuds on the daisies
And skylarks in the swill.

Ours not to reason whether
Surprise surpasseth wonder,
When man hath joined together
What God hath rent asunder.

In states worse than this, poetry must leave the artist to the alienist.

Humor is the poetry of ideas that do not match. But madness is the philosophy and mysticism of ideas that do not match, which are neither true nor good nor can even pretend to be, not even in fun.

The philosophic approach to art (the illustration of truth) is what we call Classicism. The mystical approach to art (the symbolization of love) is what we call Romanticism. Classicism is ultimately from the Greeks. Romanticism is remotely from the Romans. The hallmark of Classicism is reticence and restraint. The hallmark of Romanticism is exuberance and abandon. Classicism is suspicious of beauty; Romanticism is over-trustful of it. The danger of Classicism is prudishness. The danger of Romanticism is promiscuity. Classicism begets false virgins in the form of vestals. Romanticism begets false wives in the form of mistresses. The art of Greece perished because it starved illustration of truth. The art of Rome passed because it over-fed symbols with love. Classicism cast aside its cloak and posed in the nude. It was trying to show the body in the soul of things, and ran out of soul. Romanticism donned all raiments and went roaming in rags. It was trying to show the soul in the body of things, and ran out of body. The Age of Pericles stiffened into stone. The Middle Ages melted into paint. Art was the innocent victim in both catastrophes.

Greece gave us the athlete, bounded by a circle, with a discus frozen in his hand. Rome gave us the troubadour, divagating in the byways, with a mandolin trembling in his fingers. Greece gave us Narcissus, casual and conceited, admiring his image in a pool. Rome gave us Romeo, importunate and impetuous, adoring his idol in a balcony. Truth looks down, for it is vain. Love looks up, for it is proud. Narcissus found his image, which was really only sunlight, but he admired it and called it himself. Romeo found his idol, which was unmistakably Juliet, but he adored her and called her the moon. Illustration is truth in shadow. Symbol is love in silhouette.

The sun begets the shadow,
The moon the silhouette;
The noon is for Narcissus,
The night for Juliet.

The image in the water,
The idol in the sky,
Are opposites that alter
The angle of the eye.

The love behind the window,
The truth within the wave,
Will keep the heart unhappy
And make the head behave.

The bridge is set for vanity,
The balcony for pride:
Beneath a man his body
And above a man his bride.

I have paused to compose the above lines, partly for the respite and pleasure of my reader, partly to clarify and summarize my own thought, and partly to make an ending to this chapter, which otherwise might never have an end.

By way of one last word, I should like to call attention to the subtle relationship that exists between poetry and verse.

Verse is not poetry. Verse is merely a suitable filament of words strong enough to resist, yet delicate enough to take, the poetic charge. If the resultant incandescence in language is a blending of warmth and light, then poetry has made a verse a poem. Truth wired to the language of all illustration would fall short of poetry as does the Apologia. Love wired to the language of all symbol would fall wide of poetry as does the Apocalypse. Neither of these masterpieces requires, nor could it use, the precision of verse. Poetry is neither rhetoric nor revelation.

Poetry is truth going lovewards and love going truthwards: truth with a positive and love with a negative charge. These are the repulsions and attractions in a poet’s soul which start whirling the dynamo of inspiration that generates poetry. A poet must think with the intensity of the lover and love with the accuracy of the thinker. This counter-rotation of spiritual forces when it touches language will transmute it. The only theme capable of attracting a poet is one which contains a contrariness and a compromise. It is his to see the failure in all successes and the glory in all defeats.

God is very kind to the poet at Bethlehem, letting him kneel like a listening ass and a staring ox in the presence of that complete resolution of all poetic values: a Virgin-Mother and a God-Man.

God to poets: “Unless you become as little children, you shall not enter The Kingdom of Heaven!”

Poets to God: “And unless You become a little child, You shall not get out!”