(_To Robert Gould Shaw_) Flushed with the hope of high desire, He buckled on his sword, To dare the rampart ranged with fire, Or where the thunder roared; Into the smoke and flame he went, For God's great cause to die-- A youth of h... Read more of My Hero at Martin Luther King.caInformational Site Network Informational


From: Literary Taste How to Form It

I wish particularly that my readers should not be intimidated
by the apparent vastness and complexity of this enterprise
of forming the literary taste. It is not so vast nor so complex as it looks.
There is no need whatever for the inexperienced enthusiast to confuse
and frighten himself with thoughts of "literature in all its branches."
Experts and pedagogues (chiefly pedagogues) have, for the purpose
of convenience, split literature up into divisions and sub-divisions--
such as prose and poetry; or imaginative, philosophic, historical;
or elegiac, heroic, lyric; or religious and profane, etc., *ad infinitum*.
But the greater truth is that literature is all one--and indivisible.
The idea of the unity of literature should be well planted and fostered
in the head. All literature is the expression of feeling, of passion,
of emotion, caused by a sensation of the interestingness of life.
What drives a historian to write history? Nothing but the overwhelming
impression made upon him by the survey of past times.
He is forced into an attempt to reconstitute the picture for others.
If hitherto you have failed to perceive that a historian is a being
in strong emotion, trying to convey his emotion to others,
read the passage in the *Memoirs* of Gibbon, in which he describes
how he finished the *Decline and Fall*. You will probably never again
look upon the *Decline and Fall* as a "dry" work.

What applies to history applies to the other "dry" branches.
Even Johnson's Dictionary is packed with emotion. Read the last paragraph
of the preface to it: "In this work, when it shall be found
that much is omitted, let it not be forgotten that much
likewise is performed.... It may repress the triumph of malignant criticism
to observe that if our language is not here fully displayed,
I have only failed in an attempt which no human powers
have hitherto completed...." And so on to the close:
"I have protracted my work till most of those whom I wish to please
have sunk into the grave, and success and miscarriage are empty sounds:
I therefore dismiss it with frigid tranquillity, having little
to fear or hope from censure or from praise." Yes, tranquillity;
but not frigid! The whole passage, one of the finest in English prose,
is marked by the heat of emotion. You may discover the same quality
in such books as Spencer's *First Principles*. You may discover it everywhere
in literature, from the cold fire of Pope's irony to the blasting temperatures
of Swinburne. Literature does not begin till emotion has begun.

There is even no essential, definable difference between
those two great branches, prose and poetry. For prose may have rhythm.
All that can be said is that verse will scan, while prose will not.
The difference is purely formal. Very few poets have succeeded in being
so poetical as Isaiah, Sir Thomas Browne, and Ruskin have been in prose.
It can only be stated that, as a rule, writers have shown
an instinctive tendency to choose verse for the expression
of the very highest emotion. The supreme literature is in verse,
but the finest achievements in prose approach so nearly
to the finest achievements in verse that it is ill work deciding between them.
In the sense in which poetry is best understood, all literature is poetry--
or is, at any rate, poetical in quality. Macaulay's ill-informed
and unjust denunciations live because his genuine emotion
made them into poetry, while his *Lays of Ancient Rome* are dead
because they are not the expression of a genuine emotion.
As the literary taste develops, this quality of emotion,
restrained or loosed, will be more and more widely perceived
at large in literature. It is the quality that must be looked for.
It is the quality that unifies literature (and all the arts).

It is not merely useless, it is harmful, for you to map out literature
into divisions and branches, with different laws, rules, or canons.
The first thing is to obtain some possession of literature.
When you have actually felt some of the emotion which great writers
have striven to impart to you, and when your emotions become so numerous
and puzzling that you feel the need of arranging them and calling them
by names, then--and not before--you can begin to study what has been
attempted in the way of classifying and ticketing literature.
Manuals and treatises are excellent things in their kind,
but they are simply dead weight at the start. You can only acquire
really useful general ideas by first acquiring particular ideas,
and putting those particular ideas together. You cannot make bricks
without straw. Do not worry about literature in the abstract,
about theories as to literature. Get at it. Get hold of literature
in the concrete as a dog gets hold of a bone. If you ask me
where you ought to begin, I shall gaze at you as I might gaze
at the faithful animal if he inquired which end of the bone
he ought to attack. It doesn't matter in the slightest degree
where you begin. Begin wherever the fancy takes you to begin.
Literature is a whole.

There is only one restriction for you. You must begin with an
acknowledged classic; you must eschew modern works. The reason for this
does not imply any depreciation of the present age at the expense
of past ages. Indeed, it is important, if you wish ultimately to have
a wide, catholic taste, to guard against the too common assumption
that nothing modern will stand comparison with the classics.
In every age there have been people to sigh: "Ah, yes. Fifty years ago
we had a few great writers. But they are all dead, and no young ones
are arising to take their place." This attitude of mind is deplorable,
if not silly, and is a certain proof of narrow taste. It is a surety
that in 1959 gloomy and egregious persons will be saying:
"Ah, yes. At the beginning of the century there were great poets
like Swinburne, Meredith, Francis Thompson, and Yeats.
Great novelists like Hardy and Conrad. Great historians
like Stubbs and Maitland, etc., etc. But they are all dead now,
and whom have we to take their place?" It is not until an age has receded
into history, and all its mediocrity has dropped away from it,
that we can see it as it is--as a group of men of genius.
We forget the immense amount of twaddle that the great epochs produced.
The total amount of fine literature created in a given period of time
differs from epoch to epoch, but it does not differ much.
And we may be perfectly sure that our own age will make
a favourable impression upon that excellent judge, posterity.
Therefore, beware of disparaging the present in your own mind.
While temporarily ignoring it, dwell upon the idea that its chaff
contains about as much wheat as any similar quantity of chaff
has contained wheat.

The reason why you must avoid modern works at the beginning
is simply that you are not in a position to choose among modern works.
Nobody at all is quite in a position to choose with certainty
among modern works. To sift the wheat from the chaff is a process
that takes an exceedingly long time. Modern works have to pass before
the bar of the taste of successive generations. Whereas, with classics,
which have been through the ordeal, almost the reverse is the case.
*Your taste has to pass before the bar of the classics.* That is the point.
If you differ with a classic, it is you who are wrong, and not the book.
If you differ with a modern work, you may be wrong or you may be right,
but no judge is authoritative enough to decide. Your taste is unformed.
It needs guidance, and it needs authoritative guidance.
Into the business of forming literary taste faith enters.
You probably will not specially care for a particular classic at first.
If you did care for it at first, your taste, so far as that classic
is concerned, would be formed, and our hypothesis is that your taste
is not formed. How are you to arrive at the stage of caring for it?
Chiefly, of course, by examining it and honestly trying to understand it.
But this process is materially helped by an act of faith,
by the frame of mind which says: "I know on the highest authority
that this thing is fine, that it is capable of giving me pleasure.
Hence I am determined to find pleasure in it." Believe me
that faith counts enormously in the development of that wide taste
which is the instrument of wide pleasures. But it must be faith
founded on unassailable authority.



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