Lovecraft as Heideggerian Event

“A General Outline of the Whole”
Lovecraft as Heideggerian Event

By James J. O'Meara

Graham Harman

Weird Realism: Lovecraft and Philosophy ^[2]
Winchester, UK: Zero Books, 2012

A winter storm in NYC is less the Currier and Ives experience of upstate and more like several days of cold slush, more suggestive—and we’ll see that suggestiveness will be a very key term—of Dostoyevsky than Dickens.

On a purely personal level, such weather conditions I privately associate[1] with my time—as in “doing time”—at the small Canadian college (fictionalized by fellow inmate Joyce Carol Oates as “Hilberry College”[2]) where a succession of more or less self-pitying exiles from the mainstream—from Wyndham Lewis and Marshall McLuhan to the aforementioned Oates—suffered the academic purgatory of trying to teach, or even interest, the least-achieving students in Canada in such matters as Neoplatonism and archetypal psychology.[3]

One trudged to ancient, wooden classrooms and consumed endless packs of powerful Canadian cigarettes, washed down with endless cups of rancid vending machine coffee. No Starbucks for us, and no whining about second-hand smoke. We were real he-men back then! There was one student, a co-ed of course, who did complain, and the solution imposed was to exile her—exile within exile!—to a chair in the hallway, like a Spanish nun allowed to listen in from behind a grill.

Speaking of Spain, one of the damned souls making his rounds was a little, goateed Marrano from New York, via Toronto’s Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, no less, who was now attempting to explain Husserl and Heidegger, to “unpack” with his tiny hands what he once called, with an incredulous shake of the head, “that incredible language of his,” to his sullen and ungrateful students.[4]

I thought of this academic Homunculus, who played Naphta to another’s Schleppfuss[5] in my intellectual upbringing, when this book made its appearance in my e-mail box one recent, snowing—or slushy—weekend. For Harman wants to explain Husserl and Heidegger as well, or rather, his own take on them, which I gather he and a bunch of colleagues have expanded into their own field of Object Oriented Ontology (OOO) or Speculative Realism. And to do so, he has appropriated the work of H. P. Lovecraft, suggesting that Lovecraft play the same role of philosophical exemplar in his philosophy, as Hölderlin does in Heidegger’s ^[3].

“That incredible language of his” indeed!

Part One tries to explain this Object Oriented business, but only after he tries to justify or excuse dealing with someone still often regarded as a glorified pulp hack on the same level with the great Hölderlin. He tries to short-circuit the attacks of highbrow critics, still exemplified by Edmund Wilson’s, by denouncing their rhetorical strategy of paraphrase.

Paraphrase? What’s wrong with that? Perfectly innocent, what? Well, no. Drawing on Slavoj Žižek’s notion of the “stupidity of content”—the equal plausibility of any proverb, say, and its opposite—Harman insists that nothing can be paraphrased into something else—reality is not itself a sentence, and so it is “is too real to be translated without remainder into sentences” (p. 16, my italics). Language can only allude to reality.

What remains left over, resistant to paraphrase, is the background or context that gave the statement its meaning.[6] Paraphrase, far from harmless or obvious, is packed with metaphysical baggage—such as the assumption that reality itself is just like a sentence—that enables the skilled dialectician to reduce anything to nonsensical drivel.

Harman gives many, mostly hilarious, examples of “great” literature reduced to mere “pulp” through getting the Wilson treatment. (Perhaps too many—the book does tend to bog down from time to time as Harman indulges in his real talent for giving a half dozen or so increasing “stupid” paraphrases of passages of “great” literature.)[7]

Genre or “pulp” writing is itself the epitome of taking the background for granted and just fiddling with the content, and deserves Edmund Wilson’s famous condemnation of both its horror and mystery genres. But Lovecraft, contra Wilson, is quite conscious, and bitingly critical, of the background conditions of pulp—both in his famous essays on horror and, unmentioned by Harman, his voluminous correspondence and ghost-writing—and thus ideally equipped to manipulate it for higher, or at least more interesting, purposes.

The pulp writer takes the context for granted (the genre “conventions”) and concentrates on content—sending someone to a new planet, putting a woman in charge of a space ship, etc.[8] If Lovecraft did this, or only this, he would indeed be worthy of Wilson’s periphrastic contempt. But Lovecraft is interested in doing something else: “No other writer is so perplexed by the gap between objects and the power of language to describe them, or between objects and the qualities they possess” (p.3, my italics).

Since philosophy is the science of the background, Lovecraft himself is to this extent himself a philosopher, and useful to Harman as more than just a source of fancy illustrations: “Lovecraft, when viewed as a writer of gaps between objects and their qualities, is of great relevance for my model of object oriented ontology” (p. 4).

Back, then to Harman’s philosophy or his “ontography” as he calls it. I call it Kantianism, but I’m a simple man. The world presents us with objects, both real (Harman is no idealist) and sensuous (objects of thought, say), which bear various properties, both real (weight, for example) and sensuous (color, for example). Thus, we have real and sensuous objects, as well as the real and sensuous qualities that belong to them . . . usually.

All philosophers, Harman suggests, have been concerned with one or another of the gaps that occur when the ordinary relations between these four items fail. Some philosophers promote or delight in some gap or other, while others work to deny or explain it away. Plato introduced a gap between ordinary objects and their more real essences, while Hume delighted in denying such a gap and reducing them to agglomerations of sensual qualities.

Harman, in explicitly Kantian fashion this time, derives four possible failures (Kant would call them antinomies). Gaps can occur between a real object and its sensuous qualities, a real object and its real qualities, a sensuous object and its sensuous qualities, and a sensuous object and its real qualities. Or, for simplicity, RO/SQ, RO/RQ, SQ/SO, and SO/RQ.

Take SQ/SO. This gap, where the object’s sensuous qualities, though listed, Cubist-like, ad nauseam, fail, contra Hume, to suggest any kind of objective unity, even of a phenomenal kind—the object is withdrawn from us, as Heidegger would say. It occurs in a passage such as the description of the Antarctic city of the Elder Race:

The effect was that of a Cyclopean city of no architecture known to man or to human imagination, with vast aggregations of night-black masonry embodying monstrous perversions of geometrical laws. There were truncated cones, sometimes terraced or fluted, surmounted by tall cylindrical shafts here and there bulbously enlarged and often capped with tiers of thinnish scalloped disks; and strange beetling, table-like constructions suggesting piles of multitudinous rectangular slabs or circular plates or five-pointed stars with each one overlapping the one beneath. There were composite cones and pyramids either alone or surmounting cylinders or cubes or flatter truncated cones and pyramids, and occasional needle-like spires in curious clusters of five. All of these febrile structures seemed knit together by tubular bridges crossing from one to the other at various dizzy heights, and the implied scale of the whole was terrifying and oppressive in its sheer gigantism. (At the Mountains of Madness, my italics)

SQ/RO? This Kantian split between an object’s sensuous properties and what its essence is implied to be, occurs in the classic description of the idol of Cthulhu:

If I say that my somewhat extravagant imagination yielded simultaneous pictures of an octopus, a dragon, and a human caricature, I shall not be unfaithful to the spirit of the thing. A pulpy, tentacled head surmounted a grotesque and scaly body with rudimentary wings; but it was the general outline of the whole which made it most shockingly frightful. (“The Call of Cthulhu,” my italics)

SO/RQ? Harman admits it’s rare in Lovecraft, (and elsewhere, though he finds hints of it in Leibniz) but he finds a few examples where scientific investigation reveals new, unheard of properties in some eldritch or trans-Plutonian object.

In every quarter, however, interest was intense; for the utter alienage of the thing was a tremendous challenge to scientific curiosity. One of the small radiating arms was broken off and subjected to chemical analysis. Professor Ellery found platinum, iron and tellurium in the strange alloy; but mixed with these were at least three other apparent elements of high atomic weight which chemistry was absolutely powerless to classify. Not only did they fail to correspond with any known element, but they did not even fit the vacant places reserved for probable elements in the periodic system. (“Dreams in the Witch House”)

And RO/RQ? You don’t want to know, as Lovecraft’s protagonists usually discover too late. It’s the inconceivable object whose surface properties only hint at yet further levels of inconceivable monstrosity within. Usually, Lovecraft relies on just slapping a weird name on something and hinting at the rest, as in:

[O]utside the ordered universe [is] that amorphous blight of nethermost confusion which blasphemes and bubbles at the center of all infinity—the boundless daemon sultan Azathoth, whose name no lips dare speak aloud, and who gnaws hungrily in inconceivable, unlighted chambers beyond time and space amidst the muffled, maddening beating of vile drums and the thin monotonous whine of accursed flutes. (Dream Quest of Unknown Kaddath)

You can see, in each case, how the horrific effect, and the usability for Harman’s ontography, would entirely disappear if given a Wilsonian “paraphrase”: It was a squid with wings! The object, when analyzed, revealed new, hitherto unknown elements!

Confused yet? Bored? Don’t worry. The whole point of Harman’s book, to which he devotes the vast portion of the text, is analyzing passages from Lovecraft that provide vivid illustrations of one or more of these gaps. In this way Harman’s ontography acquires its Hölderlin, and Lovecraft is rescued from pulp purgatory.

While there is considerable interest in Heidegger on alt-Right sites such as this one,[9] I’m sure there is considerably more general interest in Lovecraft. But Harman’s whole book is clearly and engagingly written, avoiding both oracular obscurity and overly-chummy vulgarity; since Harman is admirably clear even when discussing himself or Husserl, no one should feel unqualified to take on this unique—Lovecraftian?—conglomeration of philosophy and literary criticism.

The central Part Two is almost 200 pages of close readings of exactly 100 passages from Lovecraft. As such, it exhibits a good deal of diminishing returns through repetition, and the reader may be forgiven for skipping around, perhaps to their own favorite parts. And there’s certainly no point in offering my own paraphrases!

Nevertheless, over and above the discussion of individual passages as illustrations of Speculative Realism, Harman has a number of interesting insights into Lovecraft’s work generally. It’s also here that Harman starts to reveal some of his assumptions, or biases, or shall we say, context.

“Racism”

Harman, who, word on the blogs seems to be, is a run-of-the-mill liberal rather than a po-mo freak like his fellow “European philosophers,”[10] tips his hand early by referring dismissively to criticism of Lovecraft as pulp being “merely a social judgment, no different in kind from not wanting one’s daughter to marry the chimney sweep” (“Preliminary Note”). And we know how silly that would be! So needless to say, Lovecraft’s forthright, unmitigated, non-evolutionary (as in Obama’s “My position on gay marriage has evolved”) views on race need to be disinfected if Harman is to be comfortable marrying his philosophy to Lovecraft’s writing.

His solution is clever, but too clever. Discussing the passage from “Call of Cthulhu” where the narrator—foolishly as it happens—dismisses a warning as coming from “an excitable Spaniard” Harman suggests that the racism of Lovecraft’s protagonists[11] adds an interesting layer of—of course!—irony to them. As so often, we the reader are “smarter” than the smug protagonist, who will soon be taken down a few pegs.

But this really won’t do. Lovecraft’s protagonists are not stupid or uninformed, but rather too well-informed, hence prone to self-satisfaction that leads them where more credulous laymen might balk. “They’s ghosts in there, Mister Benny!”

Unfortunately for Harman, Lovecraft was above all else a Scientist, or simply a well-educated man, and the Science of his day was firmly on the side of what today would be called Human Biodiversity or HBD.[12] Harman may, like most “liberals” find that distasteful, something not to be mentioned, like Victorians and sex—a kind of “liberal creationism” as it’s been called—but that’s his problem.

It would be more interesting to adopt a truly Lovecraftian theme and take his view, or settled belief, that Science, or too much Science, was bad for us; just as Copernicus etc. had dethroned man for the privileged center of the God’s universe, the “truth” about Cthulhu and the other Elder Gods—first, there very existence, then the implication that they are the reality behind everyday religions—has a deflationary, perhaps madness inducing, effect.

Consider this famous quotation from the opening of “The Call of Cthulhu” as quoted by Harman himself in Part Two:

The sciences, each straining in its own direction, have hitherto harmed us little; but someday the piecing together of dissociated knowledge will open up such terrifying vistas of reality, and our frightful position therein, that we shall either go mad from the revelation or flee from the deadly light into the peace and safety of a new dark age. 

Thus Harman could argue that HBD may be true but bad for us to know—something very like the actual position of such liberal Comstocks as Richard Lewontin.

Consider, to switch genres, Dr. No. Quarrel ^[4], the ignorant, superstitious but loyal native retainer, is afraid to land on Crab Key, due to the presence of a dragon. Bond and his American buddy Leiter mock his fear. (Leiter: “Hey Quarrel, if you see a dragon, you get in first and breathe on him. With all that rum in you, he’ll die happy.”) But of course the dragon—which turns out to be a flame-throwing armored tractor—incinerates Quarrel whilst Bond and the equally superstitious but much more toothsome Honey Ryder are taken prisoner. While in this genre we know that Bond is the heroic knight who will ultimately slay the dragon, for now he does seem to be what Dr. No calls him, “just another stupid policeman” who would have done well to listen to the native—not unlike any number of Lovecraft’s educated protagonists.[13]

This smug assumption that knowledge leaves us safe, and indeed safer, is what Lovecraft is satirizing when the narrator of “Call of Cthulhu” dismisses the warnings of the “excitable Spaniard,” not, as Harman would have it, lampooning “racism” on some meta-level.[14]

Also, Michel Houllebeq, an author Harman otherwise praises, has emphasized that Lovecraft is anything but self-assured, either as a White man, or for the White race itself.[15] If “racism” is able to play the self-debunking role Harman wants it to, this is only because of Lovecraft’s self-doubts, based on his horrific experiences in the already multi-culti New York City of the 1920s, that the White race would be able to survive the onslaught of the inferior but strong and numerous under-men. As Houellebecq says, Lovecraft learned to take “racism back to its essential and most profound core: fear.”

“Fascistic Socialism”

On a related point, Harman puts this phrase, from Lovecraft’s last major work, The Shadow out of Time (which he generally dislikes, for reasons we’ll dispute later), in italics with a question mark, and leaves it at that, as if just throwing his hands up and saying “well, I just don’t know!” Alas, this is one of Lovecraft’s most interesting ideas. Like several American men of letters, such as Ralph Adams Cram, Lovecraft concluded that Roosevelt’s New Deal was an American version of Fascism, but, unlike the Chamber of Commerce types who made the same identification, he approved of it for precisely that reason! [16]

More generally, “fascistic socialism” was essentially what Spengler and others of the Conservative Revolution movement in German advocated; for example ^[5]:

Hans Freyer studied the problem of the failure of radical Leftist socialist movements to overcome bourgeois society in the West, most notably in his Revolution von Rechts (“Revolution from the Right”). He observed that because of compromises on the part of capitalist governments, which introduced welfare policies to appease the workers, many revolutionary socialists had come to merely accommodate the system; that is, they no longer aimed to overcome it by revolution because it provided more or less satisfactory welfare policies. Furthermore, these same policies were basically defusing revolutionary charges among the workers. Freyer concluded that capitalist bourgeois society could only be overcome by a revolution from the Right, by Right-wing socialists whose guiding purpose would not be class warfare but the restoration of collective meaning in a strong Völkisch (“Folkish” or “ethnic”) state.

But then, Harman would have to discuss, or even acknowledge, ideas that give liberals nose-bleeds.

Weird Porn

Harman makes the important distinction that Lovecraft is a writer of gaps, who chooses to apply his talents of literary allusion to the content of horror; but gaps do not exclusively involve horror, and we can imagine writers applying the same skills to other genres, such as detective stories, mysteries, and westerns.[17] In fact,

A literary “weird porn” might be conceivable, in which the naked bodies of the characters would display bizarre anomalies subverting all human descriptive capacity, but without being so strange that the erotic dimension would collapse into a grotesque sort of eros-killing horror. (p. 4)

Harman just throws this out, but if it seem implausible, I would offer Michael Manning’s graphic novels as example of weird porn: geishas, hermaphrodites, lizards and horses—or rather, vaguely humanoid species that suggest snakes and horses, rather like Harman’s discussion of Max Black’s puzzle over the gap produced by the proposition “Men are wolves”—create a kind of steam punk/pre-Raphaelist sexual utopia.[18]

Prolixity

Speaking of Lovecraftian allusiveness not being anchored to horror or any particular genre or content, brings us to my chief interest, and chief disagreement, with Harman’s discussion of Lovecraft’s literary technique.

I knew we would have a problem when right from the start Harman adduces The Shadow out of Time as one of Lovecraft’s worst, since this is actually one of my favorites, and the one that first convinced me of his ability to create cosmic horror through the invocation of hideous eons of cosmic vistas. Harman first notes, in dealing with the preceding novella, At the Mountains of Madness, that while the first half would rank as Lovecraft’s greatest work if he had only stopped there, the second half is a huge letdown: Lovecraft seems to descend to the level of pulp content, as he has his scientists go on a long, tedious journey through the long abandoned subterranean home of the Elder Race, reading endless hieroglyphs and giving all kinds of tedious details of their “everyday” life.[19]

For Harman, “Lovecraft’s decline as a stylist becomes almost alarming here” (p. 225) and will continue—with a brief return to form with “Dreams in the Witch House,” where Harman makes the interesting observation that Lovecraft seems to be weaving in every kind of Lovecraftian technique and content into one grand synthesis— until it ruins the second half as well of Shadow.

In a series of articles here on Counter Currents—soon to be reprinted as part of my next book, The Eldritch Evola . . . & Others—I suggested that not only should Lovecraft’s infamous verbosity no more be a barrier to elite appreciation than the equally deplored but critically lauded “Late Style” of Henry James, but also, and more interestingly, that conversely, we could see James developing that same style as part of an attempt to produce the same effect as Lovecraft’s, which fans call “cosmicism ^[6]” but which I would rather call cosmic horror (akin to the “sublime” of Burke or Kant).[20] Or perhaps: Weird Realism.

While Harman has greatly contributed to a certain micro-analysis of Lovecraft’s style, he seems, like the critics of the Late James, to miss the big picture. Although useful for rescuing Lovecraft from pulp oblivion, he still limits Lovecraft’s significance to either mere literature, or illustrations of Harman’s ontography. I suggest this still diminishes Lovecraft’s achievement.

The work of Lovecraft, like James, has the not inconsiderable extra value, over and above any “literary” pleasure, of stilling the mind by its very longeurs, leaving us open and available to the arising of some other, deeper level of consciousness when the gaps arise.[21]

But this is not on the table here, because Harman, like all good empiricists (and we are all empiricists today, are we not?) rejects, or misconstrues, the very idea of our having access to a super-sensible grasp of reality that would leap beyond, or between, the gaps; what in the East, and the West until the rise of secularism, would be called intellectual intuition.[22]

Reality itself is weird because reality itself is incommensurable with any attempt to represent or measure it. Lovecraft is aware of this difficulty to an exemplary degree, and through his assistance we may be able to learn about how to say something without saying it—or in philosophical terms, how to love wisdom without having it. When it comes to grasping reality, illusion and innuendo are the best we can do. (p. 51, my italics)

As usual in the modern West, we are to shoulder on as best we can, in an empty, meaningless world, comforted only by patting ourselves on the back for being too grown up, too “smart,” to believe we can not only pursue wisdom, but reach it. As René Guénon put it, it is one of the peculiarities of the modern Westerner to substitute a theory of knowledge for the acquisition of knowledge.[23]

Notes

1. On such “private associations” see Hesse, The Glass Bead Game, (New York: Holt, 1969), pp. 70–71.

2. Whose biographer, Greg Johnson, is not to be confused with our own Greg Johnson here at Counter Currents—I think. For the fictionalized Hilberry see The Hungry Ghosts: Seven Allusive Comedies (Boston: Black Sparrow Press, 1974). Allusive—there’s that idea again!

3. Did they succeed? Judge for yourself: Thomas Moore: Care of the Soul: Guide for Cultivating Depth and Sacredness in Everyday Life (San Francisco: HarperCollins, 1992).

4. Eventually he would sink so low as to teach “everyday reasoning” to freshman lunkheads.

5. See Thomas Mann’s The Magic Mountain and Doktor Faustus, respectively.

6. The hero of this vindication of Rhetoric over Dialectic turns out to be . . . McLuhan! The medium is the message—don’t be hypnotized by the content, take a look at the all-important effects of the context. I’ve suggested before that my own work be seen, like McLuhan’s, less as dogmatic theses to be defended or refuted (dogmatism is for Harman the great sin of worshipping mere content) but rather as a series of probes for revealing new contexts for old ideas. See my Counter-Currents Interview in The Homo and the Negro as well as my earlier “You Mean My Whole Fallacy Is Wrong!” here ^[7]. Once more, we find that education at a Catholic college in the Canadian boondocks is the best preparation for grasping post-modernism, no doubt because it reproduces the background of Brentano and Heidegger. It was Canadian before it was cool!

7. The Wilson treatment is on display whenever some Judeo-con or Evangelical quotes passages from some alien religious work—usually the Koran these days—to show how stupid or bloodthirsty the natives are, while ignoring similar or identical passages in his own Holy Book. So-called “scholars” play the same game, questioning the authenticity of some newly discovered Gnostic work like the Gospel of Judas for containing, “absurdities” and “silliness” while finding nothing odd about the reanimated corpses—reminiscent of Lovecraft’s genuinely pulp hackwork Herbert West, Reaminator—of the “orthodox” writings. Indeed, some have suggested that Lovecraft’s Necronomicon is itself a parody of The Bible, its supposed Arab authorship a mere screen. This typically Semitic strategy of deliberately ignoring the allusive context of your opponent’s words while retaining your own was diagnosed by the Aryan Christ, in such well-known fulminations against the Pharisees as Matthew 23:24 : “You strain at a gnat, and swallow a camel” or Matthew 7:3: “And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother’s eye, but considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye?”

8. Bad sci/fi hits rock bottom in the content-oriented department with the ubiquitous employment of the “space” prefix: space-food, space-pirates, space-justice, etc., frequently mocked on MST3K. David Bowie’s space-rock ode “Moonage Daydream” contains the cringe-worthy “Press your space face close to mine” but this is arguably a deliberate parody, while the rest of the song brilliantly exploits the Lovecraftian allusive/contextual mode of horror, moving from its straight-faced opening—“I’m an alligator”—through a series of Cthulhuian composites—“Squawking like a pink monkey bird”—ultimately veering into Harman’s weird porn mode—“I’m a momma-poppa coming for you.” Deviant sex and cut-up lyrics—another context-shredding technique—clearly points to the influence of William Burroughs, who created subversive texts based on various genres of boys’ books ranging from sci/fi (Nova Express) to detective (Cities of Red Night: “The name is Clyde Williamson Snide. I am a private asshole.”) to his alt-Western masterpiece The Western Lands trilogy.

9. Harman does a better job explaining Husserl and Heidegger than my little Marrano, but then he has had another three decades to work on it. He does, however, focus mainly on Heidegger’s tool analysis, and his own, somewhat broader formulation. For a wider focused, more objective, if you will, presentation of Heidegger, see Collin Cleary’s series of articles on this site, starting here ^[8].

10. Needless to say, he never notices that his liberalism is rooted in the ultimate dogma-affirming, context-ignoring movement, Luther’s “sola scriptura.” His liberalism is such as to allow him to tell a pretty amusing one-liner about Richard Rorty, but only by attributing it to “a colleague.” On the one hand, he cringes for Heidegger for daring to refer to a “Senegal Negro” (p. 59) but dismisses Emmanuel Faye’s “Heidegger is a Nazi” screed as a “work of propaganda” (p. 259). See Michael O’Meara’s review of Faye here ^[9].

11. “Not even Poe [another embarrassing “racist”, well what do you know?] has such indistinguishable protagonists” (p. 10).

12. Indeed, “racism” is one of those principles Baron Evola evoked in his Autodefesa ^[10], as being “those that before the French Revolution every well-born person considered sane and normal.”

13. Kingsley Amis has cogently argued that the key to Bond’s appeal is that he’s just like us, only a little better trained, able to read up on poker or chemin de fer, has excellent shooting instructors, etc. But if we had the chance . . . See Amis, Kingsley The James Bond Dossier (London: Jonathan Cape, 1965).

14. It might be interesting to apply Harman’s OOO to a film like Carpenter’s They Live. In my review of Lethem’s book on the movie ^[11], reprinted in The Homo and the Negro, I mentioned liking another point, also from Slavoj Žižek: contrary to the smug assumptions of the Left, knowledge is not necessarily something people want, or which is pleasant—hence the protagonist has to literally beat his friend into putting on the reality-revealing sunglasses. Here we have both Lovecraft’s gaps and notion that knowledge is more likely something you’ll regret: Lovecraft and Žižek, together again!

15. Michel Houellebecq ^[12], H. P. Lovecraft: Against the World, Against Life ^[13] (London: Gollancz, 2008). See more generally, and from the same period, Lothrop Stoddard, The Revolt Against Civilization: The Menace of the Under Man, ed. Alex Kurtagic, introduction by Kevin MacDonald (Shamley Green: The Palingenesis Project, 2011).

16. See my “Ralph Adams Cram: Wild Boy of American Architecture” here ^[14].

17. Again, just as Burroughs applied his cut-up technique to various pulp genres.

18. See my discussion of Manning in “The Hermetic Environment and Hermetic Incest: The True Androgyne and the ‘Ambiguous Wisdom of the Female’” here ^[15].

19. Everyday life of pre-Cambrian radiata with wings, of course.

20. My suggestion was based on some remarks of John Auchard in Penguin’s new edition of the Portable Henry James, that James’s work could be seen as part of the attempt to substitute art for religion, by using the endless accumulation of detail—James’s “prolixity” as Lovecraft himself chides him for—to “saturate” everyday experience with meaning.

21. Colin Wilson’s second Lovecraftian novel, The Philosopher’s Stone (Los Angeles: Tarcher, 1971)—originally published in 1969, republished in a mass market edition in 1971 at the request of, and with a Foreword by, Joyce Carol Oates, bringing us back to Hilberry—introduced me to the idea of length, and even boredom, as spiritual disciplines. One of the main characters “seemed to enjoy very long works for their own sake. I think he simply enjoyed the intellectual discipline of concentrating for hours at a time. If a work was long, it automatically recommended itself to him. So we have spent whole evenings listening to the complete Contest Between Harmony and Invention of Vivaldi, the complete Well Tempered Clavier, whole operas of Wagner, the last five quartets of Beethoven, symphonies of Bruckner and Mahler, the first fourteen Haydn symphonies. . . . He even had a strange preference for a sprawling, meandering symphony by Furtwängler [presumably the Second], simply because it ran on for two hours or so.” The book is available online here ^[16].

22. With the inconsistency typical of a Modern trying to conduct thought after cutting off the roots of thought, Harman advises us that “It takes a careful historical judge to weigh which [contextual] aspects of a given thing are assimilated by it, and which can be excluded” (p. 245). What makes a “careful” judge is, of course, intuition. Cf. my remarks on Spengler’s “physiognomic tact” and Guénon’s intellectual intuition in “The Lesson of the Monster; or, The Great, Good Thing on the Doorstep,” to appear in my forthcoming book The Eldritch Evola but also available here ^[17].

23. How one can transcend the limits of secular science and philosophy, without abandoning empirical experience as the Christian does with his blind “faith,” is the teaching found in Evola’s Introduction to Magic, especially the essay “The Nature of Initiatic Knowledge.” “Having long been trapped in a kind of magic circle, modern man knows nothing of such horizons. . . . Those who are called “scientists” today [as well as, even more so, “philosophers”] have hatched a real conspiracy; they have made science their monopoly, and absolutely do not want anyone to know more than they do, or in a different manner than they do.” The whole text is available online here ^[18].

 

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URL to article: http://www.counter-currents.com/2013/02/lovecraft-as-heideggerian-event/

URLs in this post:

[1] Image: http://www.counter-currents.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/02/weird-realism.jpg

[2] Weird Realism: Lovecraft and Philosophy: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1780992521/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=1780992521&linkCode=as2&tag=countercurren-20

[3] Hölderlin does in Heidegger’s: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/H%C3%B6lderlin%27s_Hymn_%22The_Ister%22#Part_three:_H.C3.B6lderlin.27s_poetising_of_the_essence_of_the_poet_as_demigod

[4] Quarrel: http://www.007james.com/characters/quarrel.php

[5] for example: http://www.counter-currents.com/2013/02/hans-freyer-the-quest-for-collective-meaning/#more-36698

[6] fans call “cosmicism: http://www.tumblr.com/tagged/cosmicism

[7] here: http://jamesjomeara.blogspot.com/2011/03/youve-misunderstood-my-whole-fallacy-i.html

[8] here: http://www.counter-currents.com/2012/06/heidegger-an-introduction-for-anti-modernists-part-1/

[9] here: http://www.counter-currents.com/2010/07/heidegger-the-nazi/

[10] Autodefesa: http://www.alternativeright.com/main/the-magazine/julius-evola-radical-traditionalism/

[11] my review of Lethem’s book on the movie: http://www.counter-currents.com/2011/09/they-live/

[12] Michel Houellebecq: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/32878.Michel_Houellebecq

[13] H. P. Lovecraft: Against the World, Against Life: http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/3196799

[14] here: http://www.counter-currents.com/2012/09/ralph-adams-cram-wild-boy-of-american-architecture/

[15] here: http://jamesjomeara.blogspot.com/2010/12/hermetic-environment-and-hermetic.html

[16] here: http://lucite.org/lucite/archive/fiction_-_lovecraft/14047169-the-philosophers-stone-by-colin-wilson.pdf

[17] here: http://www.counter-currents.com/2011/02/the-lesson-of-the-monster-or-the-great-good-thing-on-the-doorstep/

[18] here: http://www.cakravartin.com/wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2006/08/Julius-Evola-Introduction-to-Magic.pdf

The Conservative Kerouac

Beat novelist, Catholic, Republican—do you know Jack?

By Robert Dean Lurie

 

Ex: http://www.theamericanconservative.org/

Illustration by Michael Hogue

 

Someone’s gonna give you wings
You’ll think it’s what you need
You’ll fly, man, you’ll be so high
But your history acts as your gravity

 

                                 —Joseph Arthur

 

For someone who documented just about every moment of his life in torrents of breathless, “spontaneous” prose, Jack Kerouac—the late author of On the Road, Big Sur, and other stream-of-consciousness, hyper-autobiographical novels—remains surprisingly up for grabs ideologically. The hippies claim him as an inspiration, as do many western Buddhists; a biography called Subterranean Kerouac attempts to out him as a homosexual; a new film adaptation of On The Road starring Kristen Stewart opens the door for the Twilight generation; and I wouldn’t be surprised if there aren’t more than a few Occupy Wall Street protestors hunkering down in their tents with battered copies of Kerouac’s The Dharma Bums stuffed in their jacket pockets.

Each of these groups is absolutely sincere in its self-identification with Kerouac. Each sees its concerns and agendas reflected in his roiling ocean of language. Yet this bopping, scatting, mystical jazz poet who almost singlehandedly willed the 1960s counterculture into being was himself a political conservative and a Catholic.

How can this be?

The key to understanding Kerouac lies in a close examination of his roots, for it was in the small French Canadian community of Lowell, Massachusetts that the future author was inculcated with the values that would carry him through his life. He did indeed go on to lead a wild existence filled with alcohol, drugs, and perpetual shiftlessness; he fled from monogamy as from leprosy. Yet one cannot grasp the soul of Kerouac unless one understands his fundamentally traditional core. He never wished to foment a revolution. He did not desire to change America; he intended to document, celebrate, and, in the end, eulogize it.

Jean-Louis (“Jack”) Kerouac was born in Lowell, Massachusetts in 1922, the son of French Canadian immigrants. His father Leo, like so many immigrants, fiercely loved his adopted country. This belief in the land of opportunity remained with him even after his Catholicism lapsed in the wake of devastating business failures. Jack’s conservatism, like his father’s, was the conservatism of the old ways: of hard work and even harder drink, of big blue-collar families passing down oral traditions. Above all, it was a conservatism of the natural world: of the large, solid, protective trees, of the perpetually roaring Merrimack and Concord Rivers—all combining to cast that crucial illusion of unchangingness that, in the best of circumstances, cradles and fortifies a soul for its journey beyond childhood. Late in life Kerouac would tell William F. Buckley Jr., “My father and my mother and my sister and I have always voted Republican, always.” This had nothing to do with party planks and everything to do with family identity, with holding onto something, no matter how arbitrary, in an otherwise disorienting world. We’re Kerouacs and this is what we do. 

Hand in hand with the politics was the pre-Vatican II Catholicism that saturated Lowell’s tight-knit French Canadian community. Gabrielle Kerouac—Jack’s mother—matched Leo’s civic pride with a fervent religious faith, which if anything intensified after the death of Jack’s older brother Gerard, whom Jack would later eulogize as an unheralded saint in the novel Visions of Gerard. This was that majestic, fearsome Catholicism that now exists purely in the realm of imagination for most modern practitioners: the Catholicism of the Latin mass, of all-powerful priests, of God as the unknowable, awe-inspiring other. To New England’s mostly impoverished French Canadians, the Catholic Church served as de facto government, educator, extended family, and cultural arbitrator. Perhaps as a result of this spiritual immersion, both Gabrielle and Jack saw signs of God and angels everywhere.

“The Catholic Church is a weird church,” Jack later wrote to his friend and muse Neal Cassady. “Much mysticism is sown broadspread from its ritual mysteries till it extends into the very lives of its constituents and parishoners.” It is impossible to overstate the influence of Catholicism on all of Kerouac’s work, save perhaps those books written during his Buddhist period in the mid-to-late 1950s. The influence is so obvious and so pervasive, in fact, that Kerouac became justifiably incensed when Ted Berrigan of the Paris Review asked during a 1968 interview, “How come you never write about Jesus?” Kerouac’s reply: “I’ve never written about Jesus? … You’re an insane phony … All I write about is Jesus.”

Berrigan ought to have known better. But casual readers can be forgiven for failing to grasp the religiosity in Kerouac’s writing. After all, his version of Christianity esteemed visions and personal experience over doctrine and dogma. He felt a special affinity for such offbeat souls as St. Francis of Assissi, St. Therese of Liseux (“The Little Flower”), and Thomas Merton, all of whom to some extent de-emphasized legalism in favor of a direct union with God. Beyond the confines of the Catholic Church, the influence of the painter and ecstatic poet William Blake loomed just as large and perhaps fueled Kerouac’s disregard for what he perceived to be restrictive sexual mores.

Of course, Kerouac is best known not for his lovely Lowell-centered books but for On the Road, a breathless jazz-inflected torrent of words initially typed out onto a “scroll”—actually hundreds of pages of tracing paper taped together and fed continuously through his typewriter—during one epic coffee-fuelled writing session in 1951 and ultimately published in 1957. The book, now considered an American classic, documents the author’s real-life adventures traipsing around the country in his mid-20s with friends Allen Ginsberg, William S. Burroughs, and Neal Cassady who, together with Kerouac, would comprise the core of “The Beat Generation,” the last great American literary movement. Much drinking, drugging, and fornicating ensues over the course of Road’s 320 pages. Not surprisingly, these prurient elements did not endear Kerouac to the mainstream right of his time, which irked the young author, as he felt no affinity for the left.

He never saw the impartial documenting of his own reckless youth as license for others to drop out of society. If anything, the downbeat ending of Road, in which Kerouac predicts the frantic, kicks-obsessed “Dean Moriarty’s” (Neal Cassady’s) eventual slide into oblivion, as well as his unflinching depiction of his own nervous breakdown from alcoholic excess in the follow-up novel Big Sur, make quite clear the inevitable outcome of a “life on the road.” But Kerouac should not have been surprised by the right’s reaction; this was, after all, not conservative writing. The books did not follow the established standards of the novel and, in reality, were not novels at all but something else entirely: “confessional picaresque memoirs” (a phrase coined by Beat scholar Ann Charters), with the names of the participants changed to avoid accusations of libel. The conservative critics, missing the deeper themes of loneliness and the yearning for God, lambasted Kerouac for encouraging delinquency, while critics of all stripes complained about his sloppiness and occasional incoherece.

These commentators had a point: as novels, the books could be frustratingly uneven. Readers often found themselves bewildered by the sheer number of characters drifting in and out of the pages, unable to keep track of all the “mad ones” that Kerouac strained to include in his storylines. Why, the critics wondered, couldn’t Kerouac simply create a few composite characters embodying his friends’ most noteworthy traits? By any standard such an authorial modification would have vastly improved the readability of the books.

But that was not Kerouac’s aim. He wished to capture the truth, his truth, as best and as purely as he could. And he wanted to do this spontaneously, like a jazz musician wailing on his horn during an onstage improvisation. Revision, in Kerouac’s eyes, would only dilute the purity of the original performance. Furthermore, since he viewed his writing vocation as rooted in the Sacrament of Reconciliation: revision was tantamount to lying in the confessional. It might have have resulted in better novels, but they would no longer have been “spontaneous” and “true” novels. And it is the spontaneity and the emotional truth of these books, more than anything else, that continue to speak to readers.

It’s easy to approach On the Road with cynicism: an almost rapturous naïveté, or idiocy, permeates throughout. Yet this wide-eyed quality is actually one of the book’s great strengths; it evokes the exhilaration of being young, of leaving home for the first time and venturing out into the wider world with an open heart and credulous mind. Kerouac had the beguiling ability to find the admirable and holy in every soul he encountered on his travels, just as he had seen angels and the Holy Mother emerging from every corner in Lowell. And who has not experienced the sweet rush of moral transgression or the anguish of having to accept the consequences of such behavior? On the Road captures those emotions expertly.

Kerouac’s self-destructive nature, which led to his premature death from alcohol-induced hemhorraging, is perhaps the most curious aspect of his life story. Why would a man who worked so relentlessly at his craft, who endured 15 years of obscurity and rejection before his triumphant breakthrough, and who seemed to derive blissed-out enjoyment from even the most mundane aspects of life methodically destroy everything he had worked so hard to attain?

The answer may lie in a combination of near-crippling shyness and the very emotional openness that gave his writing such warmth. A fundamentally quiet, sensitive soul, Kerouac was woefully ill-equipped for the spotlight and had very little tolerance for criticism. Alcohol bolstered his confidence to speak in public and partially anaesthetized the sting of the many bad reviews his books received. Yet it was not enough. His friends watched helplessly as he barrelled onward to his demise, spurred ever faster by the hostile media.

As the apolitical Beat Generation metastasized into the heavily politicized hippie movement, Kerouac’s despondency and sense of alienation deepened. “I made myself famous by writing ‘songs’ and lyrics about the beauty of the things I did and ugliness too,” he said in a heated exchange with polical activist Ed Sanders on Buckley’s “Firing Line.” “You made yourself famous by saying, ‘Down with this, down with that, throw eggs at this, throw eggs at that!’ Take it with you. I cannot use your refuse; you may have it back.”

He allowed political differences to play a part in the demise of one of his greatest friendships. “I don’t even particularly wanta see [Allen Ginsberg],” he wrote his friend John Clellon Holmes in 1963, “what with his pro-Castro bullshit and his long white robe Messiah shot. … He and all those bohemian beatniks round him have nothing NEW to tell me.” This was a one-sided breakup. Ginsberg, by then a famous poet, remained intensely loyal to Kerouac even after Kerouac started publicly denouncing his old friend and hurling anti-Semitic insults in his direction. Ginsberg was wise enough, and big-hearted enough, to understand that Kerouac’s flailing out at him was a symptom of larger issues.

Kerouac’s sad final years were spent in an increasingly frantic quest to find a true home for himself and his mother. On an almost yearly basis he oscillated between Florida and New England, always following the same cycle: purchase a home, move in, grow restless, sell it; purchase another one, move in, sell it; and so on. Tragically, even when he returned to Lowell for a brief time, he found that the nurturing community he had written about so fondly for so many years now existed only in his books. He yearned, as the fictional Odysseus had during his wanderings, for the familiar, for something real and stable in his life. His mistake lay in looking for these things outside of him. Nevertheless, that desire is a good, true, worthy desire, and it permeates all of Jack Kerouac’s writing. It is the reason why the Beat movement could not last. Allen Ginsberg, the poet visionary, pined for utopia and spiritual revolution. William S. Burroughs, the outlaw libertarian, pined for anarchy and gay liberation. Neal Cassady, the exiled cowboy, pined for girls and cars. Jack Kerouac, the mystic, pined for God and home.

Robert Dean Lurie is the author of No Certainty Attached: Steve Kilbey and The Church.

Of Mencken & Micropolitics

Of Mencken & Micropolitics

By James Kirkpatrick 

Ex: http://www.counter-currents.com/

The rise and fall of nations and cultures is too abstract for most people. But fiction, especially that informed by journalism, can shows how the sweeping patterns of history play out the micro level. Individual stories can be just as informative as any grand history of the clash of civilizations.

H.L. Mencken, who died 57 years ago this week, was the greatest newspaperman of his age, or perhaps of any age. He shaped the thought of a generation with The ^{[2]  [2]}American Mercury ^[2] (now available online ^[3] thanks to Ron Unz ^[4]). He changed the way Americans viewed the way they speak ^[5] with his book The American Language ^[6]. Most critically, as the author of the first English-language book ^[7] on Friedrich Nietzsche ^[8], a champion of free speech and of a kind of idiosyncratic aristocratic radicalism, Mencken has been an important influence ^[9] on the libertarian American Old Right ^[10] and the emerging North American New Right ^[11].

A new collection ^[12] of Mencken’s early fiction, The Passing of a Profit and Other Forgotten Stories ^[13], provides a vital perspective on his vanished world.

Motifs run through these seventeen tales that were developed further in Mencken’s public writings and private diaries. Among the most important: the confrontation between the civilized Western man and the savage. Like his contemporary H. P. Lovecraft ^[14], Mencken identified what he called the “civilized minority” with Northern Europeans. But it’s not a perfect association—Mencken’s contempt ^[15] for the socially conservative and rural “Real Americans” ^[16] of the Sarah Palin mold iswell known ^[17].

And this collection can hardly be called racist. For example, “The Cook’s Victory” ^[18] is a hilarious recounting of a black cook winning a pardon from a poaching ship captain who wants to execute him for “mutiny.” His victory comes from the captain’s need for his help as the police approach, slowly gaining more and more concessions, finally winning his freedom just as the captain makes good his escape. In “The Crime of McSwane,” a white soldier fighting in a colonial war ^[19]loses his rifle and goes mad at the reduction in status, encouraging his comrades to die so he can reclaim his position. Other stories showNorthern Europeans ^[20] coming out on top of Southern Europeans ^[21] or non-white “natives,” ^[22] but often as a result of swindling or fraud—hardly an edifying picture of the “civilizing” power of Western Man.

Still, even in negative stories, there’s a fierce consciousness of status entirely absent from contemporary Europeans. There’s something bracing about tale after tale of laughing and confident British, Germans, and especially Americans casually striding through the Third World like swaggering colossi, changing entire societies on a whim.

In “The Heathen Rage,” a German swindler makes his way to Jamaica ^[23]and exploits an old royal land grant to a Major Johann von Braun to convince black Jamaicans named “Brown” (which is to say, lots of Jamaicans) that they are entitled ^[24] to estates. The result is chaos, as the swindler gets more and more legal fees and donations from his prey while feeding them pseudo-legal claptrap about the Magna Carta. ^[25]Eventually, the minor insurrection is put down, but the German escapes with the cash.

In “The Defeat of Alfonso,” in contrast, two American dentists who have set up shop in Ecuador easily outwit a “Castilian” competitor who tries to rob them. They send him scurrying off like a child, after a kick from a “shoe that bore the imprint of a manufacturer ^[26] in Jonesville, Connecticut.”

Two other Americans who have set up a theater in the Antilles are able to defeat an honor-conscious “Señor” through sheer daring, chasing him down in the dark of night. However, even another “Señor” represents a higher order of civilization than the “fifty colored gentlemen” in “A Double Rebellion.” Mencken notes wryly that “the dark skinned Anglo-Jamaican ^[27], be it known, reckons no further in the future than the morrow ^[28].” Following a mutiny, the Mexican pilot of the ship is forced into steering the ship, but manages to create such a disruptive voyage that the mutineers leap off the ship in terror, screaming prayers to their pagan gods.

Sometimes, the Other thinks that Western men behave the same way, as in “Hurra Lal, Peacemaker.” A doomed native rebellion ends without bloodshed when an Indian living in Jamaica ^[29], who has observed Her Majesty’s pith-helmeted legions, ^[30] appeases them by screaming “God Save the Queen” ^[31] as if it were a magic formula, not really knowing what it means. The appeal has its intended effect: the grinning white officers show mercy to the defeated.

In each case, we are presented with a mirror image of the micro-racial politics of today, with Western men confronting the Other without fear ^[32] or guilt ^[33].

However, what is most remarkable for immigration patriots is the attitude of Americans towards their government as they have their lurid adventures abroad ^[34]. In every story, citizens of the Republic (even scoundrels) are confident that there is a strong government ^[35] that has their back and will ensure their rights are not violated by foreigners. ^[36]

In “The King and Tommy Crips,” which no parent can read without grinning, a patriotic little boy (are there any now?) is abroad with his father in one of the lesser German kingdoms. Heartbroken at missing the Fourth of July while stuck in a snooty European city where no-one speaks “real English” or follows baseball, the boy resolves to have his own celebration. He throws some firecrackers during a parade for the king. This is interpreted as an assassination attempt by anarchists ^[37].

The king is amused when he finds out the truth, and the boy is ashamed of his disruption. But his innocent warnings to the king after being threatened with jail show that, a century ago, even a child knew what it meant to have a country:

“Did you ever see the battleship Oregon ^[38]? . . . she goes around helping Americans. If one of them is robbed or gets into jail in a foreign country, she comes along and gets him out. The government keeps her for that.”

In the eponymous “The Passing of a Profit,” two feuding American gamblers detained in Mexico confidently expect freedom and swift punishment for the Mexican government once the American consul arrives. However, in a twist, the consul turns out to be a naturalized Mexican ^[39]—an early example of a Raul Grijalva, ^[40]who holds a US passport but is indifferent towards his supposed country. He still secures their release, but only after a bribe. The chastened Americans realize they would have escaped with earnings intact if they had shown a united front. They shake hands and conclude “In unity there is strength.”

Even when the U.S. government is not directly involved, Americans abroad know that they represented a real people. In “Firing & a Watering,” American miners are accosted by a band of would-be Central American revolutionaries who demand their surrender. Instead, the expatriates raise the Stars & Stripes in defiance, inform their “dago friends” that they’ve booby-trapped the river, and eventually use a high-powered hose to defeat los insurrectos in humiliating fashion. Government forces arrive to take credit for the victory and the triumphant Americans laugh good-naturedly. In the “Star Spangled Banner,” a French singer tries to put one over on Americano workers in Latin America by singing insulting Spanish lyrics to the national anthem.  ^[41]Of course, at least some of the Yankees know Spanis ^[42]h and chase him through the jungle for ten miles seeking vengeance.

The Passing of a Profit and Other Forgotten Stories is more than a new side of H.L. Mencken: It shows cultural assumptions dramatically different than those of today. What James Burnham ^[43] called the Suicide Of The West ^[44] now plays out in conversations and business dealings of ordinary people.

Today, Western men will strip to their underwear ^[45] at the behest ofnonwhite rioters in London ^[46]. An American imprisoned abroad ^[47], even aUnited States Marine ^[48], knows that his government is essentiallyindifferent ^[49] to his fate ^[50]. Rather than defending its citizens, the American government will sue them on behalf of foreign governments ^[51] or even arrest them to spare the feelings of the Third World. ^[52] The Stars & Stripes symbolizes a government actively hostile to the people who built the country.

Mencken’s fiction is valuable not just because it’s an enjoyable way to spend an afternoon with one of America’s greatest writers. It’s a way of showing individual people why they should care about the larger issues.

Shifting demographics and metapolitics aren’t just about the political direction of the country—it’s about how we have to live our lives every day.

Source: http://www.vdare.com/articles/of-mencken-and-micropolitics ^[53]

 

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Article printed from Counter-Currents Publishing: http://www.counter-currents.com

URL to article: http://www.counter-currents.com/2013/01/of-mencken-micropolitics/

URLs in this post:

[1] Image: http://www.counter-currents.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/04/MenckenCoverSm.jpg

[2] The: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/American_mercury

[3] available online: http://www.unz.org/Pub/AmMercury

[4] Ron Unz: https://www.google.com/search?hl=en&q=site%3Avdare.com+Ron+Unz).+

[5] viewed the way they speak: http://www.bartleby.com/185/

[6] The American Language: http://www.amazon.com/American-Language-H-L-Mencken/dp/0394400755/?_encoding=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=9325&linkCode=ur2&tag=vd0b-20

[7] first English-language book: http://www.seesharppress.com/nietzscheintro.html

[8] Friedrich Nietzsche: http://www.vdare.com/articles/jews-leftists-immigration-my-journey-to-nietzsche-some-responses-to-readers

[9] an important influence: http://hlmenckenclub.org/

[10] libertarian American Old Right: http://www.lewrockwell.com/rothbard/rothbard19.html

[11] North American New Right: http://www.vdare.com/posts/peter-brimelow-video-from-the-mencken-club

[12] new collection: http://www.forgottenstoriespress.com/

[13] Image: http://www.counter-currents.com/the-passing-of-a-profit/

[14] H. P. Lovecraft: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/H._P._Lovecraft#Race.2C_ethnicity.2C_and_class

[15] contempt: http://reason.com/archives/2003/02/01/scourge-of-the-booboisie

[16] “Real Americans”: http://books.google.com/books?id=fi-SeqbAVAcC&pg=PA8&dq=%E2%80%9CReal+Americans%E2%80%9D&hl=en&sa=X&ei=ADj_UPXBDorNrQHNl4GADA&ved=0CD4Q6AEwAw#v=onepage&q=%E2%80%9CReal%20Americans%E2%80%9D&f=false

[17] well known: http://writing2.richmond.edu/jessid/eng423/restricted/mencken.pdf

[18] The Cook’s Victory”: http://books.google.ca/books?id=C4DrOAFEVFUC&pg=PA307&lpg=PA307&dq=%22The+Cook%27s+Victory%E2%80%9D&source=bl&ots=kxAhD_uehs&sig=jCEiQkGLIv3NsR6HfGZDi8qY6ZY&hl=en&sa=X&ei=hUT_UMmSIuag2gXi8YHoBA&redir_esc=y#v=onepage&q=%22The%20Cook

[19] a colonial war: http://www.vdare.com/articles/a-bright-shining-lie-john-paul-vann-and-america-in-vietnam

[20] Northern Europeans: http://www.vdare.com/articles/john-harvey-s-race-and-equality-the-standard-social-science-model-is-w-r-o-n-g

[21] Southern Europeans: http://www.vdare.com/articles/iq-and-the-wealth-of-nations-richard-lynn-replies-to-ron-unz

[22] “natives,”: http://www.vdare.com/articles/the-fulford-file-christophobia-the-prejudice-that-barely-has-a-name

[23] Jamaica: http://books.google.ca/books?id=pXrZAAAAMAAJ&q=%E2%80%9CThe+Heathen+Rage,%E2%80%9D+mencken&dq=%E2%80%9CThe+Heathen+Rage,%E2%80%9D+mencken&hl=en&sa=X&ei=bUb_UMmxOuPS2AWT5ICgDA&redir_esc=y

[24] entitled: http://www.snopes.com/business/taxes/blacktax.asp

[25] Magna Carta.: http://cybercynic.wordpress.com/2011/08/03/magna-carta-no-longer-law/

[26] manufacturer: http://articles.businessinsider.com/2011-07-29/news/30017716_1_shoes-tariff-factory

[27] Anglo-Jamaican: http://www.vdare.com/letters/a-reader-remembers-the-immigrant-who-killed-43-people-by-deliberately-crashing-psa-flight-17

[28] no further in the future than the morrow: http://www.halfsigma.com/2006/05/is_future_time_.html

[29] Indian living in Jamaica: http://jamaica-gleaner.com/pages/history/story0057.htm

[30] pith-helmeted legions,: http://www.johnderbyshire.com/Readings/dannydeever.html

[31] “God Save the Queen”: http://www.royal.gov.uk/MonarchUK/Symbols/NationalAnthem.aspx

[32] fear: http://www.vdare.com/articles/hey-we-could-use-this-racism-detector

[33] guilt: http://www.vdare.com/articles/white-guilt-obamania-and-the-reality-of-race

[34] abroad: http://www.vdare.com/articles/teddy-bear-jihad-religion-of-peace-showing-the-love?page=11

[35] strong government: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Great_White_Fleet

[36] rights are not violated by foreigners.: http://www.americanheritage.com/content/%E2%80%9Cperdicaris-alive-or-raisuli-dead%E2%80%9D

[37] anarchists: http://www.vdare.com/articles/why-no-ashcroft-raids

[38] battleship Oregon: http://www.spanamwar.com/oregon.htm

[39] naturalized Mexican: http://www.vdare.com/articles/memo-from-mexico-by-allan-wall-13

[40] Raul Grijalva,: https://www.google.com/search?hl=en&q=site%3Avdare.com+Raul+Grivalja%2C#hl=en&safe=off&tbo=d&spell=1&q=site:vdare.com+Raul+Grijalva,&sa=X&psj=1&ei=YEv_ULGTL-Lo2AWYy4CoAw&ved=0CDEQBSgA&bav=on.2,or.r_gc.r_pw.r_cp.r_qf.&bvm=bv.41248874,d.b2I&fp=2133deba519e1b

[41] insulting Spanish lyrics to the national anthem. : http://www.vdare.com/posts/star-spangled-spanglish

[42] some of the Yankees know Spanis: http://www.vdare.com/articles/the-fulford-file-by-james-fulford-15

[43] James Burnham: http://www.vdare.com/articles/james-burnham-the-new-class-and-the-nation-state

[44] Suicide Of The West: http://www.amazon.com/Suicide-West-Meaning-Destiny-Liberalism/dp/145511751X/?_encoding=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=9325&linkCode=ur2&tag=vd0b-20

[45] strip to their underwear: http://stuffblackpeopledontlike.blogspot.com/2011/08/two-photos-that-show-sickness-of-dwl.html

[46] nonwhite rioters in London: http://www.vdare.com/posts/who-is-rioting-in-england-estimate-60-black-35-white-5-south-asian

[47] American imprisoned abroad: http://news.blogs.cnn.com/2011/09/21/more-cases-of-american-detainees-jailed-abroad/

[48] United States Marine: http://www.foxnews.com/world/2012/12/17/gun-that-landed-marine-jon-hammar-in-mexican-prison-was-legal-says-veteran/

[49] indifferent: http://townhall.com/tipsheet/katiepavlich/2012/12/14/marine-held-in-mexican-prison-state-department-does-nothing-n1467038

[50] fate: http://www.cbsnews.com/8301-202_162-57560485/mexico-frees-ex-marine-jailed-for-bringing-in-gun/

[51] on behalf of foreign governments: http://www.vdare.com/articles/there-s-no-american-foreign-policy-because-there-s-no-america

[52] the feelings of the Third World.: http://www.vdare.com/posts/mohammed-filmmaker-sentenced-to-silence-in-the-slammer

[53] http://www.vdare.com/articles/of-mencken-and-micropolitics: http://www.vdare.com/articles/of-mencken-and-micropolitics

Eliot, Pound, and Lewis: A Creative Friendship

By Henry Regnery

 

Ex: http://www.theamericanconservative.com/

 

 

Portrait of T.S. Eliot by Wyndham Lewis (1938). Wikimedia Commons.

It may be a source of some pride to those of us fated to live out our lives as Americans that the three men who probably had the greatest influence on English literature in our century were all born on this side of the Atlantic. One of them, Wyndham Lewis, to be sure, was born on a yacht anchored in a harbor in Nova Scotia, but his father was an American, served as an officer in the Union Army in the Civil War, and came from a family that has been established here for many generations. The other two were as American in background and education as it is possible to be. Our pride at having produced men of such high achievement should be considered against the fact that all three spent their creative lives in Europe. For Wyndham Lewis the decision was made for him by his mother, who hustled him off to Europe at the age of ten, but he chose to remain in Europe, and to study in Paris rather than to accept the invitation of his father to go to Cornell, and except for an enforced stay in Canada during World War II, spent his life in Europe. The other two, Ezra Pound and T.S. Eliot, went to Europe as young men out of college, and it was a part of European, not American, cultural life that they made their contribution to literature. Lewis was a European in training, attitude and point of view, but Pound and Eliot were Americans, and Pound, particularly, remained aggressively American; whether living in London or Italy his interest in American affairs never waned.

The lives and achievements of these three men were closely connected. They met as young men, each was influenced and helped by the other two, and they remained friends, in spite of occasional differences, for the rest of their lives. Many will remember the picture in Time of Pound as a very old man attending the memorial service in Westminster Abbey in 1965 for T.S. Eliot. When Lewis, who had gone blind, was unable to read the proofs of his latest book, it was his old friend, T.S. Eliot who did it for him, and when Pound was confined in St. Elizabeth’s in Washington, Eliot and Lewis always kept in close touch with him, and it was at least partly through Eliot’s influence that he was finally released. The lives and association of these three men, whose careers started almost at the same time shortly before World War I are an integral part of the literary and cultural history of this century.

The careers of all three may be said, in a certain way, to have been launched by the publication of Lewis’ magazine Blast. Both Lewis and Pound had been published before and had made something of a name for themselves in artistic and literary circles in London, but it was the publication in June, 1914, of the first issue of Blast that put them, so to speak, in the center of the stage. The first Blast contained 160 pages of text, was well printed on heavy paper, its format large, the typography extravagant, and its cover purple. It contained illustrations, many by Lewis, stories by Rebecca West and Ford Maddox Ford, poetry by Pound and others, but it is chiefly remembered for its “Blasts” and “Blesses” and its manifestos. It was in this first issue of Blast that “vorticism,” the new art form, was announced, the name having been invented by Pound. Vorticism was supposed to express the idea that art should represent the present, at rest, and at the greatest concentration of energy, between past and future. “There is no Present – there is Past and Future, and there is Art,” was a vorticist slogan. English humour and its “first cousin and accomplice, sport” were blasted, as were “sentimental hygienics,” Victorian liberalism, the Royal Academy, the Britannic aesthete; Blesses were reserved for the seafarer, the great ports, for Shakespeare “for his bitter Northern rhetoric of humour” and Swift “for his solemn, bleak wisdom of laughter”; a special bless, as if in anticipation of our hairy age, was granted the hairdresser. Its purpose, Lewis wrote many years later, was to exalt “formality and order, at the expense of the disorderly and the unkempt. It is merely a humorous way,” he went on to say, “of stating the classic standpoint as against the romantic.”

The second, and last, issue of Blast appeared in July, 1915, by which time Lewis was serving in the British army. This issue again contained essays, notes and editorial comments by Lewis and poetry by Pound, but displayed little of the youthful exuberance of the first – the editors and contributors were too much aware of the suicidal bloodletting taking place in the trenches of Flanders and France for that. The second issue, for example, contained, as did the first, a contribution by the gifted young sculptor Gaudier-Brzeska, together with the announcement that he had been killed while serving in the French army.

Between the two issues of Blast, Eliot had arrived in London via Marburg and Oxford, where he had been studying for a degree in philosophy. He met Pound soon after his arrival, and through Pound, Wyndham Lewis. Eliot’s meeting of Pound, who promptly took him under his wing, had two immediate consequences – the publication in Chicago of Prufrock in Harriet Monroe’s Poetry magazine, and the appearance of two other poems a month or two later in Blast. The two issues of Blast established Lewis as a major figure: as a brilliant polemicist and a critic of the basic assumptions and intellectual position of his time, two roles he was never to surrender. Pound had played an important role in Blast, but Lewis was the moving force. Eliot’s role as a contributor of two poems to the second issue was relatively minor, but the enterprise brought them together, and established an association and identified them with a position in the intellectual life of their time which was undoubtedly an important factor in the development and achievement of all three.

Lewis was born in 1882 on a yacht, as was mentioned before, off the coast of Nova Scotia. Pound was born in 1885 in Hailey, Idaho, and Eliot in 1888 in St. Louis. Lewis was brought up in England by his mother, who had separated from his father, was sent to various schools, the last one Rugby, from which he was dropped, spent several years at an art school in London, the Slade, and then went to the continent, spending most of the time in Paris where he studied art, philosophy under Bergson and others, talked, painted and wrote. He returned to England to stay in 1909. It was in the following year that he first met Ezra Pound, in the Vienna Cafe in London. Pound, he wrote many years later, didn’t greatly appeal to him at first – he seemed overly sure of himself and not a little presumptuous. His first impression, he said, was of “a bombastic galleon, palpably bound to or from, the Spanish Main,” but, he discovered, “beneath its skull and cross-bones, intertwined with fleur de lis and spattered with star-spangled oddities, a heart of gold.” As Lewis became better acquainted with Pound he found, as he wrote many years later, that “this theatrical fellow was one of the best.” And he went on to say, “I still regard him as one of the best, even one of the best poets.”

By the time of this meeting, Lewis was making a name for himself, not only as a writer, but also an artist. He had exhibited in London with some success, and shortly before his meeting with Pound, Ford Maddox Ford had accepted a group of stories for publication in the English Review, stories he had written while still in France in which some of the ideas appeared which he was to develop in the more than forty books that were to follow.

But how did Ezra Pound, this young American poet who was born in Hailey, Idaho, and looked, according to Lewis, like an “acclimatized Buffalo Bill,” happen to be in the Vienna Cafe in London in 1910, and what was he doing there? The influence of Idaho, it must be said at once, was slight, since Pound’s family had taken him at an early age to Philadelphia, where his father was employed as an assayer in the U.S. mint. The family lived first in West Philadelphia, then in Jenkintown, and when Ezra was about six bought a comfortable house in Wyncote, where he grew up. He received good training in private schools, and a considerable proficiency in Latin, which enabled him to enter the University of Pennsylvania shortly before reaching the age of sixteen. It was at this time, he was to write some twenty years later, that he made up his mind to become a poet. He decided at that early age that by the time he was thirty he would know more about poetry than any man living. The poetic “impulse”, he said, came from the gods, but technique was man’s responsibility, and he was determined to master it. After two years at Pennsylvania, he transferred to Hamilton, from which he graduated with a Ph.B. two years later. His college years, in spite of his assertions to the contrary, must have been stimulating and developing – he received excellent training in languages, read widely and well, made some friends, including William Carlos Williams, and wrote poetry. After Hamilton he went back to Pennsylvania to do graduate work, where he studied Spanish literature, Old French, Provencal, and Italian. He was granted an M.A. by Pennsylvania in 1906 and a Fellowship in Romantics, which gave him enough money for a summer in Europe, part of which he spent studying in the British museum and part in Spain. The Prado made an especially strong impression on him – thirty years later he could still describe the pictures in the main gallery and recall the exact order in which they were hung. He left the University of Pennsylvania in 1907, gave up the idea of a doctorate, and after one semester teaching at Wabash College in Crawfordsville, Indiana, went to Europe, to return to his native land only for longer or shorter visits, except for the thirteen years he was confined in St. Elizabeth’s in Washington.

Pound’s short stay at Wabash College was something of a disaster – he found Crawfordsville, Indiana, confining and dull, and Crawfordsville, in 1907, found it difficult to adjust itself to a Professor of Romance Languages who wore a black velvet jacket, a soft-collared shirt, flowing bow tie, patent leather pumps, carried a malacca cane, and drank rum in his tea. The crisis came when he allowed a stranded chorus girl he had found in a snow storm to sleep in his room. It was all quite innocent, he insisted, but Wabash didn’t care for his “bohemian ways,” as the President put it, and was glad for the excuse to be rid of him. He wrote some good poetry while at Wabash and made some friends, but was not sorry to leave, and was soon on his way to Europe, arriving in Venice, which he had visited before, with just eighty dollars.

While in Venice he arranged to have a group of his poems printed under the title A Lume Spento. This was in his preparation for his assault on London, since he believed, quite correctly, that a poet would make more of an impression with a printed book of his poetry under his arm than some pages of an unpublished manuscript. He stayed long enough in Venice to recover from the disaster of Wabash and to gather strength and inspiration for the next step, London, where he arrived with nothing more than confidence in himself, three pounds, and the copies of his book of poems. He soon arranged to give a series of lectures at the Polytechnic on the Literature of Southern Europe, which gave him a little money, and to have the Evening Standard review his book of poetry, the review ending with the sentence, “The unseizable magic of poetry is in this queer paper volume, and words are no good in describing it.” He managed to induce Elkin Mathews to publish another small collection, the first printing of which was one hundred copies and soon sold out, then a larger collection, Personae, the Polytechnic engaged him for a more ambitious series of lectures, and he began to meet people in literary circles, including T.E. Hulme, John Butler Yeats, and Ford Maddox Ford, who published his “Ballad of the Goodley Fere” in the English Review. His book on medieval Latin poetry, The Spirit of Romance, which is still in print, was published by Dent in 1910. The Introduction to this book contains the characteristic line, “The history of an art is the history of masterworks, not of failures or of mediocrity.” By the time the first meeting with Wyndham Lewis took place in the Vienna Cafe, then, which was only two years after Pound’s rather inauspicious arrival in London, he was, at the age of 26, known to some as a poet and had become a man of some standing.

It was Pound, the discoverer of talent, the literary impresario, as I have said, who brought Eliot and Lewis together. Eliot’s path to London was as circuitous as Pound’s, but, as one might expect, less dramatic. Instead of Crawfordsville, Indiana, Eliot had spent a year at the Sorbonne after a year of graduate work at Harvard, and was studying philosophy at the University of Marburg with the intention of obtaining a Harvard Ph.D. and becoming a professor, as one of his teachers at Harvard, Josiah Royce, had encouraged him to do, but the war intervened, and he went to Oxford. Conrad Aiken, one of his closest friends at Harvard, had tried earlier, unsuccessfully, to place several of Eliot’s poems with an English publisher, had met Pound, and had given Eliot a latter of introduction to him. The result of that first meeting with Pound are well known – Pound wrote instantly to Harriet Monroe in Chicago, for whose new magazine, Poetry, he had more or less been made European editor, as follows: “An American called Eliot called this P.M. I think he has some sense tho’ he has not yet sent me any verse.” A few weeks later Eliot, while still at Oxford, sent him the manuscript of The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. Pound was ecstatic, and immediately transmitted his enthusiasm to Miss Monroe. It was he said, “the best poem I have yet had or seen from an American. Pray God it be not a single and unique success.” Eliot, Pound went on to say, was “the only American I know of who has made an adequate preparation for writing. He has actually trained himself and modernized himself on his own.” Pound sent Prufrock to Miss Monroe in October, 1914, with the words, “The most interesting contribution I’ve had from an American. P.S. Hope you’ll get it in soon.” Miss Monroe had her own ideas – Prufrock was not the sort of poetry she thought young Americans should be writing; she much preferred Vachel Lindsey, whose The Firemen’s Ball she had published in the June issue. Pound, however, was not to be put off; letter followed importuning letter, until she finally surrendered and in the June, 1915, issue of Poetry, now a collector’s item of considerable value, the poem appeared which begins:

Let us go then, you and I,

When the evening is spread out against the sky

Like a patient etherized upon a table …

It was not, needless to say, to be the “single and unique success” Pound had feared, but the beginning of one of the great literary careers of this century. The following month the two poems appeared in Blast. Eliot had written little or nothing for almost three years. The warm approval and stimulation of Pound plus, no doubt, the prospect of publication, encouraged him to go on. In October Poetry published three more new poems, and later in the year Pound arranged to have Elkin Matthews, who had published his two books of poetry to bring out a collection which he edited and called The Catholic Anthology which contained the poems that had appeared in Poetry and one of the two from Blast. The principal reason for the whole anthology, Pound remarked, “was to get sixteen pages of Eliot printed in England.”

If all had gone according to plan and his family’s wishes, Eliot would have returned to Harvard, obtained his Ph.D., and become a professor. He did finish his thesis – “To please his parents,” according to his second wife, Valerie Eliot, but dreaded the prospect of a return to Harvard. It didn’t require much encouragement from Pound, therefore, to induce him to stay in England – it was Pound, according to his biographer Noel Stock “who saved Eliot for poetry.” Eliot left Oxford at the end of the term in June, 1915, having in the meantime married Vivien Haigh-Wood. That Fall he took a job as a teacher in a boy’s school at a salary of £140 a year, with dinner. He supplemented his salary by book reviewing and occasional lectures, but it was an unproductive, difficult period for him, his financial problems increased by the illness of his wife. After two years of teaching he took a position in a branch of Lloyd’s bank in London, hoping that this would give him sufficient income to live on, some leisure for poetry, and a pension for his wife should she outlive him. Pound at this period fared better than Eliot – he wrote music criticism for a magazine, had some income from other writing and editorial projects, which was supplemented by the small income of his wife, Dorothy Shakespear and occasional checks from his father. He also enjoyed a more robust constitution that Eliot, who eventually broke down under the strain and was forced, in 1921, to take a rest cure in Switzerland. It was during this three-month stay in Switzerland that he finished the first draft of The Waste Land, which he immediately brought to Pound. Two years before, Pound had taken Eliot on a walking tour in France to restore his health, and besides getting Eliot published, was trying to raise a fund to give him a regular source of income, a project he called “Bel Esprit.” In a latter to John Quinn, the New York lawyer who used his money, perceptive critical judgment and influence to help writers and artists, Pound, referring to Eliot, wrote, “It is a crime against literature to let him waste eight hours vitality per diem in that bank.” Quinn agreed to subscribe to the fund, but it became a source of embarrassment to Eliot who put a stop to it.

The Waste Land marked the high point of Eliot’s literary collaboration with Pound. By the time Eliot had brought him the first draft of the poem, Pound was living in Paris, having left London, he said, because “the decay of the British Empire was too depressing a spectacle to witness at close range.” Pound made numerous suggestions for changes, consisting largely of cuts and rearrangements. In a latter to Eliot explaining one deletion he wrote, “That is 19 pages, and let us say the longest poem in the English langwidge. Don’t try to bust all records by prolonging it three pages further.” A recent critic described the processes as one of pulling “a masterpiece out of a grabbag of brilliant material”; Pound himself described his participation as a “Caesarian operation.” However described, Eliot was profoundly grateful, and made no secret of Pound’s help. In his characteristically generous way, Eliot gave the original manuscript to Quinn, both as a token for the encouragement Quinn had given to him, and for the further reason, as he put it in a letter to Quinn, “that this manuscript is worth preserving in its present form solely for the reason that it is the only evidence of the difference which his [Pound’s] criticism has made to the poem.” For years the manuscript was thought to have been lost, but it was recently found among Quinn’s papers which the New York Public Library acquired some years after his death, and now available in a facsimile edition.

The first publication of The Waste Land was in the first issue of Eliot’s magazine Criterion, October, 1922. The following month it appeared in New York in The Dial. Quinn arranged for its publication in book form by Boni and Liveright, who brought it out in November. The first printing of one thousand was soon sold out, and Eliot was given the Dial award of the two thousand dollars. Many were puzzled by The Waste Land, one reviewer even thought that Mr. Eliot might be putting over a hoax, but Pound was not alone in recognizing that in his ability to capture the essence of the human condition in the circumstances of the time, Eliot had shown himself, in The Waste Land, to be a poet. To say that the poem is merely a reflection of Eliot’s unhappy first marriage, his financial worries and nervous breakdown is far too superficial. The poem is a reflection, not of Eliot, but of the aimlessness, disjointedness, sordidness of contemporary life. In itself, it is in no way sick or decadent; it is a wonderfully evocative picture of the situation of man in the world as it is. Another poet, Kathleen Raine, writing many years after the first publication of The Waste Land on the meaning of Eliot’s early poetry to her generation, said it

…enabled us to know our generation imaginatively. All those who have lived in the Waste Land of London can, I suppose, remember the particular occasion on which, reading T.S. Eliot’s poems for the first time, an experience of the contemporary world that had been nameless and formless received its apotheosis.

Eliot sent one of the first copies he received of the Boni and Liveright edition to Ezra Pound with the inscription “for E.P. miglior fabbro from T.S.E. Jan. 1923.” His first volume of collected poetry was dedicated to Pound with the same inscription, which came from Dante and means, “the better marker.” Explaining this dedication Eliot wrote in 1938:

I wished at that moment to honour the technical mastery and critical ability manifest in [Pound’s] . . . work, which had also done so much to turn The Waste Land from a jumble of good and bad passages into a poem.

Pound and Eliot remained in touch with each other – Pound contributed frequently to the Criterion, and Eliot, through his position at Faber and Faber, saw many of Pounds’ books through publication and himself selected and edited a collection of Pound’s poetry, but there was never again that close collaboration which had characterized their association from their first meeting in London in 1914 to the publication of The Waste Land in the form given it by Pound in 1922.

As has already been mentioned, Pound left London in 1920 to go to Paris, where he stayed on until about 1924 – long enough for him to meet many people and for the force of his personality to make itself felt. He and his wife were frequent visitors to the famous bookshop, Shakespeare and Co. run by the young American Sylvia Beach, where Pound, among other things, made shelves, mended chairs, etc.; he also was active gathering subscriptions for James Joyces’ Ulysses when Miss Beach took over its publication. The following description by Wyndham Lewis of an encounter with Pound during the latter’s Paris days is worth repeating. Getting no answer after ringing the bell of Pound’s flat, Lewis walked in and discovered the following scene:

A splendidly built young man, stripped to the waist, and with a torso of dazzling white, was standing not far from me. He was tall, handsome and serene, and was repelling with his boxing gloves – I thought without undue exertion – a hectic assault of Ezra’s. After a final swing at the dazzling solar plexus (parried effortlessly by the trousered statue) Pound fell back upon the settee. The young man was Hemingway.

Pound, as is well known, took Hemingway in hand, went over his manuscripts, cut out superfluous words as was custom, and helped him find a publisher, a service he had performed while still in London for another young American, Robert Frost. In a letter to Pound, written in 1933, Hemingway acknowledged the help Pound had given him by saying that he had learned more about “how to write and how not to write” from him “than from any son of a bitch alive, and he always said so.”

When we last saw Lewis, except for his brief encounter with Pound and Hemingway wearing boxing gloves, he had just brought out the second issues of Blast and gone off to the war to end all war. He served for a time at the front in an artillery unit, and was then transferred to a group of artists who were supposed to devote their time to painting and drawing “the scene of war,” as Lewis put it, a scheme which had been devised by Lord Beaverbrook, through whose intervention Lewis received the assignment. He hurriedly finished a novel, Tarr, which was published during the war, largely as a result of Pound’s intervention, in Harriet Shaw Weaver’s magazine The Egoist, and in book form after the war had ended. It attracted wide attention; Rebecca West, for example, called it “A beautiful and serious work of art that reminds one of Dostoevsky.” By the early twenties, Lewis, as the editor of Blast, the author of Tarr and a recognized artist was an established personality, but he was not then, and never became a part of the literary and artistic establishment, nor did he wish to be.

For the first four years following his return from the war and recovery from a serious illness that followed it little was heard from Lewis. He did bring out two issues of a new magazine, The Tyro, which contained contributions from T.S. Eliot, Herbert Read and himself, and contributed occasionally to the Criterion, but it was a period, for him, of semi-retirement from the scene of battle, which he devoted to perfecting his style as a painter and to study. It was followed by a torrent of creative activity – two important books on politics, The Art of Being Ruled (1926) and The Lion and the Fox (1927), a major philosophical work, Time and Western Man (1927), followed by a collection of stories, The Wild Body (1927) and the first part of a long novel, Childermass (1928). In 1928, he brought out a completely revised edition of his wartime novel Tarr, and if all this were not enough, he contributed occasionally to the Criterion, engaged in numerous controversies, painted and drew. In 1927 he founded another magazine, The Enemy, of which only three issues appeared, the last in 1929. Lewis, of course, was “the Enemy.” He wrote in the first issue:

The names we remember in European literature are those of men who satirised and attacked, rather than petted and fawned upon, their contemporaries. Only this time exacts an uncritical hypnotic sleep of all within it.

One of Lewis’ best and most characteristic books is Time and Western Man; it is in this book that he declared war, so to speak, on what he considered the dominant intellectual position of the twentieth century – the philosophy of time, the school of philosophy, as he described it, for which “time and change are the ultimate realities.” It is the position which regards everything as relative, all reality a function of time. “The Darwinian theory and all the background of nineteenth century thought was already behind it,” Lewis wrote, and further “scientific” confirmation was provided by Einstein’s theory of relativity. It is a position, in Lewis’ opinion, which is essentially romantic, “with all that word conveys in its most florid, unreal, inflated, self-deceiving connotation.”

The ultimate consequence of the time philosophy, Lewis argued, is the degradation of man. With its emphasis on change, man, the man of the present, living man for the philosophy of time ends up as little more than a minute link in the endless process of progressive evolution –lies not in what he is, but in what he as a species, not an individual, may become. As Lewis put it:

You, in imagination, are already cancelled by those who will perfect you in the mechanical time-scale that stretches out, always ascending, before us. What do you do and how you live has no worth in itself. You are an inferior, fatally, to all the future.

Against this rather depressing point of view, which deprives man of all individual worth, Lewis offers the sense of personality, “the most vivid and fundamental sense we possess,” as he describes it. It is this sense that makes man unique; it alone makes creative achievement possible. But the sense of personality, Lewis points out, is essentially one of separation, and to maintain such separation from others requires, he believes, a personal God. As he expressed it: “In our approaches to God, in consequence, we do not need to “magnify” a human body, but only to intensify that consciousness of a separated and transcendent life. So God becomes the supreme symbol of our separation and our limited transcendence….It is, then, because the sense of personality is posited as our greatest “real”, that we require a “God”, a something that is nothing but a person, secure in its absolute egoism, to be the rationale of this sense.”

It is exactly “our separation and our limited transcendence” that the time philosophy denies us; its God is not, in Lewis’ words “a perfection already existing, eternally there, of which we are humble shadows,” but a constantly emerging God, the perfection toward which man is thought to be constantly striving. Appealing as such a conception may on its surface appear to be, this God we supposedly attain by our strenuous efforts turns out to be a mocking God; “brought out into the daylight,” Lewis said, “it would no longer be anything more than a somewhat less idiotic you.”

In Time and Western Man Lewis publicly disassociated himself from Pound, Lewis having gained the erroneous impression, apparently, that Pound had become involved in a literary project of some kind with Gertrude Stein, whom Lewis hated with all the considerable passion of which he was capable. To Lewis, Gertrude Stein, with her “stuttering style” as he called it, was the epitomy of “time philosophy” in action. The following is quoted by Lewis is in another of his books, The Diabolical Principle, and comes from a magazine published in Paris in 1925 by the group around Gertrude Stein; it is quoted here to give the reader some idea of the reasons for Lewis’ strong feelings on the subject of Miss Stein:

If we have a warm feeling for both (the Superrealists) and the Communists, it is because the movements which they represent are aimed at the destruction of a thoroughly rotten structure … We are entertained intellectually, if not physically, with the idea of (the) destruction (of contemporary society). But … our interests are confined to literature and life … It is our purpose purely and simply to amuse ourselves.

The thought that Pound would have associated himself with a group expounding ideas on this level of irresponsibility would be enough to cause Lewis to write him off forever, but it wasn’t true; Pound had met Gertrude Stein once or twice during his stay in Paris, but didn’t get on with her, which isn’t at all surprising. Pound also didn’t particularly like Paris, and in 1924 moved to Rapallo, a small town on the Mediterranean a few miles south of Genoa, where he lived until his arrest by the American authorities at the end of World War II.

In an essay written for Eliot’s sixtieth birthday, Lewis had the following to say about the relationship between Pound and Eliot:

It is not secret that Ezra Pound exercised a very powerful influence upon Mr. Eliot. I do not have to define the nature of this influence, of course. Mr. Eliot was lifted out of his lunar alley-ways and fin de siecle nocturnes, into a massive region of verbal creation in contact with that astonishing didactic intelligence, that is all.

Lewis’ own relationship with Pound was of quite a different sort, but during the period from about 1910 to 1920, when Pound left London, was close, friendly, and doubtless stimulating to both. During Lewis’ service in the army, Pound looked after Lewis’ interests, arranged for the publication of his articles, tried to sell his drawings, they even collaborated in a series of essays, written in the form of letters, but Lewis, who in any case was inordinately suspicious, was quick to resent Pound’s propensity to literary management. After Pound settled in Rapallo they corresponded only occasionally, but in 1938, when Pound was in London, Lewis made a fine portrait of him, which hangs in the Tate Gallery. In spite of their occasional differences and the rather sharp attack on Pound in Time and Western Man, they remained friends, and Lewis’ essay for Eliot’s sixtieth birthday, which was written while Pound was still confined in St. Elizabeth’s, is devoted largely to Pound, to whom Lewis pays the following tribute:

So, for all his queerness at times–ham publicity of self, misreading of part of poet in society–in spite of anything that may be said Ezra is not only himself a great poet, but has been of the most amazing use to other people. Let it not be forgotten for instance that it was he who was responsible for the all-important  contact  for James  Joyce–namely  Miss Weaver. It was his critical understanding, his generosity, involved in the detection and appreciation of the literary genius of James  Joyce. It was through him that a very considerable sum of  money was put at Joyce’s disposal at the critical moment.

Lewis concludes his comments on Pound with the following:

He was a man of letters, in the marrow of his bones and down to the red rooted follicles of his hair. He breathed Letters, ate Letters, dreamt Letters. A very rare kind of man.

Two other encounters during his London period had a lasting influence on Pound’s thought and career–the Oriental scholar Ernest Fenollosa and Major Douglas, the founder of Social Credit. Pound met Douglas in 1918 in the office of The New Age, a magazine edited by Alfred H. Orage, and became an almost instant convert. From that  point on usury became an obsession with him, and the word “usurocracy,” which he used to denote a social system based on money and credit, an indispensable part of his vocabulary. Social Credit was doubtless not the panacea Pound considered it to be, but  that Major Douglas was entirely a fool seems doubtful too, if the following quotation from him is indicative of the quality of his thought:

I would .. make the suggestion … that the first requisite of a  satisfactory governmental system is  that it shall divest itself  of the idea that it has a mission to improve the morals or direct  the  philosophy of  any of  its constituent citizens.

Ernest Fenollosa was a distinguished Oriental scholar of American  origin who had spent  many years in Japan, studying both Japanese and Chinese literature, and had died in  1908. Pound met his widow in London in 1913, with the result that she entrusted her  husband’s papers to him, with her authorization to edit and publish them as he thought  best. Pound threw himself into the study of the Fenollosa material with his usual  energy, becoming, as a result, an authority on the Japanese Noh drama and a lifelong student of Chinese. He came to feel that the Chinese ideogram, because it was never entirely removed from its origin in the concrete, had certain advantages over the  Western alphabet. Two years after receiving the Fenollosa manuscripts, Pound published  a translation of Chinese poetry under the title Cathay. The Times Literary Supplement  spoke of the language of Pound’s translation as “simple, sharp, precise.” Ford Maddox  Ford, in a moment of enthusiasm, called Cathay “the most beautiful book in the  language.”

Pound  made other translations, from Provencal, Italian, Greek, and besides the book of  Chinese poetry, translated Confucius, from which the following is a striking example, and  represents a conception of the relationship between the individual and society to which Pound attached great importance, and frequently referred to in his other writing:

The men of old wanting to clarify and diffuse throughout the empire that light which comes from looking straight into the heart and then acting, first set up good government in their own states; wanting good government in their states, they first established order in their own families; wanting order in the  home, they  first disciplined themselves; desiring self-discipline, they rectified their own hearts; and wanting to rectify their hearts; they sought precise verbal definitions of their inarticulate thoughts; wishing to attain precise verbal definitions, they sought to extend  their knowledge to the utmost. This completion of knowledge is rooted in sorting things into organic categories.

When things had been classified in organic categories, knowledge moved toward fulfillment; given the extreme knowable points, the inarticulate thoughts were defined with  precision. Having attained this precise verbal definition, they then stabilized their hearts, they disciplined themselves;  having attained self-discipline, they set their own houses in order; having order in their own homes, they brought good  government to their own states; and when their states were  well  governed, the empire was brought into equilibrium.

Pound’s major poetic work is, of course, The Cantos, which he worked on over a period of more than thirty years. One section, The Pisan Cantos, comprising 120 pages and eleven cantos, was written while Pound was confined in a U.S. Army detention camp near Pisa, for part of the time in a cage. Pound’s biographer, Noel Stock, himself a poet and a  competent critic, speaks of the Pisan Cantos as follows:

They are confused and often fragmentary; and they bear no relation structurally to the seventy earlier cantos; but shot through by a rare sad light they tell of things gone which somehow seem to live on, and are probably his best poetry. In  those few desperate months he was forced to return to that point within himself where the human person meets the outside world of real things, and to speak of what he found there. If at times the verse is silly, it is because in himself Pound was often  silly; if at times it is firm, dignified and intelligent, it is because  in himself Pound was often firm, dignified and intelligent; if it  is fragmentary and confused, it is because Pound was never  able to think out his position and did not know how the matters with which he dealt were related; and if often lines and  passages have a beauty seldom equaled in the poetry of the twentieth century it is because Pound had a true lyric gift.

As for the Cantos as a whole, I am not competent to make even a comment, much less to  pass judgment. Instead I will quote the distinguished English critic Sir Herbert Read on  the subject:

I am not going to deny that for the most part the Cantos present insuperable difficulties  for the impatient reader, but, as Pound says somewhere, “You can’t get through hell in a hurry.” They are of varying length, but they already amount to more than five hundred pages of verse and constitute the longest, and without hesitation I would say the greatest, poetic achievement of our time.

When The Waste Land was published in 1922 Eliot was still working as a clerk in a  London bank and had just launched his magazine, The Criterion. He left the bank in 1925 to join the newly organized publishing firm of Faber and Gwyer, later to become Faber  and Faber, which gave him the income he needed, leisure for his literary pursuits and  work that was congenial and appropriate. One of his tasks at Fabers, it used to be said,  was writing jacket blurbs. His patience and helpfulness to young authors was well known–from personal experience I can bear witness to his kindness to inexperienced publishers; his friends, in fact, thought that the time he devoted to young authors he felt had promise  might have been better spent on his own work. In spite of the demands on his time and  energy, he continued to edit the Criterion, the publication of which was eventually taken  over by Faber. He attached the greatest importance to the Criterion, as is evidenced by the following from a letter to Lewis dated January 31, 1925 which is devoted entirely to  the Criterion and his wish for Lewis to continue to write regularly for it, “Furthermore I  am not an individual but an instrument, and anything I do is in the interest of art and literature and civilization, and is not a matter for personal compensation.” As it worked  out, Lewis wrote only occasionally for the Criterion, not at all for every issue as Eliot had proposed in the letter referred to above. The closeness of their association, however, in spite of occasional differences, may be judged not only from Eliot’s wish to have something from Lewis in every issue, but from the following from a letter to Eliot from  Lewis:

As I understand with your paper that you are almost in the position I was in with Tyro and Blast I will give you anything I have for nothing, as you did me, and am anxious to be of use to you: for I know that every  failure of an exceptional attempt  like yours with the Criterion means that the chance of  establishing some sort of critical standard here is diminished.

Pound also contributed frequently to the Criterion, but at least pretended not to think much of  it–“… a magnificent piece of editing, i.e. for the purpose of getting in to the  Athenaeum Club, and becoming permanent,” he remarked on one occasion. He, by the  way, accepted some of the blame for what he considered to be Eliot’s unduly cautious approach to criticism. In a letter to the Secretary of the Guggenheim Foundation, written  in 1925 to urge them to extend financial assistance to Eliot and Lewis, he made the  following comment:

I may in some measure be to blame for the extreme caution of his [Eliot’s] criticism. I pointed out to him in the beginning that there was no use of two of us butting a stone wall; that he’d  never be as hefty a battering ram as I was, nor as explosive as Lewis, and that he’d  better try a more oceanic and fluid method of sapping the foundations. He is now respected by the Times  Lit. Sup. But his criticism no longer arouses my interest.

What Pound, of course, wished to “sap” was not the “foundations”of an ordered society,  but of established stupidity and mediocrity. The primary aim of all three, Pound, Eliot  and Lewis, each in his own way, was to defend civilized values. For Eliot, the means to  restore the health of Western civilization was Christianity. In his essay The Idea of A Christian Society he pointed out the dangers of the dominant liberalism of the time, which he thought “must either proceed into a gradual decline of which we can see no end, or reform itself into a positive shape which is likely to be effectively secular.” To attain,  or recover, the Christian society which he thought was the only alternative to a purely secular society, he recommended, among other things, a Christian education. The purpose of  such an education would not be merely to make people pious Christians, but primarily, as he put it, “to train people to be able to think in Christian categories.” The great mass of any population, Eliot thought, necessarily occupied in the everyday cares and demands of life, could not be expected to devote much time or effort to “thinking about the objects of faith,” their Christianity must be almost wholly realized in behavior.  For Christian values, and the faith which supports them to survive there must be, he  thought, a “Community of  Christians,” of people who would lead a “Christian life on its highest social level.”

Eliot thought of “the Community of Christians” not as “an organization, but a body of  indefinite outline, composed of both clergy and laity, of the more conscious, more spiritually and intellectually developed of both.” It will be their “identity of belief and  aspiration, their background of a common culture, which will enable them to influence and be influenced by each other, and collectively to form the conscious mind and the conscience of the nation.” Like William Penn, Eliot didn’t think that the actual form of  government was as important as the moral level of the people, for it is the general ethos of the people they have to govern, not their own piety, that determines the behaviour of  politicians.” For this reason, he thought, “A  nation’s system of education is much more  important than its system of government.”

When we consider the very different personalities of these three men, all enormously  gifted, but quite different in their individual characteristics–Pound, flamboyant, extravagant; Eliot, restrained, cautious; Lewis, suspicious, belligerent–we can’t help but wonder how it was possible for three such men to remain close friends from the time they met as young men until the ends of their lives. Their common American background no doubt played some part in bringing Pound and Eliot together, and they both shared certain characteristics we like to think of as American: generosity, openness to others, a fresher, more unencumbered attitude toward the past than is usual for a European, who,  as Goethe remarked, carries the burden of the quarrels of a long history. But their close association, mutual respect and friendship were based on more than their common origin on this side of the Atlantic. In their basic attitude toward the spirit of their time, all three were outsiders; it was a time dominated by a facile, shallow liberalism, which, as Eliot  once remarked, had “re- placed belief  in Divine Grace” with “the myth of human  goodness.” Above all they were serious men,  they were far more interested in finding and expressing the truth than in success as the world understands it. The English critic  E. W.  F.  Tomlin remarked that a characteristic of  these three “was that they had mastered their subjects, and were  aware of  what lay beyond them. The reading that went into Time and Western Man alone exceeded the life-time capacity of many so-called ‘scholars.’” The royalties Lewis earned from this book, one of the most important of our time, which represented an immense amount of work and thought of the highest order, didn’t amount to a pittance, but Lewis’ concern, as he put it toward the end of his life, was for “the threat of extinction to the cultural tradition of the West.” It was this mutual  concern, on a very  high level, and an utterly serious attitude toward creative work that  brought them and held them together.

Why did Pound and Eliot stay in Europe, and what might have happened to them if they had come back to this country, as both were many times urged to do, or to Lewis if he had  gone to Cornell and stayed over here? In Pound’s case, the answer is rather simple, and was given in essence by his  experience in Crawfordsville, Indiana, as a young man, and the treatment he received following the war. There is no doubt that in making broadcasts on the Italian radio during wartime he was technically guilty of treason; against this, it seems to me, must be weighed the effect of  the broadcasts, which was zero, and his achievement as a poet and critic, which is immense. One can’t expect magnanimity from any government, and especially not in the intoxication of victory in a great war and overwhelming world power, but one might have expected the academic and literary  community to have protested the brutal treatment meted out to Pound. It didn’t, nor was there any protest of his long confinement in a mental institution except on the part of a few individuals; his release was brought about largely as a result of protests from Europe, in which Eliot played a substantial part. When, however, during his confinement in St.  Elizabeth’s, the Bollingen prize for poetry was given him for the Pisan Cantos, the liberal establishment reacted with the sort of  roar one might have expected had the Nobel Peace Prize been awarded to Adolf Hitler.

Lewis spent some five years in Toronto during World War II, which, incidentally, provided him with the background for one of his greatest novels, Self Condemned. He was desperately hard up, and tried to get lecture engagements from a number of  universities, including the University of Chicago. A small Canadian Catholic college was the only representative of the academic institutions of North America to offer this really great, creative intelligence something more substantial than an occasional lecture. Since his death, Cornell and the University of Buffalo have spent large sums accumulating Lewis material-manuscripts, letters, first editions, drawings, etc. When they could have done something for Lewis himself,  to their own glory and profit, they ignored him.

The American intellectual establishment, on the other hand, did not ignore the Communist-apologist Harold Laski, who was afforded all the honors and respect at its  command, the  Harold Laski who, in 1934, at the height of Stalinism–mass arrests, millions in slave labor camps and all the rest–had lectured at the Soviet Institute of Law.

Following his return to England the Labour government gave Lewis, “the Enemy” of socialism, as he called himself, a civil pension, and the BBC invited him to lecture regularly on modern art and to write for its publication, The Listener. He was even  awarded an honorary degree by the University of Leeds. Can anyone imagine CBS, for  example, offering a position of any kind to a man with Lewis’ unorthodox views, uncompromising intelligence, and ability to see the world for what it is, the Ford  Foundation offering him a grant, or Harvard or Yale granting him an honorary degree? Harold Laski indeed yes, but Wyndham Lewis? It is inconceivable.

The following taken from letters from Ezra Pound, the first written in 1926 to Harriet Monroe, and the second in 1934 to his old professor at the University of Pennsylvania, Felix Schelling, puts the problem of the poet in America as he saw it very graphically:

Poverty here is decent and honourable. In America it lays one open to continuous insult on all sides.  . . Re your question is it any better abroad for authors: England gives small pensions; France provides jobs.  . . Italy is full of ancient libraries; the  jobs are quite comfortable, not very highly paid, but are  respectable, and can’t much interfere with the librarians’ time.

As for “expatriated”? You know damn well the country wouldn’t  feed me. The simple economic fact that if I had returned to  America I shd. have starved, and that to maintain anything like the standard of living, or indeed to live, in America from 1918  onwards I shd. have had to quadruple my earnings, i.e. it wd. have been impossible for me to devote any time to my REAL work.

Eliot, of course, fared much better than Pound at the hands of the academy. As early as  1932 he was invited to give the Charles Eliot Norton lectures at Harvard, many universities honored themselves by awarding him honorary degrees, he was given the  Nobel Prize, etc. One can’t help but wonder, however, if his achievement would have been  possible if he had completed his Ph.D. and become a Harvard professor. He wrote some  of his greatest poetry and founded the Criterion while still a bank clerk in London. One can say with considerable justification that as a clerk in Lloyd’s Bank in London Eliot had more opportunity for creative work and got more done than would have been possible had he been a Harvard  professor. It was done, of course, at the cost of intensely hard  work–in a letter to Quinn in the early twenties he remarks that he was working such long  hours that he didn’t have time either for the barber or the dentist. But he had something  to show for it.

It is impossible, of course, to sum up the achievement of these three men. They were very much a part of the time in which they lived, however much they rejected its basic assumptions and point of view. Both Lewis and Eliot described themselves as classicists, among other reasons, no doubt, because of the importance they attached to order; Lewis  at one time called Pound a “revolutionary simpleton,” which in certain ways was probably justified, but in his emphasis on “precise verbal definitions,” on the proper use  of language, Pound was a classicist too. All three, each in his own way, were concerned  with the health of society; Eliot founded the Criterion to restore values; in such books as  Time and Western Man, Paleface, The Art of Being Ruled, Lewis was fighting for an intelligent understanding of the nature of our civilization and of the forces he thought were undermining it. The political books Lewis wrote in the thirties, for which he was violently and unfairly condemned, were written not to promote fascism, as some simple-minded critics have contended, but to point out that a repetition of World War I would  be even more catastrophic for civilization than the first. In many of his political judgments Pound was undoubtedly completely mistaken and irresponsible, but he would  deserve an honored place in literature only for his unerring critical judgment, for his ability to discern quality, and for his encouragement at a critical point in the career of each of such men as Joyce, Hemingway, Eliot, Frost, and then there are his letters–letters of  encouragement and criticism to aspiring poets, to students, letters opening doors or asking for help for a promising writer, the dozens of letters to Harriet Monroe. “Keep on remindin’ ’em that we ain’t bolsheviks, but only the terrifyin’ voice of civilization, kultchuh, refinement, aesthetic perception,” he wrote in one to Miss Monroe, and when she wanted to retire, he wrote to her, “The intelligence of the nation [is] more important than the comfort of any one individual or the bodily life of a whole generation.” In a letter to H. L. Mencken thanking him for a copy of the latter’s In Defense of Women, Pound remarked, almost as an afterthought, “What is wrong with it,  and with your work in general is that you have drifted into writing for your inferiors.” Could anyone have put it more precisely? Whoever wants to know what went on in the period from about 1910 to 1940, whatever he may think of his politics or economics, or  even his poetry, will have to consult the letters of  Ezra Pound–the proper function of  the artist in society, he thought, was to be “not only its intelligence, but its ‘nostrils and  antennae.’” And this, as his letters clearly show, Pound made a strenuous and, more often than not, successful effort to be.

How much of  Lewis’ qualities were a result of his American heritage it would be hard to say, but there can be no doubt that much in both Pound and Eliot came from their  American background. We may not have been able to give them what they needed to realize their talents and special qualities, they may even have been more resented than  appreciated by many Americans, but that they did have qualities and characteristics which were distinctly American there can be no doubt. To this extent, at least, we can  consider them an American gift to the Old World. In one of Eliot’s most beautiful works,  The Rock, a “Pageant Play written on behalf of the forty-five churches Fund of the Diocese of London,” as it says on the title page, there are the lines, “I have said, take no thought of the harvest, but only of perfect sowing.” In taking upon themselves the difficult, thankless task of being the “terrifying voices of civilization” Eliot and his two friends, I am sure, didn’t give much thought of the possible consequences to themselves,  of what there “might be in it for them,” but what better can one say of anyone’s life than “He sowed better than he reaped?’’

Originally published in Modern Age, June 1972. Reprinted with the permission of the Intercollegiate Studies Institute. 

Henry Regnery (1912-1996) was an American publisher.

 

 

The Trial Of Ezra Pound

The Trial Of Ezra Pound

Ezra Pound: Protector of the West

Ezra Pound: Protector of the West

By Ursus Major

Ex: http://www.counter-currents.com/

Ezra Pound was arguably the finest American-born poet and a first rate Classical scholar. He happened to be born in Idaho, a state not noted for either its poets or Classicists. It was, however, a center of the American Populist Movement, which pitted the (usually family) farmer against the banks and railroads. The Populists called themselves “National-Socialists,” long before that term was heard in Europe.

Pound was born in 1885, making him less than two-years younger than his later hero, Benito Mussolini. This was at the apex of the Populist movement. The Populist Party’s platform for the 1886 election was almost entirely written by Edward Bellamy. Bellamy was a novelist-journalist, whose utopian work, Looking Backward had sold over 1 million copies in the U.S. alone.

Looking Backward is set in the year 2000, and recounts the victory of National-Socialism: the nationalization of the banks and railroads, along with a host of reforms to alleviate the lot of the working-man without invoking Marxism. The syndicalism of Georges Sorel was a major influence upon the Populists, as it was upon the one-time Socialist, Benito Mussolini.

(Mussolini had been named “Benito,” which is not an Italian name, by his anarchist father, in honor of Benito Juárez, the Mexican revolutionary responsible for the execution of Maximilian. Actually, Juárez didn’t last that long: he was disposed of by his lieutenant Díaz, who proceeded to set up a dictatorship, which was 100-times more repressive than anything envisioned by the liberal Austrian Arch-Duke, who had been tricked by Napoleon III into accepting a “crown,” which was created by the French, the Catholic Church, and the Mexican latifundiastas: huge landowners. One should remember that the Spanish Habsburgs had ruled Mexico for centuries. The Habsburg arms — the Roman Double Eagle — are to be found on the Governor’s House in Santa Fe, New Mexico, which was founded during the Habsburg era. So Maximilian, being offered the crown as Emperor of Mexico wasn’t off-the-wall.)

What happened with the Populists? Basically, William Jennings Bryan stole their rhetoric; and Theodore Roosevelt along with Taft gave support to the trade-union movement. Bryan’s “Cross of Gold” speech, in support of the free-silver movement, caused the Populists to support Bryan, and they shared in Bryan’s defeat. Imperialism was the impetus of the hour, as the U.S. attacked and defeated Spain, taking what remained of the Spanish Empire (and sending the Marines to the Philippines, to show them that it was merely a “change of title,” by shooting half-a-million of the “liberated”).

Oscar Wilde once commented, “When a good American dies, he goes to Paris.” Pound didn’t wait until he was dead before leaving the Land of the Free and Hopelessly Vulgar. By 1908, he was living in London. In 1920, he moved to Paris (which was less expensive); and in 1924, he moved to Italy, where he was to remain until the U.S. Army brought him back to the Land of the Victorious and Hopelessly Vulgar — in a cage! Pound was an ardent Fascist and remained one until the day of his death, well over 30 years after the Duce and his mistress, Clara Petacchi, were hung like sides of beef from the rafters of a bombed-out gas station in Milan.

Pound found in Fascist Italy both the “National-Socialism” of the Populists plus a reawakening of the “civilizing” mission of Ancient Rome, of which Pound (the Classicist) was so fond. Pound referred to his poems as “Cantos” — lyrics! — which drew upon the greatest Euro-poets, from Homer on, as their inspiration; and, in his Pisan Cantos (written while confined to a cage in Pisa after WWII, and for which he was awarded the 1949 Bollingen Prize in Poetry) incorporating inspiration from that other great High Culture: the Culture of Confusian China. What was Pound doing in a U.S. Army cage? Awaiting some decision by the U.S. government as to what to do with its most famous poet — who had regularly broadcast pro-Axis speeches from 1941 on!

In the Plutocratic-Marxist alliance of WWII, he found all he had despised since his youth: the joint determination of Bankers and Barbarians to destroy Western Civilization (which, in Pound’s view was personified in Fascist Italy, with Germany a distant second). His slim prose work Jefferson and/or Mussolini drew attention to Jefferson loathing of banks and compared the tyranny of International Finance with British Mercantilism, finding the former worse than the latter. His anti-Semitic speeches were directed solely against Jewish financial control. (Unlike most anti-Semites, he was rabid in his loathing of Jewish financial interests, but totally indifferent toward the Jews qua Jews and was quite disturbed when Mussolini sanctioned the deportation of Italian Jews, who were obviously not financiers.) He described Italian Fascism as “paternally authoritarian” and subscribed to the view that freedom was for those who’d earned it. He described the American concept of free speech as merely “license”: “Free speech, without radio free speech is zero!” was a comment he made in one of his own broadcasts.

Although manifestly guilty of treason under U.S. law, the government felt embarrassed at the prospect of trying him, so they had some medical hacks from the military certify he was insane, and committed him to St. Elizabeths, the federal asylum in Washington from 1946 until 1958, when he was allowed to leave, providing he immediately left the country. That he did, returning to Italy; his last act in the U.S. being to accord the Statue of Liberty the Roman/Fascist salute!

The first of the “Cantos” had appeared in 1917. The last (96-109: Thronos) in 1959. The Whole he considered one vast epic poem, on a Homeric scale; however, it is more an epic reflecting the maturity of an artist and Classicist, in an age which marked the decline of both. One can see in influence of Yeats (who was also markedly pro-Fascist, but died before that could produce a crisis [1939]), Ford Maddox Ford and James Joyce were “cross pollinators” with Pound. T. S. Eliot and Ernest Hemingway [. . .] died before him; therefore, Ezra Pound became the last of the expatriate artists, a tradition that began with Henry James. Certainly some brief excerpt of his work is called for. The following is taken from one of the Pisan Cantos, written in the cage:

this breath wholly covers the mountains
it shines and divides
it nourishes by its rectitude
does no injury
overstanding the earth it fills the nine fields
to heaven

Boon companion to equity
it joins with the process
lacking it, there is inanition
When the equities are gathered together
as birds alighting
it springeth up vital

If deeds be not ensheaved and garnered in the heart
there is inanition.

I selected this example, because it draws upon the High Culture of China for inspiration, and incorporates within this a Classical maxim, which even those who know no Latin should be aware of. The final phrase (“if deeds be not ensheaved and garnered in the heart / there is inanition”) is a restatement of ACTA NON VERBA! (For those denied access to a dictionary of sufficient scope, “inanition” means “emptiness, a need – like a need for food or drink.”)

So Pound combines the essence of Mandarian art with the essence of the West, affirming the Spenglerian premise that all High Cultures are “transportable.” How many full-time Western symphony orchestras does Tokyo support? EIGHT! (Pound,by the way, was a excellent bassoonist.)

Leaving aside all other considerations, Ezra Pound — Poet and Traitor — PROVES the essential unity of all Euros. From Hailey, Idaho to London, Paris, Rapallo, Rome, an asylum in Washington,  D.C. back to die in his beloved Rapallo (where the aging Gore Vidal now spends most of his time), Pound showed that no part of Magna Europa is alien to any Euro. Art, like an orchid, requires a special soil, a special climate to blossom in. A poet was born in the prairies of Idaho, but his genius could not thrive in the same soil as potatoes. Even as thousands of years before, the genius of Ovid atrophied in Tomis, where Augustus had banished him (Ovid had a great influence on Pound), so the genius of Ezra (what a horrid name!) Pound, Classicist, Poet-Supreme, would have atrophied in that backwater of Magna Europa. And so the Euro had to return to the primal soil, that his genius might bloom — yes, and be driven into treason, lest greed and barbarism destroy Magna Europa. “If this be treason, let us make the most of it!” Patrick Henry admonished his colleagues. Pound made as much of it as he could.

That what he saw as a deadly threat to his Race-Culture, he put ahead of the color of his passport may be heinous or not. That is not the issue. The issue is that Hailey, Idaho could give Magna Europa one of Her greatest poets, whose greatness ensued in the main from his ability to absorb all that had gone before and say it anew — even deploying adoptive forms!

 

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URL to article: http://www.counter-currents.com/2012/10/ezra-pound-protector-of-the-west/

Ezra Pound: L’ABC del leggere…

 

Ezra Pound: L’ABC del leggere…

Se la letteratura di una nazione declina,
la nazione si atrofizza e decade

Ezra Pound

Ex: http://www.mirorenzaglia.org/2012/09/ezra-pound-labc-del-...

Leggere non è mai operazione indolore, costa fatica e dedizione. Leggere poesia poi è la cosa più ardua che un lettore possa immaginare di fare. Mi viene quasi da dire che leggere poesia è più duro che scriverla, ma mi astengo perché non sono poeta e posso giudicare solo per sentito dire.

Chi si accosta alla poesia non può mai farlo a cuor leggero, non può pensare di non dover pagare uno scotto e non può utilizzare nessuna scorciatoia. Per decifrarne il significato, per abbandonarsi al verso, per assaporare il ritmo non è sufficiente la buona predisposizione d’animo o una volontà ferrea. Ciò che è necessario è imparare a leggerla, piegandosi al duro percorso dell’apprendistato.

Niente nella poesia è pura casualità, niente può zampillare liberamente. Ogni impressione di levità e musicalità è frutto incessante e sfibrante basato su conoscenza, tecnica, esercizio. Il poeta è come il pugile che salta leggero sul ring schivando, roteando, danzando, incassando e colpendo con una naturalezza che naturale non è mai. È il frutto di una macerazione nelle spossanti sedute d’allenamento in cui, in compagnia soltanto di se stesso e del suo maestro apprende a scarnificare il suo corpo, piroettando con la sua ombra, fino ad apparire senza peso quando si esibisce di fronte alla folla dei tifosi.

Accostarsi alla lettura della poesia richiede la medesima consapevolezza. E sbigottiti di fronte al cammino da intraprendere, quando un sottile sentimento di paura ci assedia, la prima domanda che ci si rivolge è: “chi mi può insegnare?”. È per questo motivo che ho accolto con giubilo la ristampa che Garzanti ha deciso de L’ABC del leggere di Ezra Pound, lo zio Ezra che ancora una volta ci stupisce.

È un onore non da poco accostarsi alle pagine di questo manualetto, perché il (più?) grande poeta del Novecento decide di vestire i panni dell’educatore nel tentativo di concedere a noi lettori una chiave che ci permetta di aprire, magari solo per uno spiraglio, quella porta che ci divide dalla poesia.

Impresa ardua insegnare a qualcuno come leggerla, ma Pound è grande non solo per le sue opere maggiori, ma per l’incessante, ingenua volontà di regalare aiuto a tutti coloro che ne facciano richiesta. Il suo intento è quello di «offrire un manuale leggibile, tanto per diletto come per profitto, a chi non frequenta più le scuole, a chi non è mai stato a scuola, o infine a quanti ai tempi della loro istruzione hanno dovuto soffrire quello che hanno sofferto molti della mia generazione».

Un approccio iniziale che potrebbe sembrare populista. La poesia spiegata a tutti, facile accesso a chi non ha struttura per leggerla. Niente di più sbagliato. Pound, che non ha mai concesso sconti, in primo luogo a se stesso, costruisce il suo percorso in un modo che potrebbe scoraggiare chiunque ed afferma che la poesia è, sì di tutti, ma di tutti coloro che intendo accostarla nell’unica maniera possibile, studiando, faticando, sudando, crescendo poco a poco in consapevolezza.

Pound non ha nessuna intenzione di dire che, per renderlo accessibile, un testo va svilito e portato al livello del lettore. Piuttosto pensa che sia il lettore a dover arrampicarsi con dolore al livello del testo e per questo si prende la briga di insegnarcelo. Sembrerebbe un cammino di spine e stenti, di noia e di professorale distacco. Niente di più falso anche questo.

Pound delinea una strada totalmente antiaccademica, sui generis, inorganica se non caotica ma ricca di un sentimento quasi struggente che si traduce nella parola amore. A partire da una semplice definizione «La letteratura è linguaggio carico di significato», il suo insegnamento si dipana attraverso una serie di raccomandazioni operative che tendono a dilatare il senso della lettura, così come della scrittura che diventano il rovescio della stessa medaglia.

È così che, tra gli esercizi indicati per il lettore, trova spazio un compito in apparenza facile «Descrivere un oggetto comune come un gatto o una mela». Cosa non facile se si presta attenzione all’aneddoto del pesce che Pound riporta nel suo libro e che gli fa dire «il metodo conveniente allo studio della poesia e delle buone letture è lo stesso del biologo contemporaneo: attenta e diretta osservazione dell’oggetto, e continuo raffronto tra vetrini o campioni».

È solo così che si può preservare la buona poesia, visto che «è indispensabile strappare le erbacce se il Giardino delle Muse deve restare un giardino». È solo attraverso questo metodo analitico che si possono selezionare le parole, limarle nel loro senso, parsimoniosamente dispensarle, per incastrarle nel verso e farle vibrare nel ritmo. E per poter imparare a leggere è indispensabile che gli allievi, una volta composto il loro testo, se lo scambino tra loro per trovare nel testo altrui quante parole inutili vi sono state inserite, quante di queste ne occultano il significato. Per imparare a capire se una frase è ambigua e se una parola collocata in posizione anomala rende la frase stessa più interessante o più dinamica.

Pagine indispensabili che fanno da parte operativa a quelle in cui vengono sondati i segreti del linguaggio, fondati sull’intreccio tra suono e vista e dove sono fissate alcune considerazioni vivificanti: «è convinzione dell’autore che la musica isterilisce se si allontana troppo dalla danza; che la poesia isterilisce se si separa troppo dalla musica; ma questo non implica che ogni buona musica è musica da balletto o che tutta la poesia è lirica. Bach e Mozart non sono mai molto distanti dal movimento fisico».

Si ha l’impressione di un ritorno alle origini assolute dell’arte, in cui una poesia non è mai un testo scritto o letto su un foglio di carta ma una vivida rappresentazione della vita, se non la vita stessa. La poesia, mi sembra di capire da Pound, non si legge (come non si scrive). La poesia, si guarda, si annusa, si gusta, si ascolta, in una parola si vive, con tutta quella fisicità che il termine implica.

In un manualetto breve, la seconda parte è un’antologia di poeti selezionati dal Poeta, si condensano tante di quelle considerazioni che lascio scoprire al lettore, memore anche di un’ulteriore considerazione di Pound che sembra proprio rivolta a me «l’incompetenza è denotata dall’uso di troppe parole».

Pound nella sua enorme lungimiranza aveva capito che non basta essere poeti sommi, è necessario al contorno far crescere una consapevolezza diffusa che permette un arricchimento necessario perché «se la letteratura di una nazione declina, la nazione si atrofizza e decade».

 Mario Grossi

Lovecraft und die Inszenierung der großen Niederlage

„I Am Providence“ – Lovecraft und die Inszenierung der großen Niederlage. Mahnung und Forderung

Geschrieben von: Dietrich Müller  

 

Ex: http://www.blauenarzisse.de/

 

„I am Providence” – ich bin die Vorsehung. Diese Worte kann man auf dem Grabstein von Howard Phillips Lovecraft lesen. Es sind irgendwie trotzige Worte, sie wirken seltsam, wenn man sich die Photographien dieses Mannes betrachtet: Ein feminines, leicht verkniffenes Gesicht, das mehr auf unzufriedene Schüchternheit schließen lässt. Das Gesicht eines Hintergrundmenschen. Frei von Ausstrahlung oder zupackender Lebenskraft. Die Worte auf dem Grabstein klingen mehr nach einem Triumph, welchen wir scheinbar nicht entschlüsseln können.

Was für einen Sinn soll es haben, sich mit diesem Mann zu beschäftigen? Er hat eine reiche Korrespondenz hinterlassen und eine überschaubare Anzahl an Geschichten, die dem Horrorgenre zugerechnet werden – das nicht ganz zu Unrecht einen zweifelhaften Ruf genießt. Selbst für einen so früh verstorbenen Mann ist seine Biographie schrecklich mager, sie bietet kaum Höhepunkte, praktisch nichts Erzählenswertes. Geboren, geschrieben, gestorben. Lovecraft in drei Worten.

Was kann die Beschäftigung mit diesem Mann uns schon geben?

Ein Portrait dieses Mannes zu verfassen, scheitert am biographischen Zugriff. Es soll uns auch nur am Rande kümmern, wie er gelebt hat. Aber aus seinen Widersprüchen und seinen Fähigkeiten lässt sich ein Destillat erzeugen, aus dem sich einiges ziehen lässt und gerade dem kritischen Geist Nahrung liefert. Mehr als Fragment kann es freilich nicht sein, das hätte ihm wohl auch gefallen.

Kapitulation hat durchaus etwas Verführerisches. Hat man erst einmal alle Hoffnung persönlich negiert, kann man sich bequem am Leben vorbeidrücken. Widerstand ist anstrengend, nervenaufreibend. Wo man sich an den Zeiten und den Menschen offensiv abmühen muss, da geht es an die Nerven, an die Substanz und der Ausgang bleibt immer mehr als ungewiss. Dem vollendeten Pessimisten ist der Eskapismus nahe.

Beides trifft auf Lovecraft zu. Es ist eine Situation, welche die Kritiker heutiger Zeiten (und gerade die Konservativen und Reaktionäre) mit ihm teilen: Alles wird schlechter, die Entwicklungen werden zur Lawine, wir werden erdrückt. Fast könnte man neidisch werden auf die Kollaborateure und ihr zufriedenes Unzufriedensein zwischen Konsum und banalen Sorgen.

Das Verführerische an der Kapitulation

Viele kennen die Verführung, sich in die Schreibstube zurückzuziehen und abzuwarten, bis die Zeit einen dahinrafft. Diese leise Stimme, dass man sich umsonst abplackt und welch’ hoffnungsloser Irrsinn im dauernden Widerstand liegt. Lieber sich nicht mehr kümmern, nicht mehr teilnehmen. So sind wir doch Lovecrafts Kinder, wenn wir diese Verführung und diese Stimme kennen.

Allein: Das stellt den Zweifel nicht ab. Den Schrecken über soviel Unwissen und Dummheit. Das – durchaus auch wohlige Erschauern – beim Ausblick auf künftige Katastrophen. Man blickt aus dem Fenster und beschaut die lachend-dummen Gesichter und fragt sich, wie sie aussehen werden, wenn das Unheil zu ihnen kommt. Der Gedanke gefällt und beunruhigt uns, er zieht uns magisch an den Schreibtisch, denn ganz können wir es nicht unterlassen, uns doch mitzuteilen – und sei es auch nur dem Papier.

Nicht weil wir Erfolg wünschen oder Ruhm, sondern weil wir den Eselgesichtern einen Vorgeschmack geben wollen auf die bitteren Zeiten, welche sich für uns so klar abzeichnen. Man hat sich zwar versteckt, aber man kann den prophetischen Akt nicht unterlassen, auch weil man das falsche Glück durchschaut, welchem die Kleingeister da huldigen.

Sind wir neidisch auf die Gedankenlosen?

Halt! Moment! Wir wollten doch kapitulieren, uns nicht mehr einmischen! Uns der Passivität hingeben und alles verneinen. Wegducken und in Ruhe vergehen. Der Widerspruch nagt an uns. Sind wir neidisch? Ein unschöner Gedanke. Vielleicht so unschön wie wir und die anderen? Wir leben also weit weg vom prallen Leben. Die Menschen und ihr Alltag widern uns an. Unbegreiflich das dumme Tun und der Lauf der Zeit. Wir künden davon und werden alt. Auch aus der Ferne kann man das Schauen nicht unterlassen, die Gedanken nicht abstellen – die Qual sich zu äußern, die Frage, ob nicht alles anders sein könnte.

Schließlich knüppeln wir die Hoffnung in den Texten tot. Oder versuchen es zumindest. Nicht mehr nur wegen der anderen, viel mehr noch wegen uns selbst. Abfinden wollen wir uns mit dem Ekel und nicht aufbegehren. Die Welt ist uns unbegreiflich, aber wir uns auch. Was soll dieser Unsinn? Das Leben ist und bleibt ein Saustall und es widert uns an. Geht mir aus den Augen! Gehe mir selbst aus den Augen! Ich tue mir selbst furchtbares an, aber wir auch den anderen. Missgunst und Empathie lassen keine Ruhe aufkommen. Auch die Heimat wird Gefängnis.

Welch Verführung, welch Verschwendung! Also zehren wir uns auf

Wir werden alt im Zeitraffer. Und krank. Wir schämen uns einerseits ob des ausgewichenen Lebens und sind doch voller Vorfreude, wenn die Zeit uns endlich dahinrafft. Wir spucken auf das erbärmliche Geschenk dieses unnötigen Lebens. Nur auf die Haltung kommt es noch an, auf die letzten Meter, bevor man endlich diesem Scheißhaufen mit seinen Amöbenexistenzen entfliehen kann. Ob einfach nur ein schwarzer Vorhang fällt oder neue Welten, neue Schrecken sich auftun, ist uns egal. Nur weg! Haben wir doch geahnt (oder nur gemeint?), dass es den ganzen Wahn nicht wert ist.

Welche Verführung, welche Verschwendung! Also zehren wir uns auf: Uns rührt nicht die Frau, die wir nicht hatten, das Kind nicht, welches wir nie wollten, die Nachwelt nicht, welche wir ablehnen wie die Gegenwart. Wir haben ein Beispiel gegeben oder auch nicht. Das soll andere kümmern. Als uns das Sterben schließlich zerfrisst, blicken wir uns noch einmal delirisch um. Sicher war es alles nichts wert. Oder hoffen wir es nur?

Das ist jene drohende, zwiespältige Botschaft, welche Lovecraft, sein Leben und seine Schriften haben. Wir leben in diesem Widerspruch. Die „Fülle der Zeit“ (Gasset) wie im 19. Jahrhundert kennen wir nicht und sie kommt auch nicht wieder. In jedem Zweifler steckt auch ein Nihilist, die wegwerfende Geste, die durchaus auch großartig wirken kann. Dieser Widerspruch und diese Verführung machen uns zu Lovecrafts Kindern. Freilich: Man sollte nicht seinem Beispiel folgen. Der quälende Blick vor dem Ende muss furchtbar sein und ist eine Mahnung.

Auch die Glücklichen vergehen

Aber wenn wir schließlich in seine Texte schauen, wenn wir angenehm erschauern beim Blick in den irrsinnigen Abgrund dieser sirenenhaften Unfassbarkeit, dann spüren wir, wie nahe er uns gewesen ist. Der Ekel über den alltäglichen Menschen in seiner viehischen Zufriedenheit wird uns bestätigt und am Ende kommt das Böse zu allen und bleibt stark in seiner Unfassbarkeit. Auch die Glücklichen vergehen und ihr Sturz ist noch viel tiefer.

Das hilft über manch düstere Momente hinweg. Gerade diese missgünstige Ader, diese Lust am Unglück der Anderen befriedigt Lovecraft für uns. Deswegen redet man auch nicht gerne von ihm, vor allem in Deutschland. Aber auch in der internationalen Rezeption verschanzt man sich hinter schönen Worten oder böser Kritik.

Lovecraft hat der „Leere eine Farbe“ gegeben

Man sieht es nicht gerne, wenn der Menschenhasser und Katastrophenwünscher in jedem von uns bedient wird. Das literarische Establishment meidet seine Schriften und Visionen. Nicht alleine wegen der rassistischen Untertöne, sondern wegen der verführenden Wirkung und dieses unangenehmen Gefühls, beim eignen Widerspruch ertappt worden zu sein.

Er hat der „Leere eine Farbe“ gegeben (Camus), während er konsequent gegen sich selbst lebte. Er ist Verführung und Vergewaltigung zugleich. Destruktiv und autoaggressiv. Selbstbezogen und doch voller Empathie. Ein totaler Widerspruch. Aus der Zeit.

„I am Providence.” Alles hatte er überwunden und negiert. Und doch den Gedanken nicht unterlassen. Daran schließlich zerbrochen. Durch die Zeit hat er über diese und seine bescheidene Herkunft triumphiert, indem er seine Niederlage inszenierte. Und heute vernehmen wir vielleicht ein leises Echo eines boshaften Lachens, das möglicherweise von ihm stammt. Er war mehr als „nur“ Providence.

In unseren aktuellen Thesen-durch-Fakten-Anschlägen haben wir uns ebenfalls mit dem Thema Pessimismus auseinandergesetzt und dazu sechs Thesen formuliert: Pessimismus ist Feigheit!

Edgar Allan Poe – Meister der Dunkelheit

Edgar Allan Poe – Meister der Dunkelheit

Geschrieben von: Christoph George   

Ex: http://www.blauenarzisse.de/

Es gibt Literaten, die man aufgrund ihres Stiles noch viele Jahre nach ihrem Ableben hoch schätzt. Der amerikanische Schriftsteller Edgar Allen Poe gehört unzweifelhaft zu eben jenen. Neben romantischen Erzählungen, Detektivgeschichten und anderen literarischen Gattungen prägte er vor allem die Horrorgeschichte wie wenige andere. Bis heute gilt er als kaum übertroffen.

Sprach der Rabe: „Nimmermehr.“ – Poe und die Horrorgeschichte

Edgar Poe wurde 1809 als Sohn eines Schauspielerehepaares in Boston geboren und schon in frühester Kindheit von schweren Schicksalsschlägen geprägt. Nachdem 1811 die Eltern verstarben, wurde er mit seinen beiden Geschwistern neuen Familien zugewiesen, die sich ihrer annahmen. Der junge Edgar kam zu den Allans, deren Nachnamen er von nun an zusätzlich trug. Sein Bruder William starb im Alter von nur 24 Jahren. Ebenso seine 14 Jahre jüngere Frau Virginia, seine Cousine, die er 1936 geheiratet hatte. Derlei tragische Schicksalsschläge verarbeitete Poe später in jenen Gruselgeschichten, für die er noch heute weltberühmt ist. Der Tod schöner junger Frauen, wie er in Der Untergang des Hauses Usher, Der schwarze Kater, Das ovale Portrait, Morella, oder auch in seinem bekanntesten Gedicht Der Rabe dargestellt wird, blieb nicht zuletzt deswegen ein sich ständig wiederholendes Motiv in Poes Werk.

Die innere Hölle

Die Beschäftigung mit den Grenzen des für den Menschen ertragbaren, die Konfrontation mit dem teils puren Grauen, ist typisch für diese Art der Literatur und beinhaltet den Kern ihrer Anziehungskraft. Das Beleuchten der dunklen Seite der Seele, nicht als bloßer Kitzel der Unterhaltung gedacht, sondern insbesondere als Vortasten an das heran, was man im 16. Jahrhundert noch die „innere Hölle“ nannte, macht gerade ihr eigentliches Vermögen aus. Poe beherrschte es in Perfektion, den Leser genau dorthin zu führen.

Nach seinem frühen Tode schnell vergessen

Der Autor selbst erlangte durch Publikationen seiner Arbeiten in mehreren Zeitschriften bereits zu Lebzeiten einige Bekanntschaft, wurde aber nach seinem mysteriösen Tod im Alter von nur 40 Jahren schnell vergessen. Zu dessen postumen Ruhm, welchem wir heute seine allgemeine Popularität verdanken, kam es erst, nachdem er in Europa entdeckt wurde. So erschien eine u.a. von Arthur Moeller van den Bruck herausgegebene ins Deutsche übersetzte 10 bändige Ausgabe seines Werkes am Anfang des 20. Jahrhunderts, welche half, den Schriftsteller einer breiten Öffentlichkeit vorzustellen. Erst später wurde er aufgrund dieser Popularität auch in seiner Heimat Amerika wiederentdeckt.

Eine Entdeckung wert

Gerechtfertigt ist seine allgemeine Bekanntschaft dabei in der Tat, verweist man auf die Intensität seiner erzählten Bilder. Kurzgeschichten wie Der Fall Valdemar sind es, die den Leser auch noch nach über 150 Jahren zum Erschauern bringen; die zu der Identifikation mit den literarischen Figuren einladen, um dann kurz und grausam ihren ganzen Schrecken zu entfalten. Trotz der die Gemüter vermeintlich abstumpfenden Horrorfilmindustrie, haben Poes Gruselgeschichten nach wie vor nichts an ihrer Faszination eingebüßt, und den Autor so zu einem zeitlosen Literaten gemacht, den es weiterhin zu entdecken lohnt.

(Bild: Daguerreotypie von Edgar Allan Poe 1848)

Dystopia is Now!

Dystopia is Now!

By Jef Costello

Ex: http://www.counter-currents.com/

Whatever happened to the Age of Anxiety? In the post-war years, intellectuals left and right were constantly telling us — left and right — that we were living in an age of breakdown and decay. The pre-war gee-whiz futurists (who’d taken a few too many trips to the World’s Fair) had told us that in just a few years we’d be commuting to work in flying cars. The Cassandras didn’t really doubt that, but they foresaw that the people flying those cars would have no souls. We’d be men at the End of History, they told us; Last Men devoted only to the pursuit of pleasure — and quite possibly under the thumb of some totalitarian Nanny State that wanted to keep us that way. Where the futurists had seen utopia, the anti-futurists saw only dystopia. And they wrote novels, lots of them, and made films — and even one television show (The Prisoner).

But those days are over now. The market for dystopias has diminished considerably. The sense that something is very, very wrong, and getting worse – (something felt forty, fifty years ago even by ordinary people) has been replaced with a kind of bland, flat affect complacency. Why? Is it because the anxiety went away? Is it because things got better? Of course not. It’s because all those dire predictions came true. (Well, most of them anyway).

Dystopia is now, my friends! The future is where we are going to spend the rest of our lives. The Cassandras were right, after all. I am aware that you probably already think this. Why else would you be reading this website? But I’ll bet there’s a tiny part of you that resists what I’m saying — a tiny part that wants to say “Well, it’s not quite as bad as what they predicated. Not yet, anyway. We’ve got a few years to go before . . . uh . . . Maybe not in my lifetime . . .”

Here is the reason you think this: you believe that if it all really had come true and we really were living in dystopia, voices would be raised proclaiming this. The “intellectuals” who saw it coming decades ago would be shouting about it. If the worlds of Brave New World ^[2], Nineteen Eighty-Four ^[3], Fahrenheit 451 ^[4], and Atlas Shrugged ^[5] really had converged and been made flesh, everyone would know it and the horror and indignation would bring it all tumbling down!

Well, I hate to disappoint you. Unfortunately, there’s this little thing called “human nature” that makes your expectations a tad unrealistic. When I was very young I discovered that there are two kinds of people. You see, I used to (and still do) spend a lot of time decrying “the way people are,” or “how people are today.” If I was talking to someone simpatico they would grin and nod in recognition of the truth I was uttering. Those are the people who (like me) didn’t think that “people” referred to them. But to my utterly naïve horror I discovered that plenty of people took umbrage at my disparaging remarks about “people.” They thought that “people” meant them. And, as it turns out, they were right. They were self-selecting sheep. In fact, this turned out to be my way of telling whether or not I was dealing with somebody “in the Matrix.”

Shockingly, people in the Matrix take a lot of pride in being in the Matrix. They don’t like negative remarks about “how things are today,” “today’s society,” or “America.” They are fully invested in “how things are”; fully identified with it. And they actually do (trust me on this) believe that how things are now is better than they’ve ever been. (Who do you think writes Mad Men?)

And that’s why nobody cares that they’re living in the Village. That’s why nobody cares that dystopia is now. Most of those old guys warning about the “age of anxiety” are dead. Their children and grandchildren were born and raised in dystopia, and it’s all that they know.

In the following remarks I will revisit some classic dystopian novels, and invite you to consider that we are now living in them.

1. Brave New World by Aldous Huxley (1932)

This is, hands down, the best dystopian novel of all. It is set in a future age, after a great cataclysmic war between East and West, when Communism and assembly-line capitalism have fused into one holistic system. Characters are named “Marx” and “Lenina,” but they all revere “Our Ford.” Here we have Huxley anticipating Heidegger’s famous thesis of the “metaphysical identity” of capitalism and communism: both, in fact, are utterly materialistic; both have a “leveling effect.”

When people discuss Brave New World, they tend to emphasize the “technological” aspects to the story: human beings hatched in test tubes, pre-sorted into “castes”; soma, Huxley’s answer to Zoloft and ecstasy all rolled into one; brainwashing people in their sleep through “hypnopedia”; visits to “the feelies” instead of the movies, where you “feel” everything happening on the screen, etc.

These things get emphasized for two reasons. First, some of them enable us to distance ourselves from the novel. I mean, after all, we can’t hatch people in test tubes (yet). We are not biologically designed to fit caste roles (yet). We don’t have “feelies” (virtual reality isn’t quite there – yet). So, we’re not living in Brave New World. Right? On the other hand, since we really have almost developed these things (and since we really do have soma), these facets of the novel can also allow us to admire Huxley’s prescience, and marvel a tad at how far we’ve come. The fantasies of yesteryear made reality! (Some sick souls feel rather proud of themselves when they read Brave New World.) But these responses are both defense mechanisms; strategies to evade the ways in which the novel really comes close to home. Without further ado, here they are:

The suppression of thumos: Thumos is “spiritedness.” According to Plato (in The Republic) it’s that aspect of us that responds to a challenge against our values. Thumos is what makes us want to beat up those TSA screeners who pat us down and put us through that machine that allows them to view our naughty bits. It’s an affront to our dignity, and makes us want to fight. Anyone who does not feel affronted in this situation is not really a human being. This is because it is really thumos that makes us human; that separates us from the beasts. (It’s not just that we’re smarter than them; our possession of thumos makes us different in kind from other animals.) Thumos is the thing in us that responds to ideals: it motivates us to fight for principles, and to strive to be more than we are. In Brave New World, all expressions of thumos have been ruthlessly suppressed. The world has been completely pacified. Healthy male expressions of spiritedness are considered pathological (boy, was Huxley a prophet!). (For more information on thumos read Francis Fukuyama’s The End of History and the Last Man – a much-misunderstood book, chiefly because most readers never get to its fifth and final part.)

Denigration of “transcendence.” “Transcendence” is my convenient term for what many would call the “religious impulse” in us. This part of the soul is a close cousin to thumos, as my readers will no doubt realize. In Brave New World, the desire for transcendence is considered pathological and addressed through the application of heavy doses of soma. Anyone feeling a bit religious simply pops a few pills and goes on a “trip.” (Sort of like the “trips” Huxley himself took – only without the Vedanta that allowed him to contextualize and interpret them.) In the novel, a white boy named John is rescued from one of the “Savage Reservations,” where the primitives are kept, and brought to “civilization.” His values and virtues are Traditional and he is horrified by the modern world. In one particularly memorable scene, he is placed in a classroom with other young people where they watch a film about penitents crawling on their knees to church and flagellating themselves. To John’s horror, the other kids all begin laughing hysterically. Religion is for losers, you see. How could anyone’s concerns rise above shopping? Which brings me to . . .

Consumerism. The citizens of Brave New World are inundated with consumer goods and encouraged to acquire as many as possible. Hypnopedia teaches them various slogans that are supposed to guide them through life, amongst which is “ending is better than mending.” In other words, if something breaks or tears, don’t fix it – just go out and buy a new one! (Sound familiar?) Happiness and contentment are linked to acquisition, and to . . .

Distractions: Drugs, Sex, Sports, Media. These people’s lives are so empty they have to be constantly distracted lest they actually reflect on this fact and become blue. Soma comes in very handy here. So does sex. Brave New World was a controversial book in its time, and was actually banned in some countries, because of its treatment of sex. In Huxley’s world of the future, promiscuity is encouraged. And it begins very early in life — very early (this was probably what shocked readers the most). Between orgasms, citizens are also encouraged to avail themselves of any number of popular sports, whether as participants or as spectators. (Huxley tantalizes us with references to such mysterious activities as “obstacle golf,” which he never really describes.) Evenings (prior to copulation) can be spent going to the aforementioned “feelies.”

The desacralization of sex and the denigration of the family. As implied by the above, in Brave New World sex is stripped of any sense of sacredness (and transcendence) and treated as meaningless recreation. Feelings of love and the desire for monogamy are considered perversions. Families have been abolished and words such as “mother” are considered obscene. Now, before you optimists point out that we haven’t “abolished” the family, consider what the vector is of all the left-wing attacks on it (it takes a village, comrades). And consider the fact that in the West the family has all but abolished itself. Marriage is now consciously seen by many as a temporary arrangement (even as a convenient merging of bank accounts), and so few couples are having children that, as Pat Buchanan will tell you, we are ceasing to exist. Why? Because children require too much sacrifice; too much time spent away from careering, boinking, tripping, and playing obstacle golf.

The cult of youth. Apparently, much of the inspiration for Brave New World came from a trip Huxley took to the United States, where aging is essentially regarded as a disease. In Brave New World, everyone is kept artificially young – pumped full of hormones and nipped and tucked periodically. When they reach about 60 their systems just can’t take it anymore and they collapse and die. Whereas John is treated as a celebrity, his mother is hidden from public view simply because she has grown old on the savage reservation, without the benefit of the artificial interventions the “moderns” undergo. Having never seen a naturally old person before, the citizens of Brave New World regard her with horror. But I’m guessing she probably didn’t look any worse than Brigitte Bardot does today. (Miss Bardot has never had plastic surgery).

The novel’s climax is a marvelous dialogue between John and the “World Controller.” The latter defends the world he has helped create, by arguing that it is free of war, competition, and disease. John argues that as bad as these things often are, they also bring out the best in people. Virtue and greatness are only produced through struggle.

As a piece of writing, Brave New World is not that impressive. But as a prophecy of things to come, it is utterly uncanny – and disturbingly on target. So much so that it had to be, in effect, suppressed by over-praising our next novel . . .

2. Nineteen Eighty-Four by George Orwell (1948)

This is the most famous of all dystopian novels, and also the one that is least prescient. Like Brave New World, its literary qualities are not very impressive. It is chiefly remembered for its horrifying and bizarrely over-the-top portrayal of a future totalitarian society.

As just about everyone knows, in Nineteen Eighty-Four every aspect of society is controlled by “Big Brother” and his minions. All homes feature “telescreens” which cannot be shut off, and which contain cameras that observe one’s every move. The Ministry of Peace concerns itself with war, the Ministry of Love with terror, etc. Orwell includes slogans meant to parody Hegelian-Marxist dialectics: “war is peace,” “freedom is slavery,” ignorance is strength.” The language has been deliberately debased by “Newspeak,” dumbed-down and made politically correct. Those who commit “thoughtcrime” are taken to Room 101, where, in the end, they wind up loving Big Brother. And whatever you do, don’t do it to Julia, because the Women’s Anti-Sex League may get you. In short, things are double-plus bad. And downright Orwellian.

Let’s start with what Orwell got right. Yes, Newspeak reminds me of political correctness. (And Orwell’s analysis of how controlling language is a means to control thought is wonderfully insightful.) Then there is “doublethink,” which Orwell describes in the following way:

To know and not to know, to be conscious of complete truthfulness while telling carefully constructed lies, to hold simultaneously two opinions which cancelled out, knowing them to be contradictory and believing in both of them, to use logic against logic, to repudiate morality while laying claim to it, to believe that democracy was impossible and that the Party was the guardian of democracy, to forget, whatever it was necessary to forget, then to draw it back into memory again at the moment when it was needed, and then promptly to forget it again, and above all, to apply the same process to the process itself — that was the ultimate subtlety; consciously to induce unconsciousness, and then, once again, to become unconscious of the act of hypnosis you had just performed.

This, of course, reminds me of the state of mind most people are in today when it comes to such matters as race, “diversity,” and sex differences.

The Women’s Anti-Sex League reminds me – you guessed it – of feminism. Then there is “thoughtcrime,” which is now a reality in Europe and Canada, and will soon be coming to America. (Speaking of Brigitte Bardot, did you know that she has been convicted five times of “inciting racial hatred,” simply for objecting to the Islamic invasion of France?) And yes, when I get searched at the airport, when I see all those security cameras on the streets, when I think of the Patriot Act and of “indefinite detention,” I do think of Orwell.

But, for my money, Orwell was more wrong than right. Oceania was more or less a parody of Stalin’s U.S.S.R. (Come to think of it, North Korea is sort of a parody of Stalin’s U.S.S.R., isn’t it? It’s as if Kim Il-Sung read Nineteen Eight-Four and thought “You know, this could work . . .”) But Orwell would never have believed it if you’d told him that the U.S.S.R. would be history a mere four decades or so after his book was published. Soft totalitarianism, not hard, was the wave of the future. Rapacious, unbridled capitalism was the future, not central planning. Mindless self-indulgence and phony “individualism” were our destiny, not party discipline and self-sacrifice. The future, it turned out, was dressed in Prada, not Carhartt. And this is really why Brave New World is so superior to Nineteen Eighty-Four. We are controlled primarily through our vices, not through terror.

The best description I have encountered of the differences between the two novels comes from Neil Postman’s book Amusing Ourselves to Death:

What Orwell feared were those who would ban books. What Huxley feared was that there would be no reason to ban a book, for there would be no one who wanted to read one. Orwell feared those who would deprive us of information. Huxley feared those who would give us so much that we would be reduced to passivity and egotism. Orwell feared that the truth would be concealed from us. Huxley feared the truth would be drowned in a sea of irrelevance. Orwell feared we would become a captive culture. Huxley feared we would become a trivial culture, preoccupied with some equivalent of the feelies, the orgy porgy, and the centrifugal bumblepuppy. As Huxley remarked in Brave New World Revisited, the civil libertarians and rationalists who are ever on the alert to oppose tyranny “failed to take into account man’s almost infinite appetite for distractions.” In 1984, Orwell added, people are controlled by inflicting pain. In Brave New World, they are controlled by inflicting pleasure. In short, Orwell feared that what we fear will ruin us. Huxley feared that our desire will ruin us.

And here is Christopher Hitchens (in his essay “Why Americans are not Taught History”) on the differences between the two novels:

We dwell in a present-tense culture that somehow, significantly, decided to employ the telling expression “You’re history” as a choice reprobation or insult, and thus elected to speak forgotten volumes about itself. By that standard, the forbidding dystopia of George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four already belongs, both as a text and as a date, with Ur and Mycenae, while the hedonist nihilism of Huxley still beckons toward a painless, amusement-sodden, and stress-free consensus. Orwell’s was a house of horrors. He seemed to strain credulity because he posited a regime that would go to any lengths to own and possess history, to rewrite and construct it, and to inculcate it by means of coercion. Whereas Huxley . . . rightly foresaw that any such regime could break but could not bend. In 1988, four years after 1984, the Soviet Union scrapped its official history curriculum and announced that a newly authorized version was somewhere in the works. This was the precise moment when the regime conceded its own extinction. For true blissed-out and vacant servitude, though, you need an otherwise sophisticated society where no serious history is taught.

I believe this just about says it all.

3. Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury (1953)

This one is much simpler. A future society in which books have been banned. Now that all the houses are fireproof, firemen go around ferreting out contraband books from backward “book people” and burning them. So, what do the majority of the people do with themselves if they aren’t allowed to read? Why, exactly what they do today. They watch television. A lot of television.

I read Fahrenheit 451 after seeing the film version by Francois Truffaut. I have to admit that after seeing the film I was a bit disappointed by the book. (This would be regarded as heresy by Bradbury fans, who all see the film as far inferior.) I only dimly recall the book, as the film manages to be more immediately relevant to current pathologies than the book does (perhaps because the film was made fourteen years later, in 1967).

I vividly remember the scene in the film in which Linda, Montag the fireman’s wife, asks for a second “wallscreen” (obviously an Orwell influence). “They say that when you get your second wallscreen it’s like having your family grow out around you,” she gushes. Then there’s the scene where a neighbor explains to Montag why his new friend Clarisse (actually, one of the “book people”) is so different. “Look there,” the neighbor says, pointing to the television antenna on top of one of the houses. “And there . . . and there,” she says, pointing out other antennae. Then she indicates Clarisse’s house, where there is no antenna (she and her uncle don’t watch TV). “But look there . . . there’s . . . nothing,” says the neighbor, with a blank, bovine quality.

Equally memorable was a scene on board a monorail (accompanied by haunting music from Bernard Herrmann). Montag watches as the passengers touch themselves gently, as if exploring their own sensations for the very first time, while staring off into space with a kind of melancholy absence in their eyes. Truffaut goes Bradbury one better, by portraying this future as one in which people are numb; insensitive not just to emotions but even to physical sensations. In an even more striking scene, Montag reduces one of Linda’s friends to tears, simply by reading aloud an emotionally powerful passage from David Copperfield. The response from her concerned friends? “Novels are sick. All those idiotic words. Evil words that hurt people. Why disturb people with that sort of filth? Poor Doris.”

What Bradbury didn’t forsee was a future where there would be no need for the government to ban books, because people would just voluntarily stop reading them. Again, Huxley was more prescient. Lightly paraphrasing Neil Postman (from the earlier quotation), “What Bradbury feared were those who would ban books. What Huxley feared was that there would be no reason to ban a book, for there would be no one who wanted to read one.” Still, you’ve got to hand it to Bradbury. Although books still exist and nobody (at least not in America) is banning them, otherwise the world of today is pretty much the world of Fahrenheit 451.

No one reads books anymore. Many of our college graduates can barely read, even if they wanted to. Everywhere bookstores are closing up. Explore the few that still exist and you’ll see that the garbage they sell hardly passes as literature. (Today’s bestsellers are so badly written it’s astonishing.) It’s always been the case in America that most people didn’t read a lot, and only read good books when forced to. But it used to be that people felt just a little bit ashamed of that. Things are very different today. A kind of militant proletarian philistinism reigns. The booboisie now openly flaunt their ignorance and vulgarity as if these were virtues. It used to be that average Americans paid lip service to the importance of high culture, but secretly thought it a waste of time. Now they openly proclaim this, and regard those with cultivated tastes as a rather curious species of useless loser.

Nobody needs to ban books. We’ve made ourselves too stupid to deserve them.

4. Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand (1957)

Atlas Shrugged changed my life.

You’ve heard that before, right? But it’s true. I read this novel when I was twenty years old, and it was a revelation to me. I’ve since moved far away from Rand’s philosophy, but there’s a part of me that still loves and admires this book, and its author. And now I’ll commit an even worse heresy than saying I liked the film of Fahrenheit 451 more than the book: I think that, purely as a piece of prose fiction, Atlas Shrugged is the best of the four novels I’m considering here. I don’t mean that it’s more prescient or philosophically richer. I just mean that it’s a better piece of writing. True, it’s not as good a book as The Fountainhead, and it’s deformed by excesses of all kinds (including a speech by one character that lasts for . . . gulp . . . sixty pages). Nevertheless, Rand could be a truly great writer, when she wasn’t surrounded by sycophants who burbled affirmatively over every phrase she jotted (even when it was something like “hamburger sandwich” or “Brothers, you asked for it!”).

Atlas Shrugged depicts an America in the not-so-distant future. Collectivism has run rampant, and government regulation is driving the economy into the ground. The recent godawful film version of the first third of the novel (do yourself a big favor and don’t see it) emphasizes this issue of government regulation at the expense of Rand’s other, more important messages. (Rand was not simply a female Milton Friedman.) Rand’s analysis of the roots of socialism is fundamentally Nietzschean, though she would not admit this. It is “hatred of the good for being the good” that drives people in the world of Atlas Shrugged to redistribute wealth, nationalize industries, and subsidize lavish homes for subnormal children. And at the root of this slave morality (which Rand somewhat superficially dubs “altruism”) is a kind of primal, life-denying irrationalism. Rand’s solution? A morality of reason, where recognition that A is A, that facts are facts, is the primary commandment. This morality is preached by Rand’s prophet, John Galt, who is the leader of a secret band of producers and innovators who have “gone on strike,” refusing to let the world’s parasites feed off of them.

Despite all her errors (too many to mention here) there’s actually a great deal of truth in Rand’s analysis of what’s wrong with the world. Simply put, Rand was right because Nietzsche was right. And yes, we are living in the world of Atlas Shrugged. But the real key to seeing why this novel is relevant to today lies in a single concept that is never explored in Atlas Shrugged or in any of the other novels discussed here: race.

 ^[12]Virtually everything Rand warned about in Atlas Shrugged has come to pass, but it’s even worse than she thought it was going to be. For our purveyors of slave morality are not just out to pillage the productive people, they’re out to destroy the entire white race and western culture as such. Rand was an opponent of “racism,” which she attacked in an essay as “barnyard collectivism.” Like the leftists, she apparently saw human beings as interchangeable units, each with infinite potential. Yes, she was a great elitist – but she believed that people became moochers and looters and parasites because they had “bad premises,” and had made bad choices. Whatever character flaws they might have were changeable, she thought. Rand was adamantly opposed to any form of biological determinism.

Miss Rand (born Alyssa Rosenbaum) failed to see that all the qualities she admired in the productive “men of the mind” – their Apollonian reason, their spirit of adventure, their benevolent sense of life, their chiseled Gary Cooperish features – were all qualities chiefly of white Europeans. There simply are no black or Chinese or Hispanic John Galts. The real way to “stop the motor of the world” is to dispossess all the white people, and this is exactly what the real-life Ellsworth Tooheys and Bertram Scudders are up to today.

Atlas Shrugged, Brave New World, Nineteen Eighty-Four, and Fahrenheit 451 all depict white, racially homogeneous societies. Non-whites simply do not figure at all. Okay, yes, there might be a reference somewhere in Atlas Shrugged to a “Negro porter,” and perhaps something similar in the other books. But none of the characters in these novels is non-white, and non-whites are so far in the background they may as well not exist for these authors. Huxley thought that if we wanted epsilon semi-morons to do our dirty work the government would have to hatch them in test tubes. Obviously, he had just never visited Detroit or Atlanta. Epsilon semi-morons are reproducing themselves every day, and at a rate that far outstrips that of the alphas.

These authors foresaw much of today’s dystopian world: its spiritual and moral emptiness, its culture of consumerism, its flat-souled Last Manishness, its debasement of language, its doublethink, its illiteracy, and its bovine tolerance of authoritarian indignities. But they did not foresee the most serious and catastrophic of today’s problems: the eminent destruction of whites, and western culture.

None of them thought to deal with race at all. Why is this? Probably for the simple reason that it never occurred to any of them that whites might take slave morality so far as to actually will their own destruction. As always, the truth is stranger than fiction.

The dystopian novel most relevant to our situation is also – surprise! – the one that practically no one has heard of: Jean Raspail’s The Camp of the Saints ^[13]. But that is a subject (perhaps) for another essay . . .

 

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Article printed from Counter-Currents Publishing: http://www.counter-currents.com

URL to article: http://www.counter-currents.com/2012/01/dystopia-is-now/

Lovecraft Contra a Modernidade

Lovecraft Contra a Modernidade

 

por Sérgio Fritz Roa

 

Ex: http://legio-victrix.blogspot.com/

 

Falar sobre H.P. Lovecraft (1890-1937) não somente é referir-se ao terror cósmico, mitos vindos de tempos perdidos para a memória do homem, cultos espantosos de inconcebível significação, livros proibidos e a uma demonologia bastante pessoal. Se assim fosse, simplesmente Lovecraft não ocuparia o posto que hoje reconhece-lhe-se nas letras (e escrevo isto considerando exclusivamente aos leitores; os críticos ainda travam debates em torno a quem é ademais um personagem controvertido). Lovecraft é ademais um visionário, um psicólogo de nossos medos e aquilo que ninguém parece dar-se conta: um crítico da modernidade e de sua filha, a ilusão pós-moderna. E é justamente este o aspecto - metapolítico - da obra lovecraftiana que aqui desejamos tratar, não sem antes fazer uma assaz sintética biografia.

 

Nascido em Providence, Nova Inglaterra, Estados Unidos, Lovecraft foi educado exclusivamente por sua mãe e tias. De maneira autodidata devorará todo tipo de saber; submergindo-se em tenra idade nos cálidos mananciais da letra impressa e começando o lento caminho de escrever. Sua primeira história "The Noble Eavesdropper", segundo o estudioso lovecraftiano S.T. Joshi, dataria de 1896. Lovecraft criou suas próprias revistas, que distribuirá entre amigos, desde os nove ou dez anos. Posteriormente publicará artigos de astronomia em revistas como "The Pawtuxet Valley Gleamer" e "The Providence Sunday Journal". Não obstante, será no fanzine "Weird Tales" (1923-1954) onde editar-se-á a obra que torna-lo-á eterno.

 

Ainda que segundo muitos sua vida foi a de um recluso, não pode-se dizer que esteve "desconectado" do mundo. Sabia muito bem o que ali ocorria. A informação recebida em seus passeios por Providence e nas viagens a outras cidades (Nova Iorque, Boston, Flórida, etc.) era complementada por livros, diários, revistas, e pelo meio de comunicação que mais venerava: as cartas. Ademias teve a sorte de contar com excelentes amigos, que frequentemente convidavam-o a suas casas.

 

Lovecraft amava sua mágica Providence, e também àquela nação que deixou seus filhos ali: a Inglaterra dos puritanos. Não a Inglaterra do século XX, senão aquela dona de valores próprios, totalmente contrários ao que engloba o "moderno". Igual admiração recairia na legendária Roma Imperial. O profundo conhecimento que teve da história desta última não deixa de causar-nos admiração. Basta ler, por exemplo, a carta escrita a seu amigo, o escritor de ficção científica, Donald Wandrei, em 2 de novembro de 1927, para perceber o estudo que dedicou a estas matérias.

 

De todas as críticas ao mundo moderno - Nietzsche, Guénon, Evola, Heidegger, Jünger, Benoist, etc - possivelmente a mais original, junto com a de Céline, seja a de Lovecraft. Esta não é a postura do filósofo ou do político, senão a do poeta. Critica-se a modernidade não tanto por sua injustiça, por seu sistema econômico baseado na "moral" do mercador, por sua devoção ao consumismo - ainda que ninguém poderia negar que isto importa - senão por sua feiúra intrínseca. Feiúra na arquitetura, feiúra na linguagem, feiúra na forma de conceber a vida...feiúra nos olhares. Esta visão, a visão crítica do poeta, encontramos também em outros homens de letra, como Pound ou Mishima, porém em Lovecraft adquire um caráter único, menos polêmico e mais pessimista. Ou seria melhor dizer realista?

 

 

Se bem Lovecraft definia-se como uma pessoa das ciências, materialista mecanicista e "conservador quanto ao método e à perspectiva geral", a verdade é que em sua obra nada ou muito pouco há daquilo. A crítica feita em seus relatos à estreiteza da ciência e do racionalismo, aproxima-o a um autor admirado pelo próprio Lovecraft (e com ele a dupla Bergier-Pauwels): Charles Fort. Para ambos, a ciência é o que serve para esconder a realidade primordial, o que espreita em nossa mente e que habita em todo éon e em todo espaço; enfim, aquilo que constitui o mistério da vida.

 

Mais que racionalismo encontramos em Lovecraft gnosticismo. Já Serge Hutin em seu livro "Os Gnósticos" notava-o.

 

Um problema com que topamos ao tentar entender a vida (ou deveríamos dizer as vidas?) de Lovecraft e que relaciona-se sobremaneira com o que estamos tratando, é a postura frente à democracia norteamericana e sua suposta simpatia pelo fascismo.

 

Este é um tema difícil, onde a especulação chegou ao mais atrevido. Não deixa de ser chamativo que haja-se escrito um texto dedicado especialmente a este assunto: "O Livro de Lovecraft", de Richard Lupoff (Valdemar Editores, España, 1992). Fazer preponderantes as idéias políticas em autores não políticos, é algo não muito original nestes tempos. Pense-se no inquisidor Victor Farías e sua condenação ao filósofo Heidegger, para citar apenas um recente caso.

 

Cremos, não obstante, que a postura "política" lovecraftiana, a que não deixa de ser mais que isso, uma posição ideológica e não prática, é demasiado pessoal para ser classificada nos totalitarismos de signo fascista. Em verdade, corresponde ao ideal do nobre inglês dos séculos XVIII e XIX o do aristocrata romano. Precisamente o paradigma contrário ao representado no "American Way of Life" que hoje é universal. 

 

Lovecraft, como alguns escritores (Robert E. Howard, A. Machen e C.A. Smith, são outros casos paradigmáticos), faz da fantasia uma arma para arremeter contra o mundo moderno. A fantasia (que não é o mesmo que evasão) é um dos grandes poderes e possibilidades da literatura, que tem como nota característica a faculdade de criar ou reviver o mundo que desejamos. De imediato surge a pergunta acerca de qual é o mundo desejado por Lovecraft. De todo, certo é que não é o mundo descrito em "O Chamado de Cthulhu" (1926) ou em "O Modelo de Pickman" (1926) - ainda que não obstante, estes escritos aportem-nos elementos da crítica lovecraftiana: o primeiro é um ataque à frágil segurança em que vive a sociedade atual; e o segundo à idéia de que somente "existe o que vemos".

 

O mundo sonhado pelo escritor de Providence é o que descreve em suas obras "dunsanianas" (o neologismo faz referência à influência que deixou em Lovecraft o 18º Barão Dunsany, escritor de uma poética fantasia) como "Os Outros Deuses", "A Árvore", etc, e naqueles contos mais propriamente "lovecraftianos" como "A Poesia dos Deuses" e o mágico relato "A Chave de Prata". Neste último, Lovecraft escreve: "Porém quando começou a estudar os filósofos que haviam derrubados os velhos mitos, encontrou-os ainda mais detestáveis do que aqueles que os haviam respeitado. Não sabiam esses filósofos que a beleza reside na harmonia, e que o encanto da vida não obedece a regra alguma neste cosmos sem objetivo, senão unicamente a sua consonância com os sonhos e os sentimentos que modelaram cegamente nossas pequenas esferas a partir do caos".

 

Onde a visão antimoderna alcança maior intensidade é no relato, quase desconhecido, chamado "A Rua", que trata das etapas na vida de uma rua determinada, a que finalmente toma vingança contra os homens pelo esquecimento das tradições. O amor pelos costumes coloniais e a tristeza pelo que impôs o vertiginoso devir, é descrito de forma que não deixa dúvidas sobre o pensar de Lovecraft. Também em "Ele" a visão do futuro é apocalíptica. O que Lovecraft trata em "A Rua" transforma-se em "Ele" na história crepuscular de uma cidade: Nova Iorque. Anotemos de passo que a decomposição de entidades coletivas - uma rua, uma cidade - recorda "A Queda da Casa de Usher" de Edgar Allan Poe.

 

Lovecraft será um outsider (como o personagem do conto lovecraftiano de mesmo nome, escrito em 1921). Quiçá isto fará ele perceber processos políticos, econômicos, e acima de tudo, espirituais, que os demais não puderam vislumbrar. E isto expressa-lo-á com uma terrível força: "Todos os ideais da moderna América - baseados na velocidade, o luxo mecâmico, os logros materiais e a ostentação econômica - parecem-me inefavelmente pueris e não merecem séria atenção".

 

Como outros dois colossos da literatura fantástica, Poe e Machen, Lovecraft sofrerá o desconhecimento de seus compatriotas e de seu tempo. Assim como os escritores assinalados somente será reconhecido décadas depois de sua morte e na distante França, berço de outro mago: o poeta Baudelaira.

 

Lovecraft, lúcido como sempre, havia dito em "Ele": "Pois ainda que me tenha acalmado, não posso olvidar que sou um intruso; um forasteiro neste século e entre os que ainda são homens".

Il Dio di Ezra Pound

Il Dio di Ezra Pound

di Luca Leonello Rimbotti

Fonte: mirorenzaglia [scheda fonte]

 

 

Il contraltare di Evola, dal punto di vista di una lettura “pagana” del Fascismo, fu certamente Ezra Pound. Se il primo del regime mussoliniano intese fare un risultato moderno delle virtù guerriere ario-romane, un’epifania della potenza, il secondo ne scorse i connotati di religione agreste, la cui continuità sarebbe stata garantita – più che non ostacolata – da forme di cristianesimo non dogmatiche, legate alle credenze arcaiche relative alla sacralità della terra. Se Evola vide nel movimento dei fasci una rinascenza del fato di gloria, qualcosa dunque di “uranico”, Pound rimase colpito invece dalla natura tellurica, diremmo quasi Blut-und-Boden, del comunitarismo fascista del suolo e del seme. Il significato è comunque, nei due casi, quello di una continuità ininterrotta, ben rappresentata dal particolare tipo di imperialismo veicolato dal Fascismo, tutto incentrato sull’idea di redenzione del suolo, di lavoro dei campi, di civilizzazione attraverso la coltivazione e la valorizzazione della terra.

Ezra Pound è stato probabilmente il maggiore e più profondo cesellatore del ruralismo fascista, che giudicò elemento direttamente proveniente dagli arcaici riti latini legati alla fertilità e ai cicli di natura. La “battaglia del grano”, l’impresa delle bonifiche, la celebrazione del pane quale simbolo di vita santificato dalla fatica quotidiana, non sarebbero stati, per il poeta americano, che altrettanti momenti in cui gli antichi misteri pagani tornavano a parlare al popolo, e sotto la sollecitazione ideologica di un regime che fu allo stesso tempo quanto mai attento alla modernità. E che registrò il passaggio dell’Italia a nazione più industriale che agricola, con un numero di operai che per la prima volta nel 1937 superò quello dei contadini.

Questo doppio registro, tipico del Fascismo, di portare avanti insieme i due comparti, senza deprimerne uno a vantaggio dell’altro, questa simmetrica capacità di operare lo sviluppo industriale e quello agricolo, iniettando la modernizzazione nelle tecniche di coltura ma rinforzando l’attaccamento atavico al suolo, fu la formula adottata da Mussolini per promuovere il progresso senza intaccare – ma anzi rinsaldandolo – il patrimonio immaginale legato alla terra, e per di più abbinandolo ad un reale incremento della capacità produttiva, affidata alla scelta autarchica. Della terra, con costante perseveranza, si celebrò la sacralità, facendo del suolo patrio, quello da cui il popolo ricava la fonte di vita, una vera e propria religione di massa. Questa religione popolare fascista, riscoperta intatta dall’antichità e dotata di moderne applicazioni anti-utilitariste ed anti-speculative, ebbe in Pound un cantore geniale.

La recente uscita del libro di Andrea Colombo Il Dio di Ezra Pound. Cattolicesimo e religioni del mistero (Edizioni Ares) ce ne fornisce un nuovo attestato. In questo agile ma importante lavoro noi riscopriamo tutta la profondità di una concezione del mondo incentrata su ciò che Pound definitiva “economia sacra”. Come già fatto da Caterina Ricciardi nel 1991, nella sua antologia di scritti giornalistici di Pound, anche Colombo sottolinea questa impostazione del poeta che, forte della sua recisa ostilità al mondo liberista del profitto finanziario e nemico giurato dell’usura, vide nella sana e naturale economia fascista un preciso riverbero di ancestrali tendenze sacrali. In una serie di articoli pubblicati sul settimanale “Il Meridiano di Roma” fra il 1939 e il 1943, Pound andò indagando le origini italiche, perlustrandone la vena religiosa relativa ai misteri e ai riti di fertilità. In tal modo, «Roma è Venere, l’antica dea dell’amore che ritorna a restituire il sogno pagano agli uomini», realizzando il contatto vivente fra l’antichità e il presente moderno: «E Mussolini, il Duce della bonifica e della battaglia del grano, diventa per il poeta il riesumatore dell’antica cultura agraria, la religione fondata sul mistero sacro del grano, mistero di fertilità».

Entro questi grandi spazi ideologici di rinascita moderna delle logiche arcaiche, Pound ingaggiò la sua personale lotta contro quel mondo di speculatori, affaristi privi di scrupoli e autentici criminali da lui individuato nei governanti angloamericani, che in nome dell’usura finanziaria e dell’idolatria dell’oro non avevano esitato a scatenare contro i popoli a economia organica la più distruttiva delle guerre. Proveniente per nascita egli stesso dal pericoloso milieu presbiteriano, come Colombo ricorda, Pound ben presto se ne distaccò, avvicinandosi ad una interpretazione del cristianesimo come continuità pagana sotto specie devozionale ai santi locali, alle varie Madonne, alle processioni popolari d’impronta rurale. Convinto – e a ragione – di una netta presenza neoplatonica nella stessa teologia cattolica, Pound finì col considerare la religione di Cristo come una forma neopagana di accettazione del mistero della vita. Egli contestava alla radice la filiazione del cristianesimo dall’ebraismo, affermando che invece ciò che si doveva stabilirne era la continuità con l’ellenismo e con il politeismo in auge nell’Impero romano, al cui interno il cristianesimo poté inserirsi senza traumi particolari, in virtù della sua sostanza di religione dapprima solare, erede del mitraismo, poi anche tellurica, erede delle venerande liturgie agresti.

Pound conobbe gli scritti di Frazer e di Zielinski, allora famosi, ma noi possiamo aggiungere che questa lettura poundiana, tutt’altro che peregrina, ha trovato conferma in molti studiosi di religione anche molto importanti, da Cumont a Wind, da Seznec fino a Wartburg: il cristianesimo, ed ivi compreso talora anche il papato, veicolavano sostanziose dosi di neoplatonismo pagano. L’interesse di Pound per figure come Gemisto Pletone o Sigismondo Malatesta – esemplari del neopaganesimo rinascimentale – furono il lato filosofico di un mondo ammirato profondamente da Pound, quello dell’etica economica medievale e proto-moderna, coi suoi fustigatori dell’interesse e della speculazione: un San Bernardino, ad esempio, che combatté tutta la vita l’usura, in forme anche violente e non meno anticipatrici di certi argomenti moderni.

Pound nel paganesimo, e di nuovo nel cristianesimo francescano (notoriamente di ispirazione neoplatonica), vide l’antefatto di quella guerra aperta alla schiavitù dell’interesse che solo con il Fascismo, e con la sua ideologia corporativa del “giusto prezzo”, divenne movimento mondiale di lotta al disumano profitto liberista. Il prezzo della merce, quando stabilito dalla mano pubblica, dà garanzie di giustizia, è regolato dal potere politico, ha veste legale, è insomma pretium justum; quando invece è affidato al gioco incontrollato degli interessi privati, come accade nelle economie liberiste, fornisce l’evidenza di una guerra belluina fra speculatori, a tutto danno del popolo e del suo lavoro.

Questi concetti Pound li martellò in scritti e discorsi alla radio italiana durante la guerra, e sono massicciamente presenti anche nei Cantos. E questo gli costò, come noto, l’infamia della gabbia e del manicomio, cui lo destinarono i “democratici” vincitori. Questa di Pound fu una battaglia a difesa del lavoro onesto contro la bolgia degli speculatori. A difesa della sacralità dell’economia – che è lavoro del popolo – e contro quanti al denaro attribuiscono un demoniaco potere assoluto.

Pound era in prima fila, non faceva l’intellettuale ben ripagato e ben protetto, magari pronto a cambiare bandiera al primo vento contrario. Propagandava idee, lanciava fulmini e saette contro l’ingiustizia sociale e la speculazione, come un moderno Bernardino da Feltre ci metteva la faccia del predicatore intransigente e la parola infiammata del profeta che vede prossimo l’abisso. La sua condanna dell’usura e dell’usuraio ebbe aspetti di radicalismo medievale in piena guerra mondiale.

Quest’uomo vero fu pronto a pagare di persona, senza mai rinnegare una sola parola. Si esponeva senza remore. E parlava chiaro e forte. Come ad esempio in quella lettera – riportata da Colombo – indirizzata a don Calcagno (il sacerdote eresiarca fondatore di “Crociata Italica” durante la RSI e vicino a Farinacci) nell’ottobre 1944, in cui si scagliò contro la doppiezza vaticana di Pio XII: «Credete che un figlio d’usuraio, venduto e stipendiato, o indebitato agli ebrei sia la persona più adatta a “portare le anime a Cristo”? La Chiesa una volta condannava l’usura».

Ezra Pound non era un sognatore fuori dal mondo, e nemmeno un visionario ingenuo, come hanno cercato di farlo passare certi suoi non richiesti ammiratori antifascisti. Era un perfetto lettore della realtà e un geniale interprete dell’epoca in cui visse. Ebbe chiarissima davanti a sé l’entità della prova che si stava svolgendo con la Seconda guerra mondiale. Comprese come pochi che quella era la lotta decisiva fra l’usuraio e il contadino, e che difficilmente per il vinto ci sarebbe stata una rivincita. Quando la guerra piegò verso il trionfo degli usurai – allorché, come scrisse, «i fasci del littore sono spezzati» – partecipò fino in fondo all’esperienza tragica della Repubblica Sociale, consapevole di vivere, come dice Colombo, «l’età apocalittica della fine».

L’uomo europeo deve molto a Pound. Gli deve una grande passione ideale e una formidabile attrezzatura ideologica, che è grande poesia e a volte anche grande prosa. Proprio mentre l’usura universale sta facendo a pezzi un popolo dietro l’altro, proprio mentre infuria la volontà di scannare i popoli per arricchire piccole oligarchie di speculatori apolidi, quella di Pound appare come una gigantesca opera di profezia e di riscatto.

Tante altre notizie su www.ariannaeditrice.it

This Difficult Individual Eustace Mullins—& the Remarkable Ezra Pound

This Difficult Individual Eustace Mullins—& the Remarkable Ezra Pound

By Beatrice Mott

Ex: http://www.toqonline.com/

Eustace Mullins

Earlier this year my friend Eustace Mullins passed away. He had been ailing for some time — at least since I first met him in 2006. Hopefully he is in a better place now.

Mr. Mullins made a huge mark on the nationalist community here in the United States, but also has a following in Europe and Japan. For those who have not read his books, Mr. Mullins attempted to expose the criminal syndicates that manipulate governments and the international financial system.

But Mr. Mullins’ most sparkling claim to fame was his partnership with Ezra Pound in order to write Secrets of the Federal Reserve — probably the most well-known exposé of how our government really works.

But nobody’s life is all sunshine and light. While Mr. Mullins’ work is among the most famous in the nationalist community, it is also some of the worst researched. He often fails to reference where he uncovered the material in his books. While Mr. Mullins was very perceptive of historical trends, his insights were sometimes overshadowed by unbalanced statements.

Authors wishing to quote Eustace’s books in their own writing make themselves an easy target for reasonable critics or hate organizations like the ADL. In this way, Mr. Mullins has done more harm to the movement than good.

I learned this the long way. Having read Secrets, I drove down to Staunton, VA in the summer of 2006 and spent an afternoon talking with Mr. Mullins. My goal was to find the origin of several stories and statements which I could not reference from the text. Mr. Mullins was an elderly gentleman and he couldn’t remember where he had found any of the material I was interested in. He simply replied: “It’s all in the Library of Congress. Back then they would let me wander the stacks.”

So I moved to D.C., a few blocks from the library and spent the better part of two years trying to retrace Mr. Mullins’ footsteps. Prior to this I had had several years’ experience as a researcher and was used to trying to find the proverbial “needle in a haystack.” They wouldn’t let me wander around the book storage facility (the stacks), but I scoured the catalog for anything that might contain the source for Mr. Mullins’ statements. I couldn’t verify any of the information in question.

Sadly, I realized that it would never be good practice to quote Mr. Mullins. But I hadn’t wasted the time. I know more about the Federal Reserve now than most people who work there and I learned about the fantastic Mr. Pound.

Ezra Pound is among the most remarkable men of the last 120 years. He made his name as a poet and guided W. B. Yeats, T.S. Elliot and E. Hemingway on their way to the Noble Prize (back when it meant something). He is the most brilliant founder of Modernism — a movement which sought to create art in a more precise and succinct form. Modernism can be seen as a natural reaction to the florid, heavy Victorian sensibility — it is not the meaningless abstractions we are assaulted with today.

Born in Idaho, Pound left the United States for Europe in 1908. In London he found an audience of educated people who appreciated his poetry. He married Dorothy Shakespear, a descendant of the playwright. Pound also befriended some of the most brilliant artists of the time and watched them butchered in the First World War.

Henri Gaudier-Brzeska ^[1], a sculptor and one of Ezra’s best friends, was one of these sacrifices. The Great War changed Pound’s outlook on life — no longer content with his artistic endeavors alone, he wanted to find out why that war happened.

The answer he got bought him 12 years as a political prisoner in St. Elizabeth’s Hospital in Anacostia, just across the river from the Capitol in Washington D.C. Pound was never put on trial but was branded a traitor by the post-war American media.

What answer did Pound find? Our wars begin and end at the instigation of the international financial houses. The bankers make money on fighting and rebuilding by controlling credit. They colonize nations and have no loyalty to their host countries’ youth or culture. No sacrifice is too great for their profit.

Much of Pound’s work chronicles the effect of this parasitic financial class on societies: from ancient China to modern-day Europe. Pound was a polyglot and scoured numerous (well-documented) sources for historical background. The education that Mullins’ work promises is delivered by the truckload in Pound’s writing. Pound often lists his sources at the end of his work — and they always check out.

Eustace Mullins got to know Pound during the poet’s time as a political prisoner. He was introduced to Pound by an art professor from Washington’s Institute of Contemporary Arts which, in Mullins’ words, “housed the sad remnants of the ‘avant-garde‘ in America.”

According to Mr. Mullins, Pound took to him and commissioned Eustace to carry on his work investigating the international financial system. Pound gave Eustace an American dollar bill and asked him to find out what “Federal Reserve” printed across its top meant. Secrets, many derivative books, and thousands of conspiracy websites have sprung from that federal reserve note.

And here is where the story goes sour. Pound was a feared political prisoner incarcerated because of what he said in Italy about America’s involvement with the international bankers and warmongering. Pound was watched twenty four hours a day and was under the supervision of Dr. Winfred Overholser, the superintendent of the hospital.

Overholser was employed by the Office of Strategic Services (the CIA’s forerunner) to test drugs for the personality-profiling program, what would be called MK-ULTRA. (See John Marks’ The Search for “the Manchurian Candidate”: The CIA and Mind-Control ^[2].) Personality profiling was St. Elizabeth’s bread and butter: The asylum was a natural ally to the agency.

Overholser was also a distinguished professor in the Psychiatry and Behavioral Sciences Department of George Washington University. This department provided students as test patients for the Frankfurt Schools’ personality profiling work, which the CIA was very interested in. Prophets of Deceit, first written by Leo Löwenthal ^[3] and Norbert Guterman in 1948, reads like a clumsy smear against Pound.

It does seem odd that a nationalist student would be allowed to continue the work of the dangerously brilliant Pound right under Winny’s nose. The story gets even stranger, as Mr. Mullins describes his stay in Washington during this time. He was housed at the Library of Congress — apparently he lived in one of the disused rooms in the Jefferson building and became good friends with Elizabeth Bishop ^[4].

Bishop was the Library of Congress’ “Consultant in Poetry” — quite a plum position. She was also identified by Frances Stonor Saunders as working with Nicolas Nabokov in Rio de Janeiro. Nabokov was paid by the CIA to handle South American-focused anti-Stalinist writers. (See The Cultural Cold War: The CIA and the World of Arts and Letters ^[5].) If what Saunders says is true, then it puts Eustace in strange company at that time of his life.

According to the CIA’s in-house historians, the Library was also a central focus for intelligence gathering ^[6] after the war, so it is doubly unlikely that just anybody would be allowed to poke around there after hours.

Whatever the motivation for letting Mullins in to see Pound was, the result has been that confusion, misinformation and unverifiable literature have clouded Pound’s message about the financial industry’s role in war. Fortunately Pound did plenty of his own writing.

According to Eustace, his relations with Pound’s relatives were strained after Pound’s release from prison. Pound moved back to Italy where he died in 1972. He was never the same after his stay with Overholser in St. E’s. The St. Elizabeth’s building is slated to become the new headquarters of the Department for Homeland Security ^[7].

Eustace went on to write many, many books about the abuses of government, big business and organized religion. They are very entertaining and are often insightful, but are arsenic from a researcher’s point of view. A book that contains interesting information without saying where the information came from is worse than no book at all.

While lackadaisical about references in his own writing, Mr. Mullins could be extremely perceptive and critical of the writing of others. I once told him how much respect I had for George Orwell’s daring to write 1984 — to which he sharply replied: “It’s a great piece of pro-government propaganda — they win in the end.” Mr. Mullins is of course right: Orwell’s Big Brother is always one step ahead, almost omniscient — and therefore invincible.

Eustace Mullins was much more than a writer. He became a political activist and befriended many prominent people in the American nationalist movement. But Mr. Mullins didn’t have much faith in American nationalism: It is a movement, he told me, that the government would never let go anywhere.

The Occidental Observer ^[8], March 20, 2010

Eustace Mullins e i segreti del poeta

Washington DC – primavera del 1949, St. Elizabeths Hospital in una camera del Mental Health Department un illustre “ospite”: Ezra Pound

di Gian Paolo Pucciarelli

Ex: http://www.rinascita.eu/

Eustace Mullins ha un rispettabile impiego alla Library of Congress, una laurea alla Washington University e un vivo interesse per le avanguardie europee del primo Novecento.
Lo attraggono i dipinti di Picasso e di Kandinski e in genere il Modernismo.
La Biblioteca del Congresso è la più grande del mondo (ventotto milioni di volumi).
Monumentale compendio dell’intero scibile umano e (con qualche disagio) campionario assortito di crisi e fulgori della cultura occidentale. Di quest’ultima un semplice bibliotecario può comprendere ambiguità e contraddizioni, a stento nascoste sotto il peso dell’architettura neoclassica, della tradizione liberale e della memoria di un presidente.
L’imponente Jefferson Building, appunto. E tutto quello che c’è dentro.
Ubicazione: 101 Independence Avenue – Washington – DC, qualche minuto a piedi dalla Casa Bianca, mezz’ora d’autobus e due secoli d’inutile fuga dall’oscurantismo per raggiungere il 1100 dell’Alabama Avenue e il… “Nido del Cuculo”.
La storia dei manicomi, vero o falsa che sia, lascia concrete tracce d’archetipi. Uno di questi si trova su una lieve altura, in direzione sud-est, quasi alla confluenza del Potomac con l’Anacostia.
Il punto in cui sostano gli uccelli migratori in cerca della giusta rotta e sbagliano… nido.
Ottanta piedi d’altezza, linee tardogotiche in segno d’austerità e non trascorsi orrori, sovrapposti ai tanti frantumi del sogno americano, in modo che ne risulti un sinistro edificio. (L’ispirazione è di Milos Foreman che venticinque anni più tardi, tenterà di spiegare le terapie psichiatriche in uso negli States, con buoni appoggi di Upjohns, Roche e le Multinazionali delle benzodiazepine).
Nome ufficiale: St. Elizabeths Hospital.
A causa di ben note imprecisioni nel distinguere la follia individuale da quella collettiva, i cartelli indicatori all’ingresso del nosocomio non recano la scritta “Mental Health”. Anche perché non è bene si sappia che fra gli 8.000 “ospiti” dell’Ospedale sono selezionati i “forensic patients” da sottoporre al test della lobotomia.
I Civils “beneficiano” invece di quotidiane terapie… elettroconvulsive.
Le visite ai ricoverati non sono concesse facilmente. Per via del lezzo di urina secolare misto ai vapori dell’acido ipocloroso, causa di svenimenti e complicazioni polmonari.
Poi perché non sono ancora tanto lontani i tempi in cui Mr. Donovan, già Chief dell’ O.S.S., inaugurò al St. Elizabeth l’uso della scopolamina per farne il siero della verità.
Nel complesso di edifici dell’Alabama Avenue si conservano in formaldeide 1.400 cervelli umani e corre voce che vi sia finito anche quello di Mussolini (ritenuto d’interesse sociale e utile un domani a chi intendesse esaminare le cellule del Capo del Fascismo a scopi didattici, misurando gli effetti dell’irrazionalità delle masse sui lobi cerebrali del Duce).
Eustace Mullins ha appena varcato i cancelli del St. Elizabeth, dopo aver ottenuto il “passi” e non prima di aver svuotato la propria vescica urinaria. Fra tante amenità, recentemente apprese, mentre s’incammina lungo il viale che attraversa un ampio prato fino all’entrata principale, sente l’irrefrenabile impulso di affondare una mano nella tasca dei pantaloni per tastarsi ripetutamente i testicoli. Gesto salvifico, anche se irrispettoso, per la vicinanza di Mrs. Dorothy che, pur mesta e pensosa, con lui procede, affiancandolo.
Poco dopo, preda dell’emozione e degli scongiuri, Mullins si guarda intorno circospetto, avvertendo invisibili presenze di spettri in divisa.
Sono i fantasmi dei 500 Soldati Blu (e Grigi) sepolti nell’area circostante, vittime della guerra civile e dell’oblio. I loro poveri resti giacciono dispersi per sempre nel sottosuolo, mentre ignari tagliaerba, ordinando il prato che li sovrasta senza alcun segno tombale, continuano a cancellarne la memoria. Mullins sembra udire grida di vendetta, soffocate da metri di terra e fastidiosi ronzii di tagliatrici. Ma è solo un’impressione. Non gli resta che accennare un sorriso, sul quale si protende un filo di persistente amarezza.
 
Appare il cartello Mental Health Department. Prima di varcarne l’ingresso, il “visitatore” guarda il lontano e quasi immobile Potomac, da cui sembra levarsi il frastuono delle battaglie combattute novant’anni prima. L’illusione sonora s’interrompe, per via delle voci, quasi irreali, che provengono dall’interno. Mullins, controllando a stento la propria emozione, si affida a Mrs. Dorothy che lo accompagna alla camera di un illustre “ospite” del dipartimento: Ezra Pound.
Fuori, lo struttural-funzionalismo alla Talcott Parsons propone tregua ai conflitti sociali, solidale col noto impostore che raccomanda “Società Aperte” senza far uso di volantini.
Bastano l’abbaglio del benessere e l’abitudine a invisibili moltiplicatori del debito pubblico.
La cella del St. Elizabeth in cui “alloggia” Pound è occupata da un maleodorante giaciglio e un tavolo di metallo, su cui si ammucchiano quaderni di appunti. Lo spazio esiguo della cella consente di ospitarvi il solo recluso, esempio del trattamento riservato alle vittime della moderna inquisizione. Sebbene Mrs. Dorothy cerchi di tranquillizzare Mullins, si fa presto strada in lui la tentazione di concludere la visita con un rapido, liberatorio congedo, ancor prima che si proceda con le presentazioni. L’ambiente è impressionante. Il Poeta del resto, poco incline ai convenevoli, esclusi quelli strettamente di rito, dopo un breve scambio di parole, non sembra propenso al dialogo. Lunghi silenzi, interrotti da brevi domande sullo stato di salute del recluso, restano senza risposta, con evidente imbarazzo di Mullins, che più volte rivolge lo sguardo a Mrs. Dorothy, mentre gli occhi di Pound, seminascosti da cispose sopracciglia, lo fissano con insistenza.
“Lei ha fatto la guerra?” Chiede il Poeta. E la domanda riduce l’impaccio del bibliotecario, ma ne aumenta comunque la sudorazione corporea.
“Sì. Ho prestato servizio nell’US Army, e nel 1945 facevo parte delle Forze di occupazione in Baviera.”
“ Si è mai chiesto perché?”
“Come?”
“Perché?”
“Perché ho servito la mia Patria.”
“No. No. Si è mai chiesto perché è scoppiata la guerra?”
Mullins impallidisce.
“Si è mai chiesto che cosa rappresentano gli enormi e profondi crateri di Hiroshima, scavati e modellati nella calda estate del 1945?”
“Lei sa che cos’è la Federal Reserve Bank?”
“La Banca Centrale degli Stati Uniti.”
“Non esattamente. E’ la responsabile della Prima e della Seconda Guerra Mondiale!”
Mullins ascolta attonito.
Nel linguaggio di Pound ricorre la parola Usura, che vuol dire International Loan System, rete dei prestiti pubblici organizzata dall’Investment Banking, cui spetta il diritto di intermediazione su ogni scambio internazionale. La memoria di un passato non più recente, ma incancellabile, emerge, imperiosa e sgradita, componendo immagini che velocemente si sovrappongono per ricordare ferite inguaribili, inflitte nel profondo dell’animo.
Tempi e luoghi diversi evocano il lungo soggiorno europeo e il passo dell’esule, cadenzato sui ritmi poetici del Cavalcanti e l’Alighieri, per tradurlo nel linguaggio, illuminante e faticoso dei Cantos. Parigi e la Bella Signora Italia, più volte violentata e offesa. Venezia, la Riviera. Il 1945 è anno cruciale. Oltre all’arresto del cittadino americano “traditore” che osò denunciare i responsabili di due guerre mondiali, si segnalava nei pressi del lago di Como, la presenza di un britannico obeso, con l’orecchio all’ascolto di sempre più fievoli eco, disperse nel vuoto, fino alla decisa pressione d’uno scarpone militare straniero; un brindisi di compiacimento per festeggiare la morte di Radio Roma e i trionfi del Dio della Guerra.
Un’analisi retrospettiva è essenziale, dice il Poeta, non certo per convincere chi baratta la libertà con la miopia, ma per… vederci chiaro. La sorpresa non manca, quando Pound afferma che in quella occasione l’agenda di Winston Churchill non valeva meno dei diari di Mussolini e di una cartella marrone, contenente carte compromettenti.
Il premier inglese era solito annotarvi date importanti, usando la matita rossa, come per esempio “Yalta – 4 febbraio 1945”.
Per Dresda preferiva il colore blu, che ricorda le bombe al fosforo, stilando di suo pugno le note su quanto sarebbe avvenuto nella città tedesca undici giorni dopo.
Perché mai la Conferenza economica di Bretton Woods ebbe luogo un mese dopo lo sbarco in Normandia? Una direttiva del “War Production Board”, o un ordine preciso del “Pool” di Banche Internazionali che finanziavano le industrie di armamenti? Chi aveva voluto la guerra, manovrando astutamente “dietro le quinte”? Chi pretendeva il controllo della finanza mondiale?
Mullins è impressionato.
Pound continua…
Provincia di Como, Giulino di Mezzegra e dintorni – 28 aprile 1945
Lo stesso signore sovrappeso, calvo e vestito di scuro, la matita rossa e blu nel taschino, pronta a scrivere luoghi e date, e a tracciare una bella “X” trasversale sopra un nome importante e troppo scomodo. Che cosa fa costui, quando gli Alleati sono alle porte e il Cln combatte la “sua” guerra di ritorsione? Dipinge mediocri acquarelli sulle rive del lago.
Alle creazioni artistiche assistono a breve distanza i suoi attenti custodi, agenti del Secret Operations Executive (SOE).
Fra i cadaveri, che entro poche ore penderanno a testa in giù in Piazzale Loreto, ci sarà anche quello dell’uomo che voleva difendersi e sapeva troppe cose.
Il signore obeso, vestito di scuro, che non conosce le sventure di Mani, l’eretico, né l’orrenda fine di Dioniso, o del Paracleto consolatore, due volte crocifisso, traccia due “X” in rosso su quel nome e riprende a pasticciare acquarelli.
Nelle orecchie risuonano i primi sette versi del Canto Pisano 74, (scritti su carta igienica, all’interno di una gabbia per animali, esposta alle intemperie in aperta campagna).
Lì si apprende che rischia la condanna a morte chiunque raccomandi la “moneta a scadenza” di Silvio Gesell, le teorie monetarie del Maggiore Douglas e osi maledire il “putrido” gold standard e i Banchieri usurai. Ma dal ventoso viale di Washington, dove si aprono i portali della Suprema Corte giunge l’eco della sentenza, nella severa voce di un giudice che si appresta a decretare insanità mentali.
Il “folle” avrebbe fatto anche l’uomo in gabbia per manifestare i tormenti del secolo breve e il grande inganno, di cui il mondo sarebbe stato vittima, senza il bisogno di cercare conferme fra gli appunti di Winston Churchill.
In America intanto i sondaggi già tendono a far crescere l’ottimismo, mentre di fatto la vita continua fra incertezze e paure.
Per altro, nessuno crede più alla casualità di quel che accade in politica. Né alle stime che confermano il prevalere degli “accidentalisti” sui “cospirazionisti”. Ma chi se la sentiva allora di smentire il compianto Presidente, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, autorevole pedina di Wall Street, e quanto egli avrebbe confidato al proprio ambasciatore a Londra, Joseph (Joe) Kennedy: “ In politics nothing happens by chance, if it happens you may bet it was planned that way”?
Nel grande Paese della Libertà si vive intanto l’età dell’ansia, da secoli sofferta e pianificata per i decenni a venire.
“The Age of Anxiety” è, fra l’altro, poema fresco di stampa, che guadagna il Pulitzer, la buona fama di W.H. Auden e crea non pochi equivoci nella società americana del dopoguerra, più incline a ingoiare ansiolitici che a leggere versi (ignorando che le strade della follia spesso non portano al manicomio).
Pound si congeda, pregando Mrs. Dorothy di accompagnare il visitatore all’uscita.
Al commiato, un biglietto di 10 dollari si protende verso Mullins ed è accettato volentieri. Rimborso spese settimanali per svolgere una piccola inchiesta.
Dove? Alla Library of Congress, naturalmente. Lì c’è tutto quello che occorre sapere sul Vreeland-Aldrich Act, e molto altro ancora. Per esempio quanto accadde in una stazione ferroviaria del New Jersey durante una sera d’autunno del 1910.
Il bibliotecario intanto accetta l’incarico che gli costerà, subito dopo, il posto di lavoro.


23 Settembre 2011 12:00:00 - http://rinascita.eu/index.php?action=news&id=10489

Masa y Poder: Ezra Pound pedagogo

Presentación del libro de Ezra Pound; Guía de la Kultura, Capitán Swing, Madrid, 2011

“I was twenty years behind the Times”
(Ezra Pound, ‘Contemporania’, 1913)

Masa y Poder: Ezra Pound pedagogo

Por Nicolás González Varela

http://geviert.wordpress.com

 

“GUÍA DE LA CULTURA. Título ridículo, truco publicitario. ¿Desafío? Guía debería significar ayuda a otra persona a llegar a un sitio. ¿Debemos de despreciarlo? Tiros de prueba.”[1] El único libro del economista-poeta Ezra Loomis Pound que salió en el annus memorabilis de 1938[2] fue una anomalía desde todo punto de vista. Su título: Guide to Kulchur (GK). En sus páginas puede disfrutarse del mejor Pound vanguardista, que como Minerva nace armado con su método ideogramático, un Pound sin temor ni temblor a fundir en una nueva síntesis, en una Summa de su pensamiento, nada menos que a Jefferson, Mussolini, Malatesta, Cavalcanti y Confucio. Pound vive en la Italia fascista desde fines de 1924, ha vivido la consolidación, estabilización y maduración del regimen fascista, desde cuyas fórmulas políticas e instituciones económicas, cree con fervor, puede plantearse una terza via entre el capitalismo liberal en bancarrota y el socialismo burocrático de Stalin. También son los años en que Pound, demostrando su estatura intelectual, pasa de las preocupaciones estéticas a las éticas. El libro tiene su propia historia interna, una poco conocida tortured history: en febrero de 1937 Pound inicia una correspondencia con el playful in-house editor Frank Morley (a quién Pound llamaba cariñosamente por su tamaño Whale, ballena), de la editorial inglesa Faber&Faber. Pound le informa acerca de un nuevo libro revolucionario de prosa. Estaría muy bien, le contestaba Morley, que en lugar de escribir algo similar a su ABC of Reading, de 1934, publicara sus ideas sobre lo que entiende por la Cultura con mayor extensión y profundidad. Inmediatamente Pound le contesta que pensaba en primer lugar en una obra que se llamaría The New Learning (El nuevo Aprendizaje), luego sugirió el nombre de Paideuma, pero desde el principio el editor Morley lo consideraría, más que como un Hauptwerk exhaustivo sobre el tema, como una introducción o guía, por lo que surgió el nombre de Guide to Cultur, que llevaría un subtítulo curioso luego desechado “The Book of Ezro”: “un libro que pueda funcionar como una educación literaria para el aspirante a todas las excavaciones y que desea hacer volar el mundo académico antes que hacer su trabajo.”[3] Morley además le aseguraba que para un popular textbook como del que hablaba, existía un amplio mercado potencial de lectores. En una carta dirigida al editor Pound en febrero de 1937 describía el proyecto como “lo que Ez (Ezra) sabe, todo lo que sabe, por siete y seis peniques” (y en tamaño más portable que el British Museum)[4], y le explicaba que introduciría algunos contrastes entre la decadencia de Occidente y Oriente y que también mencionaría los aspectos “raciales” de la Cultura. Además describía el esqueleto de su futura obra en tres grandes bloques: I) Método (basado en las Analectas de Confucio); II) Filosofía (en tanto una exposición y a la vez crítica de la Historia del Pensamiento) y III) Historia (genealogía de la acción o los puntos cruciales del Clean Cut).[5] Finalmente se firmó el contrato formal entre ambas partes y el libro se denominaba en él como Ez’ Guide to Kulchur.

GK fue publicada entonces por la editorial Faber&Faber[6] en el Reino Unido en julio de 1938 y por la editorial New Directions, pero bajo el título más anodino de Culture, en noviembre de 1938 en la versión para los pacatos Estados Unidos. Pound la escribió de corrido en un mes durante la primavera de 1937 (marzo-abril), bajo un estado anímico al que algunos biógrafos como Tytell denominaron “a sense of harried desperation”.[7] Como saben los que conocen su vida y obra, cada movimiento que propugnaba lo tomaba como un asunto de emergencia extrema y límite. Según el irónico comentario del propio Pound “el contrato de la editorial habla de una guía DE la cultura no A TRAVÉS de la cultura humana. Todo hombre debe conocer sus interioridades o lo interno de ella por sí mismo.” y efectivamente no defraudó a sus editores en absoluto. El libro (si podemos denominarlo así) era un escándalo antes de ver la luz. Aparentemente nadie de la editorial leyó en profundidad el manuscrito en su contenido polémico y cercano al libélo. Ya había ejemplares encuadernados, listos para entregar al distribuidor, cuando la editorial inglesa Faber&Faber decidió que, posiblemente, algunos pasajes eran radicalmente difamatorios. Al menos, según cuentan especialistas y biógrafos confiables, se arrancaron quince páginas ofensivas, se imprimieron de nuevo y se pegaron con prisa; también se imprimieron nuevos cuadernillos de páginas para los ejemplares que no habían sido encuadernados todavía.[8] No nos extraña: sabemos que Pound como crítico “jamás experimentó el temor de sus propias convicciones”, en palabras de Eliot. Quod scripsi scripsi. Lo extraño y maravilloso es que el libro como tal haya sobrevivido a semejante desastre editorial. GK fue finalmente publicado el 21 de julio de 1938, estaba dedicada “A Louis Zukofsky y Basil Bunting luchadores en el desierto”. Zukofsky era un mediocre poeta objetivista neyorquino, autodefinido como communist, al que Pound adoptó como discípulo y seguidor de sus ideas[9]; a su vez Bunting era un poeta británico, conservador e imperialista, que Pound ayudó con sus influencias intelectuales y el mecenazgo práctico.[10] Pound mismo consideraba GK, circa 1940, como la obra en la que había logrado desarrollar su “best prose”[11], además la ubicaba, junto a The Cantos, Personae, Ta Hio, y Make It New, en el canon de sus opera maiorum. También lo consideraba uno de sus libros más “intensamente personales”, una suerte de ultimate do-it-yourself de Ezra Pound. Su amigo, el gran poeta T. S. Eliot afirmó que tanto GK como The Spirit of Romance (1910) debían ser leídos obligatoriamente con detenimiento e íntegramente. Aunque puede considerarse el más importante libro en prosa escrito por Pound a lo largo de su vida[12], sin embargo Guide to… no cuenta con el favoritismo de especialistas y scholars de la academia (a excepción de Bacigalupo, Coyle, Davie, Harmon, Lamberti, Lindberg y Nicholls).[13] El mejor y más perceptivo review sobre el libro lo realizó su viejo amigo el poeta Williams Carlos Williams, en un artículo no exento de críticas por sus elogios desmesurados a Mussolini titulado “Penny Wise, Pound Foolish”. En él, Williams señalaba que a pesar de todas su limitaciones o errores involuntarios, GK debía ser leído por el aporte de Pound en cuanto a revolucionar el estilo, por su modo de entender la nueva educación de las masas y por iluminar de manera quirúrgica muchas de las causas de la enfermedad de nuestro presente.[14] En cambio nosotros no consideraremos a GK ni como un libro menor, ni como un divertido Companion a su obra poética, ni como un torso incompleto, ni siquiera como un proyecto fallido. En realidad GK es una propedeútica al sistema poundiano, su mejor via regia, un acceso privilegiado a lo que podríamos denominar los standard landmarks[15] de su compleja topografía intelectual: la doctrina de Ch’ing Ming, el famoso método ideogramático, su libro de poemas The Cantos entendido como un tale of the tribe, la figura de la rosa in steel dust,[16] la forma combinada de escritura paratáctica[17], el uso anti y contrailustrado de la cita erudita, su deriva hacia el modelo fascista (la economía volicionista y su correspondiente superestructura cultura)[18], la superioridad en el conocimiento auténtico de la Anschauung[19] como ars magna y el concepto-llave de Paideuma. GK puede ser además considerado un extraordinario postscript a su opera maiorum, hablamos de la monumental obra The Cantos, en especial a los poemas que van del XXXI al LI, publicados entre 1934 y 1937. Pound se propone incluso romper con su propia prosa pasada: “Estoy, confío de manera clara, haciendo con este libro algo diferente de lo que intenté en Como leer, o en el ABC de la Lectura. Allí estaba tratando abiertamente de establecer una serie o un conjunto de medidas, normas, voltímetros; aquí me ocupo de un conjunto heteróclito de impresiones, confío que humanas, sin que sean demasiado descaradamente humanas.”[20]

US propaganda contra la cultura alemana, I Guerra

 

En primer término, y por encima de todo, debemos señalar al lector ingenuo que Ezra Loomis Pound ha sido un pedagogo y un propagandista antes que nada y se propone nada más ni nada menos que GK sea un Novum Organum, al mejor estilo baconiano[21], de la época incierta que se abre ante sus pies. Llamarlo Kulchur tiene su explicación filosófica y política: Pound quería referirse al concepto alemán de Cultura (Kultur) pero para diferenciarlo del tradicional que utiliza la élite (irremediablemente lastrado de connotaciones clasistas, nacionalistas y raciales), lo escribe según la pronunciación; y al mismo tiempo anula la indicación tradicional que tiene el concepto Cultur en inglés. Este sesgo nuevo y revolucionario a lo que entendemos en la Modernidad por Cultura es el primer paso para la tarea de un New Learning de masas y la posibilidad histórica de un nuevo Renacimiento en Europa, ya que “las democracias han fallado lamentablemente durante un siglo en educar a la gente y en hacerle consciente de las necesidades totalmente rudimentarias de la democracia. La primera es la alfabetización monetaria.” Su significado temático revolucionario, intentar comprender de otro modo al Hombre, la Naturaleza y la Historia, debemos señalarlo, excede el mero ejercicio de escribir poesía. Es una vigorosa reacción contra la Aufklärung, que para Pound es una período de lenta decadencia, la verdadera Dark Age de Occidente, signado por la subsunción de toda la Cultura a la usura y el mercantilismo más brutal (institucionalizados en una forma perversa: la banca): “Hemos ganado y perdido cierto terreno desde la época de Rabelais o desde que Montaigne esbozó todo el conocimiento humano.”[22] Como Nietzsche, Pound rescata de las Lumiéres tan solo a Bayle y Voltaire y si Nietzsche intentó este nuevo desaprendizaje-aprendizaje contra la Modernidad desde la forma literario-política del aforismo, Pound lo intentará desde el ideograma y el fragmento citacional, buscando el mismo efecto pedagógico en las masas, en el hombre sin atributos, que había experimentado en persona en la Mostra della Rivoluzione Fascista[23] inaugurada en el Palazzo delle Esposizioni de Roma en 1932.

¿El libro es en realidad un enorme ideograma de acceso a la verdadera Kulchur? Recordemos que para Pound Cultura con mayúsculas es cuando el individuo ha “olvidado” qué es un libro, o también aquellos que queda en el hombre medio cuando ha olvidado todo aquello que le han enseñado.[24] Y que entonces de alguna manera la auténtica Cultura se correlaciona con una forma privilegiado de relación entre el sujeto y el objeto, la Anschauung, opuesta sin posibilidad de cancelación con el Knowledge de la Modernidad, un producto amnésico y totalitario (en sentido gestáltico, no político) prefabricado a través de un enfoque deficiente de el Arte, la Economía, la Historia y la Política. La Anschauung es superior, tanto epistémica como políticamente: “La autoridad en un mundo material o salvaje puede venir de un prestigio acumulado, basado en la intuición. Confiamos en un hombre porque hemos llegado a considerarle (en su totalidad) como hombre sabio y bien equilibrado. Optamos por su presentimiento. Realizamos un acto de fe.”[25] Siempre hay que subrayar que Pound no tiene como propósito exclusivamente el regodeo narcisista de transmitir “descubrimientos”, ni progresar en algún tipo de carrerismo académico, sino que su pathos radical presionaba a que sus tesis deben ser llevadas a la práctica, y por ello él mismo nos muestra el camino y custodia con celo la senda adecuada para tal traducción material: “Y al llegar aquí, debemos hacer una clara diferencia entre dos clases de «ideas». Ideas que existen y/o son discutidas en una especie de vacío, que son como si fueran juguetes del intelecto, e ideas que se intentan poner en «acción» o guiar la acción y que nos sirven como reglas (y/o medidas) de conducta.”[26] La distinción de Pound fijada en el concepto técnico de “Clean Cut” entre ideas in a vacuum y las ideas in action (básicas como reglas de conducta) es crucial en este sentido.[27] Pound decía que al final GK no era más que “su mapa de carreteras, con la idea de ayudar al que venga detrás a alcanzar algunas pocas de las cimas, con menos trabajo que el que uno ha tenido…” Para lograr una educación profunda y postliberal, decía Pound que el alumno debía dominar las siguientes bases mínimas: todo Confucio (en chino directamente o en la versión francesa de M. G. Pauthier), todo Homero (en las traducciones latinas o en la francesa de Hughes Salel), Ovidio, Catulo y Propercio (utilizando como referencia la Metamorfosis de Golding y los Amores de Marlowe), un libro de canciones provenzales (que al menos incluya a los Minnesingers y a Bion), por supuesto Dante (además treinta poemas de sus contemporáneos, en especial de Cavalcanti), “algunos otros temas medievales… y algún esbozo general de la Historia del Pensamiento a través del Renacimiento, Villon, los escritos críticos de Voltaire (incluyendo una pequeña incursión en la prosa contemporánea), Stendhal, Flaubert (y por supuesto los hermanos Goncourt), Gautier, Corbière y Rimbaud.”[28] GK es la Guía Baedeker, que puede superar en un solo mandoble las limitaciones tanto de la Modernidad liberal como el Comunismo de sello staliniano[29], a través de una nueva genealogía basada en lo que denomina the Best Tradition, o en palabras de Pound “En lo esencial, voy a escribir este nuevo Vademécum sin abrir ningún otro volumen, voy a anotar en la medida de lo posible solamente lo que ha resistido a la erosión del tiempo y al olvido. Y en esto hay un poderoso argumento. Cualquier otro camino significaría que me vería obligado a tener que citar un sinnúmero de historias y obras de referencia.”[30]

El primer efecto del método poundiano en el lector ingenuo y tradicional es la desorientación en el maremagnum de las yustaposiciones y la interrupciones en la ilación lógica. Además es evidente que Pound “juega” con el diseño gráfico de la página, trasciende la linearidad del texto, subvierte las normas establecidas de signos y morfología, trascendiendo el contenido a través de imágenes: reproducción de ideogramas, partituras musicales, fragmentos citacionales de temas diversos, citaciones ad verbatim, déjà-vus semánticos, formas coloquiales anónimas et altri. Esto efectos no son meramente buscados en busca de algún efecto visual “vanguardista”, “lúdico” o “creativo”, en absoluto (aunque co-existan en GK como efectos de composición) sino de crear un nuevo soporte, mitad estilo mitad icónico, capaz de vehicular, de soportar como medio comunicativo eficaz, la nueva sensibilidad que reclama Occidente en decadencia: “El lector con prisas puede decir que escribo en clave y que mis afirmaciones se deslizan de un punto a otro sin conexión u orden. La afirmación es, sin embargo, completa. Todos los elementos están ahí, y el más perverso de los aficionados a los crucigramas debería ser capaz de resolverlo o de verlo.”[31] Pound reclama en GK su idea de One-Image Poems, paradigma poético-icónico,  o incluso podemos llamarlo una suerte de “lenguaje mosaico”, que como hemos señalado, se eleva sobre el sólido fundamento de la yuxtaposición paratáctica de texto e imágenes diversas, creando una suerte de espacio acústico.[32] El aspecto formal del método ideogramático es muy importante para Pound, y uno de sus componentes centrales es su propia definición de imagen como una presencia compleja que implica tanto lo intelectual como lo puramente emocional en una simultaneidad: “an Image is that which presents an intellectual and an emotional complex in an instant of time.”[33] Una definición totalmente bergsoniana: la inmediata, la interacción intuitiva inmediata con la imagen, el mismo instante del tiempo en que esta interacción se produce, el espontáneo crecimiento formativo por la presencia del élan vital, el retorno a los horned Gods y la libertad total con respecto de los límites “normales” que determinan el cuadro perceptivo burgués, tienen directa contraparte con el concepto de evolución creadora de la filosofía de Henri Bergson.

GK es concebido por Pound para las grandes masas, el gran público amorfo de la infernal sociedad industrial-mercantilista[34], el despreciado uomo qualunque, al cual el poeta intenta re-educar en un modo revolucionario, polémico y de mortal enfrentamiento con el sistema institucional y académico burgués y para sobrevivir a la sobre información generada por la opinión pública moderna: “Estoy, en el mejor de los casos, tratando de suministrar al lector medio unas pocas herramientas para hacer frente a la heteróclita masa de información no digerida con que se le abruma diaria y mensualmente, y lista a enmarañarle los pies por medio de libros de referencia.”[35] La hipótesis no explícita de Pound es el reconocimiento de la irrupción irreversible en la Historia de una nueva “masa”, heterogénea y segmentada (aunque tanto el tardoliberalismo como el burocratismo soviético intentarán homogeneizarla y uniformarla), que empuja a revisar axiomas y arcani imperii consolidados: estado, economía, política, cultura, organismo social, poder. Es a esta masa, que soporta el efecto reaccionario de los new media, es el objeto privilegiado de intervención al que se dirige GK con la ideología a la que adhiere Pound, tanto en lo personal (las nuevas teorías económicas de Gesell, el confuso antisemitismo)[36] como en lo corporativo (el Stato totale de la Italia fascista como anticipación)[37]. El método ideogramático se coloca así como una refinadísima actividad de agitprop, con la capacidad de retomar fuentes de la tradición culta (consciente y críticamente seleccionadas)[38], elementos literarios como la voz y la autoridad autoral (que le otorga credibilidad e identidad al texto), para refundirlos con los nuevas necesidades de consenso y reproducción que han generado en el sustrato popular los nuevos medios de comunicación (¡de masas!) de la esfera pública burguesa, así como las modalidades de consumo y ocio. Y es por ello la importancia hoy de volver a leer GK como un laboratorio que lleva a sus límites la propia Weltanschauung tardomodernista, en esa experimentación entre desarrollo formal y la voluntad de generar nuevos “efectos” que van más allá de lo meramente poético en el uso de herramientas retóricas.

Pound persigue regenerar un Total Man, pero revulsivo y de signo inverso al de la ideología demo-liberal, que puede realizar una conversión y metamorfosis de tal magnitud que le permita “conversar” con los grandes filósofos y generar buenos líderes. Esta “regeneración”, por supuesto, es incompleta y unilateral si no se logra que los vórtices del Poder y los vórtices de la Cultura coincidan[39], por lo que la efectividad de GK sólo podrá verse reflejada cuando la forma estado en Occidente tienda hacia el Stato totale[40] de la Italia fascista. Y del elemento corporativo deberían aprender con humildad las deficientes y corruptas democracias liberales, en especial Reino Unido y los Estados Unidos de América, ya que “NINGUNA democracia existente puede permitirse el pasar por alto la lección de la práctica corporativa. El ‘economista’ individual que trate de hacerlo, o bien es un tonto o un sinvergüenza o un ignoramus.” En otro polémico libro, Jefferson and/or Mussolini, Pound lo describe de esta manera: “Un buen gobierno es aquel que opera de acuerdo con lo mejor de lo que se conoce y del pensamiento. Y el mejor gobierno es el que traduce el mejor pensamiento más rápidamente en acción.”[41] De igual manera lo expresa mucho más pristínamente en GK: “El mejor gobierno es (¿naturalmente?) el que pone a funcionar lo mejor de la inteligencia de una nación.”[42] Es esa simultaneidad expresada en un Best Government es la que abrirá la puerta en Europa a un nuevo Renacimiento, a una Era of Brillance libre de la Ley del valor capitalista (explotación) y de su efecto más funesto: la usura: “Si el amable lector (o el delegado a una conferencia internacional económica de U.S.A.) no puede distinguir entre su sillón y la orden de un alguacil, que permita a este último secuestrar dicho sillón, entonces la vida le ofrecerá dos alternativas: ser explotado o ser más o menos alcahuete, mimado por los explotadores, hasta que le llegue el turno de ser explotado.”[43] La nueva Kulchur debería ser una arma masiva y práctica contra la explotación, una arma que trasciende tanto la burocrática proletarskaya kultura de la URSS como la falsa meritocracia del sistema demo-liberal anglosajón, cuya alma oculta es el mecanismo de la usura. La usura, un tema omnipresente en la obra de Pound, es definida en su libro The Cantos, en una nota bene al canto XLV como: “Usura: gravamen por el uso del Poder adquisitivo, impuesto sin relación a la producción, a veces sin relación a las posibilidades de la producción (de ahí la quiebra del banco de los Medici)”.[44] Para Pound, como para muchos intelectuales no-conformistas de los 1930’s, el mundo se dividía, no en proletariado y capitalistas, sino en una peculiar lucha de clases entre productores y usurers. La única posibilidad epocal de superación de este estado contra naturam del hombre, dominado por el finance Capitalism, era la coincidencia de la Paideuma con un regimen autoritario-corporativo. Y para ello era necesario un salto en la conciencia de las masas por medio de una acción pedagógica militante. Pound siempre sostuvo un compromiso con los temas educativos y una pasión vocacional por la pedagogía, hasta tal punto de planificar literary kindergartens. Se podría decir que GK es un esfuerzo más en el ideal de una sociedad basada en un nuevo aprendizaje y en medios educativos revolucionarios.

Merece un párrafo su especial relación intelectual ambivalente con Karl Marx, del cual pueden verse rescoldos en GK. La formación económica de Pound se realizó íntegramente a través de de economistas heterodoxos, algunos importantes aún hoy en día, como el economista anarquista Silvio Gesell (discípulo de Proudhon) y otros que han pasado al justo olvido, como C. H. Douglas u Odon. Ya en pleno fascismo italiano Pound dio conferencias sobre economía planificada y la base histórica de la economía en la Universidad de Milán a partir de 1933. Al inicio del ‘900 en sucesivos artículos Pound defiende las reformas socialistas llamadas Social Credit, en clave proudhonnistes y sus economistas de cabecera es siempre Douglas y Gesell, de quienes decía habían lograda acabar con the Marxist era. Como muchos pre fascistas, Pound cree que modificando la esfera de la circulación y la distribución podría nacer una nueva sociedad sin tocar las estructuras sociales y políticas, sin tocar el derecho de propiedad básico. El Fascismo es el único, entre el Comunismo y el detestable capitalismo liberal, de llevar a buen término, la justicia económica. Pound se percibe con muchas afinidades con Marx, valora su figura de social Crusader, alaba la noble indignación tal como surge en la retórica de Das Kapital, sabemos que Pound pudo leerlo en traducción italiana, pero una indignación que sin embargo es como una nube que confunden al lector. Además Marx esta en una siniestra genealogía filonietzscheana que desde la Ilustración radical desemboca en una nueva forma de décadence. Para Pound la verdad de lo que denomina Marxism materialist está en sus resultados prácticos en Lenin y Stalin, en la burocracia soviética y el Gulag: “El fango no justifica la mente. Kant, Hegel, Marx terminan en OGPU. Algo faltaba.”[45] Pound también comparte con Marx que las relaciones económicas materiales son fundamentales para la comprensión exacta de la dinámica social, y adhiere completamente a la crítica de la avaricia y la crueldad del British industrialism. Siguiendo en esto a Gesell, Pound cree que el Marxismo qua ideología fijada en un estado en realidad no significa ningún desafío al capitalismo liberal, al bourgeois demo-liberal: “Los enemigos de la Humanidad son aquellos que fosilizan el pensamiento, esto es lo MATAN, como han tratado de hacerlo los marxistas en nuestra época, lo mismo que un sin número de tontos y de fanáticos han tratado de hacerlo en todos los tiempos, desde la cadencia musulmana, e incluso antes. HACEDLO NUEVO”[46] La doctrina de Marx murió en 1883, el mismo día de su muerte: solo quedan sus acólitos construyendo un nuevo y esclerótico dogma. Del mismo Gesell, Pound tomará acríticamente su endeble crítica a la teoría de la moneda y de la ley del valor marxiana. Por ello Marx jamás podrá dañar definitivamente al Capital: “El error de la izquierda en las tres décadas siguientes fue que querían usar a Marx como el Corán. Supongo que la verdadera apreciación, esto es, el verdadero intento de apreciar el mérito verdadero de Marx empezó con Gesell y con la afirmación de Gesell de que Marx nunca ponía en duda el dinero. Lo aceptó buenamente tal como lo encontró.”[47] Sabemos que sus conocimientos de Marx son pocos y fragmentados, centrados literariamente en el capítulo VIII de Das Kapital, que se ocupa de la lucha por la jornada laboral.[48]

¿Podía calificarse a Pound de nietzscheano? Aunque se discute si existe algún elemento de nietzscheanismo difuso en Pound, es evidente que conceptos-llave de su Weltanschauung, están derivados o de Nietzsche o de seguidores, inclusive el mismo término Paideuma acuñado por Frobenius está inspirado en última instancia de un nietzscheano radical auténtico como Oswald Spengler. Se puede hablar de afinidades electivas y de influencias indirectas del Nietzschéisme en la conformación del paradójico Aristocratism side del individualismo metodológico de Pound sin lugar a dudas.[49] Pound ya utilizaba terminus technicus nietzscheanos, como Over Man (Superhombre) a inicios del ‘900, aunque producto de una lectura fragmentada y a tirones, o como él mismo confesaba en un poema I believe in some parts of Nietzsche/I prefer to read him in sections.[50] Incluso llega a aceptar como válida las consecuencias biológicas de la filosofía de Nietzsche y su oposición intransigente a toda conclusión cooperativa o colectivista: “I, personally, may prefer the theory of the dominant cell, a slightly Nietzschean biology, to any collectivist theories whatsoever.”[51] En un poema-funerario dedicado a su admirado amigo Gaudier-Brzeska titulado “Reflection”, Pound hace otro acto de fe hacia Nietzsche: “I know what Nietzsche said is true…”[52] La afinidad electiva es más que obvia, los une pasión pedagógica y una hybris reactiva: Nietzsche también estuvo obsesionado por la Paideia como base del estado, por la cuestión formativa y las reformas educativas que pudieran detener la decadencia burguesa de Occidente.[53] También como en Nietzsche, como en Mann o como en Heidegger, Pound sostiene la creencia que el stress de los costos extras de la dominación burguesa, que implica la constante revolución de las fuerzas productivas y el avance tecnológico, es insostenible, decadente y alienante. Coexisten en Pound el interés por la alta o nueva tecnología con el pesimismo sobre la interrupción vital de la fluidez de la imaginación, la negra posibilidad de la hegemonía del hombre sin atributos y sus consecuencias en la Cultura. Es la típica ambivalencia ideológica del Modernismo a la que no escapa Pound: mientras la techné es celebrada como una extensión proteica de la voluntad de poder del hombre en la máquina, el efecto total debido a la forma de dominio bourgeois es ácidamente atacada como una totalidad falsa, despersonalizada, inauténtica y vacía. Contra este gigantesco movimiento milenario de decadencia y empobrecimiento es que Pound levanta su New Learning, su revolucionaria Guía a la Cultura, y por ello afirma sin hesitar que sus ojos are geared for the horizon.[54]

La obra de Pound tanto poética como en prosa es difícil o de imposible lectura, decía sabiamente Borges, aunque reconocía la obligatoriedad de su lectura, ya que con él la literatura norteamericana y la ensayística universal había tocado las alturas más temerarias. Invitamos al lector al desafío de sumergirse en uno de las mejores ensayos del siglo XX, ahora disponible en una exquisita edición crítica y completa.

[1]Ezra Pound; Guía de la Kultura, Capitán Swing, Madrid, 2011, p. 195.

[2] En su Guide to… Pound coloca la fecha exacta de su urgente escritura: “16 de marzo anno XV Era Fascista”. Desde 1931 Pound utilizaba el nuevo calendario fascista. Los biógrafos creen que la ansiedad de Pound se debía a las consecuencias inmediatas de la crisis de Münich, el Tratado de Rapallo y la posibilidad de una guerra europea catastrófica. No estaba equivocado en absoluto.

[3] Morley le afirmaba que “seeryus & good sized home university library for the seeryus aspiring & highminded youth… a book that would function as… litry education for the aspirant with all the excavations you wish blowing up what it is the academics do instead of their job.”, en: Pound Papers, February, 1937, Yale Collection of American Literature, Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, New Haven, Connecticut; parcialmente on-line: http://beinecke.library.yale.edu/digitallibrary/pound.html

[4] Pound decía: “Wot Ez knows, or a substitute (portable) fer the Bruitish museum”, en: ibidem, February, 1937. Lo de “Bruitish” una ironía bien poundiana.

[5] Un esquema básico que mantendrá en GK: “Ningún ser viviente sabe lo suficiente para escribir: Parte I. Método; Parte II. Filosofía, la historia del pensamiento; Parte III. Historia, o sea, la acción; Parte IV. Las Arles y la Civilización.”, en: Ezra Pound; Guía de la Kultura, Capitán Swing, Madrid, 2011, p. 57.

[6] La editorial Faber fue la editorial en inglés más importante en la difusión de la entera obra de Pound, llegando a editar más de veinte títulos entre 1930 y 1960; en ella trabajaba como primary literary editor su amigo, el poeta T. S. Eliot.

[7] Tytell, John; Ezra Pound: The Solitary Volcano,  Anchor P, New York, 1987, p. 247.

[8] Stock, Noel; Ezra Pound; Edicions Alfons El Magnànim, Valencia, 1989, p. 441 y ss. Pound conservó como un tesoro cinco ejemplares de GK no expurgados. Lo señala también Gallup en su definitiva obra bibliográfica: Gallup, Donald; A Bibliography of Ezra Pound. 1963, edición revisada y ampliada: Ezra Pound: A Bibliography, University Press of Virginia, Charlottesville, 1983, quién enumera en detalle las modificaciones finales. Como dato curioso: desapareció de la versión final el nombre del vilipendiado poeta español Salvador de Madariaga.

[9] Véase la voz “Zukofsky, Louis (1904-1978)”, en: Adams, Stephen J./ Tryphonopoulos, Demetres P. (Editors); The Ezra Pound Encyclopedia, Greenwood Press, Westport, 2005, p. 309.

[10] Véase la voz “Bunting, Basil (1900–1985)”, en: ibidem, p. 22.

[11] La carta con la autointerpretación sobre GK en: Norman, Charles; Ezra Pound; Funk &Wagnalls, New York, 1968, p. 375.

[12] Los numerosos libros de prosa de Pound, algunos poco conocidos y agotados, son en orden cronológico: The Spirit of Romance (1910) Gaudier-Brzeska. A Memoir (1916), Pavannes and Divisions (1918), Instigations. . . Together with an Essay on the Chinese Written Character (1920), Antheil and the Treatise on Harmony (1924), How to Read (1931), ABC of Economics (1933), ABC of Reading (1934), Make It New (1934), Jefferson and/or Mussolini (1935), Social Credit: An Impact (1935), Polite Essays (1937), Guide to Kulchur (1938) y Literary Essays (ed. T. S. Eliot, 1954).

[13] Bacigalupo, Massimo. The Formed Trace: The Later Poetry of Ezra Pound, Columbia University Press, New York, 1980; Coyle, Michael; Ezra Pound, Popular Genres, and the Discourse of Culture, University Park: Pennsylvania State UP, 1995; Davie, Donald. Studies in Ezra Pound. Manchester,  Carcanet, 1991;  Lamberti, Elena; “’Guide to Kulchur’: la citazione tra sperimentazione modernista e costruzione del Nuovo Sapere”, en: Leitmotiv, 2, 2002, pp. 165-179; Lindberg, Kathryne V.; Reading Pound Reading: Modernism after Nietzsche, Oxford UP, New York:, 1987; Nicholls, Peter; Ezra Pound: Politics, Economics, and Writing: A Study of The Cantos, Humanities Press, Atlantic Highlands, 1984. El rechazo in toto de la academia sería para Pound justamente un elogio indirecto a su método heterodoxo de aprendizaje y educación radicalmente revolucionario.

[14] Williams, William Carlos; “Penny Wise, Pound Foolish”, en: The New Republic, 49, 28, june, 1939, pp. 229-230. Williams llamaba en la recensión a Pound “a brave Man” por su honestidad intelectual y valentía política. La única crítica de Pound a Mussolini en GK es que en su mente todavía quedan residuos de Aristóteles: “… an Aristotelic residuum…”, e: Ezra Pound; Guía de la Kultura, Capitán Swing, Madrid, 2011, p. 305.

[15] Pound los denomina nuclei, sus núcleos.

[16] Dice bellamente Pound: “La forma, el inmortal concetto, el concepto, la forma dinámica que es como el dibujo de la rosa hundido en las muertas limaduras de hierro por el imán, no por contacto material con el imán mismo, sino separado del imán. Separados por una capa de cristal, el polvo y las limaduras se levantan y se ponen en orden. Así la forma, el concepto resucita de la muerte.”, en: Ezra Pound; Guía de la Kultura, Capitán Swing, Madrid, 2011, p. 166.

[17] Parataxis: se entiende como una construcción de dos oraciones sintácticamente independientes que están en una relación de subordinación implícita en virtud de lo que se conoce como una “curva melódica” común, que hace innecesario el uso de la conjunción, uniéndolas en una relación íntima de dependencia. Véase: Mounin, Georges (Dirigido por); Diccionario de Lingüística, Labor, Barcelona, 1979, p. 139-140. Estilísticamente puede decirse que mientras la hipotaxis (relación explícita mediante un signo funcional) señala un discurso meditado y racional, incluso de cierta “distinción” social en el nivel cultural de quién la emplea, la parataxis, propia de la expresión de emociones, es de un lenguaje más popular y llano. Pound: “The Homeric World, very human”, en: GK, p. 38.

[18] Además en GK se muestra claramente, como en Cantos, el milieu intelectual fascista en el cual se mueve Pound alrededor de los círculos romanos de Edmondo Rossoni, ministro de Agricultura del Duce y editor de la influyente revista cultural La Stirpe: “Eran personalidades serias, como las que Confucio, San Ambrosio o su Excelencia Edmondo Rossoni podrían y desearían reconocer como personalidades serias.”; en esta edición, vide infra, p.  Sobre Pound y el Fascismo italiano, véase: Redman, Tim; Ezra Pound and Italian Fascism, Cambridge University Pres, Cambridge, 1991.

[19] Pound utiliza la palabra alemana Anschauung, un erkenntnistheoretischer Begriff introducido por Kant aunque ya utlizado por místicos como Notker o Meister Eckhart, para referirse a la superioridad epistemológica de la inducción y la intuición: “…la facultad que le permite a uno «ver» que dos líneas rectas no pueden encerrar una superficie, y que el triángulo es el más sencillo de todos los polígonos posibles.” Por ejemplo, el pedagogo iluminista Pestalozzi lo utilizó en un contexto operativo educativo, tal como pretende re-utilizarlo Pound. En esta revalorización de la Anschauung Pound aquí coincide no casualmente no sólo con Nietzsche sino con el neokantismo, Husserl y Heidegger, y en sus comentarios críticos a Aristóteles (Arry), Pound ubica a la intuición por encima de la sophia.

[20] Ezra Pound; Guía de la Kultura, Capitán Swing, Madrid, 2011, p. 217.

[21] Pound dixit: “Bacon. No creo que la coincidencia con mis puntos de vista sea debida a memoria inconsciente, dos hombres en momentos diferentes pueden observar que los caniches tienen el pelo rizado sin necesidad de referirlo o derivarlo de una «autoridad» precedente.”

[22]Ezra Pound; Guía de la Kultura, Capitán Swing, Madrid, 2011, p. 57.

[23] La Mostra… fue realizada con motivo del décimo aniversario de la Toma del Poder por Mussolini, tras la marcha fascista sobre Roma. Fue una idea de Dino Alfieri, futuro ministro de Cultura Popular. Pound visitó la Mostra… en diciembre de 1932, poco después de su inauguración oficial, quedando impresionado como la organización anti-museo Risorgimiento de iconografía, objetos cotidianos (el propio escritorio de Mussolini en el diario Il Popolo d’Italia) y collages de imágenes promovía la incitación del visitante a la acción. Sobre la Mostra… y su formato conservador-revolucionario, véase: Andreotti, Libero; “The Aesthetics of War: The Exhibition of the Fascist Revolution”, en: Journal of Architectural Education, 45.2, 1992, pp. 76-86; finalmente el trabajo de Jeffrey Schnapp: Anno X. La Mostra della Rivoluzione fascista del 1932: genesi-sviluppo-contesto culturale-storico-ricezione. With an afterword by Claudio Fogu, Piste – Piccola biblioteca di storia 4, Istituti Editoriali e Poligrafici Internazionali, Rome-Pisa, 2003 y su artículo: “Fascism’s Museum in Motion”; en: Journal of Architecture Education 45.2, 1992,  pp. 87-97.  Pound elogiará el aspecto radical y pedagógico de la Mostra… en su Cantos, el número XLVI, publicado en 1936. No es de extrañar: arquitectos liberales como Le Corbusier o un nietzscheano de izquierda como Georges Bataille también tuvieron una impresión profunda de la Mostra…

[24] Pound dice: “when one HAS ‘forgotten-what-book’ ” (GK 134) y más adelante: “what is left after man has forgotten all he set out to learn” (GK 195); véase: Ezra Pound; Guía de la Kultura, Capitán Swing, Madrid, 2011, p. 151 y 197.

[25] Ezra Pound; Guía de la Kultura, Capitán Swing, Madrid, 2011, p. 178.

[26] Ibidem, , p. 76.

[27] En GK, p. 34. Un ejemplo concreto de esta “limpieza directa” sería la obra de Gaudier-Brzeska.

[28] El famoso “Pound’s Pentagon”, su canon clásico y la superestructura cultural de un estado noble, lo constituye las Odas de Confucio, los Epos de Homero, la Metamorfosis de Ovidio, la Divina Comedia de Dante y las obras teatrales de Shakespeare.

[29] “El Comunismo como rebelión contra los ladrones de cosechas  fue una tendencia admirable.  Como revolucionario, me niego a aceptar una pretendida revolución que intenta inmovilizarse o moverse hacia atrás.”; en: Ezra Pound; Guía de la Kultura, Capitán Swing, Madrid, 2011, p. 202.

[30] Ibidem, p. 65.

[31]Ezra Pound; Guía de la Kultura, Capitán Swing, Madrid, 2011, p. 78. No es casualidad que Pound indique formalmente al lector placentero del diario burgués típico.

[32] Pound había estudiado en detalle el método similar de sobreposición y parataxis que funciona en el Haiku japonés a través de los trabajos de Fenellosa.

[33] Pound, E.; “A Few Don’ts By an Imagiste”; en: Poetry, 1, 1916.

[34] “This book is not written for the over-fed. It is written for men who have not been able to afford a university education or for young men, whether or not threatened with universities, who want to know more at the age of fifty than I know today, and whom I might conceivably aid to that object.”, en: GK, p. 6.; en esta edición, vide infra, p.  Pound consideraba, en una particular estadística personal, que en la sociedad burguesa podía encontrarse un lector reflexivo y serio por cada 900 lectores ingenuos o masificados.

[35] Ezra Pound; Guía de la Kultura, Capitán Swing, Madrid, 2011, p. 57.

[36] Sobre el controversial antisemitismo ad hoc de Pound en GK, véase: Chace, William M.; The Political Identities of Ezra Pound & T. S. Eliot, Stanford University Press, Stanford, 1973, Chapter Five, “A Guide to Culture: Antisemitism”, p. 71 y ss.

[37] “El genio de Mussolini era ver y afirmar repetidamente que había crisis no EN, sino DE sistema. Quiero decir que lo vio claro y temprano. Muchos lo vemos ahora.”

[38] “¿Y qué hay sobre anteriores guías a la Kulchur o Cultura? Considero que Platón y Plutarco podrían servir, que Herodoto sentó un precedente, que Montaigne ciertamente suministró una guía tal en sus ensayos, lo mismo que lo hizo Rabelais y que incluso Brantôme podría tomarse como una guía del gusto.”; en: Ezra Pound; Guía de la Kultura, Capitán Swing, Madrid, 2011, p. 216.

[39] Dice Pound: “When the vortices of power and the vortices of culture coincide, you have an era of brilliance”.

[40] Pound en realidad llama a esta Océana ideal de su filosofía política Regime Corporativo.

[41] Pound, Ezra; Jefferson and/or Mussolini, Stanley Nott, New York, 1935, p. 96: “A good government is one that operates according to the best that is known and thought. And the best government is that which translates the best thought most speedily into action.”

[42] “The best Government is (naturally?) that which draws the best of the Nation’s intelligence into use.”, en: Ezra Pound; Guía de la Kultura, Capitán Swing, Madrid, 2011, p. 266.

[43] Ibidem, p. 247.

[44] Dice Pound: “Usury: A charge for the use of purchasing power, levied without regard to production; often without regard to the possibilities of production.” Es una conclusión extraída de las enseñanzas sobre el Social Credit del economista Douglas.

[45] En: Ezra Pound; Guía de la Kultura, Capitán Swing, Madrid, 2011, p. 183.

[46] Ibidem, p. 278.

[47] Pound nunca llegó a conocer los escritos juveniles de Marx, donde se analiza a fondo el papel del Dinero, por ejemplo.

[48] Amplias citas de Das Kapital en su obra The Cantos, en particular en el canto XXXIII.

[49] Véase el trabajo de Kathryine V. Lindberg: Reading Pound Reading: Modernism After Nietzsche, Oxford University Press, New York & Oxford, 1987. Lindberg analiza la larga influencia del reaccionario pensamiento nietzscheano en la ideología y estética del Modernismo hasta el Postestructuralismo. De Gourmont recibió además Pound el impacto de la ideología derivada de Lamarck

[50] Pound, Ezra; “Redondillas, or Something of That Sort”, en: Ezra Pound: Poems and Translations, ed. by Richard Sieburth, Library of America, New York, 2003, pp. 175–182 (la stanza se encuentra en la p. 181). El poema “Redondillas…” es de mayo de 1911 y en él Pound también reconoce que lee a Nietzsche con la devoción con la que un cristiano se enfrenta a la sagrada Biblia.

[51] Pound, Ezra; “The Approach to Paris, III”, en: New Age, 13, Nº 21, 18 September 1913, pp. 607-609. Ahora en: Ezra Pound’s Poetry and Prose, 11 vols, Garland, London, 1991, I, C-95, pp. 156-159.

[52] Pound, Ezra; “Reflection”, en: Smart Set, 43, Nº 3, july, 1915, p. 395. Ahora en: Ezra Pound: Poems and Translations, ed. by Richard Sieburth, Library of America, New York, 2003, p. 1179.

[53] Sobre Nietzsche como pedagogo y reformador educativo, un aspecto infravalorado por los estudios y hagiografías, nos permitimos remitir al lector a nuestro libro: Nietzsche contra la Democracia, Montesinos, Mataró, 2010, capítulo V, “Pathein Mathein: la educación reaccionaria y ¿racista? del Futuro”, p. 173  y ss.

[54] Ezra Pound; Guía de la Kultura, Capitán Swing, Madrid, 2011, p. 84.

Jonathan Bowden on H. P. Lovecraft

 

Jonathan Bowden on H. P. Lovecraft

T. S. Eliot: Ultra-Conservative Dandy

T. S. Eliot:
Ultra-Conservative Dandy

 

 

By Jonathan Bowden

Ex: http://www.counter-currents.com/ 

 

For a brief period in the late 1990s there was an attempt to demonize T. S. Eliot as an anti-Semite. This opinion was most ably canvassed by Anthony Julius’ T. S. Eliot, Anti-Semitism and Literary Form ^[2], but the attempt failed, and Eliot’s reputation as a poet now stands even higher than ever.

Thomas Stearns Eliot’s most controversial book was the collection of essays drawn from a series of lectures he gave in 1934 called After Strange Gods: A Primer of Modern Heresy ^[3]. In this book, Eliot argued for an organic society — primarily from a Christian perspective — and he took a decidedly non-philo-Semitic position, considering that the more organic the society, was the better its prospects.

It seems an utter travesty, at this date, that the most famous English language poet of the twentieth century should be treated in this way.

For the interesting things to say about this fey, classical, and austere man have little to do with this (or his marriage to Vivienne Haigh-Wood in 1915) but, rather, revolve around his contribution to literary criticism. In this regard, his development of the idea of a tradition within a writer’s oeuvre proves crucial — witness his own distancing over time from the thesis of “The Wasteland” and “The Hollow Men” as he turned to Christianity, metaphysically speaking. The idea of not seeing works in isolation but from a whole perspective is very interesting in a deeply conservative way.

This further ramifies with Eliot’s coolness and classicism in the arts — if compared and contrasted to his hostility to the Romantics, particularly a left-wing revolutionary like Shelley. (Eliot would have had no time for the literary prognosis of the Trotskyist Paul Foot in his Red Shelley ^[4].) Nonetheless, for him, poetry was a codification but never a standardization. It was an escape from emotion through distancing — rather than an achievement of emotional excess through revelation. All of this led to his espousal of the metaphysical poets — Donne, Vaughan, Marvell, and Thomas — as he praised their use of metaphysics in poetry to provide a unified sensibility.

Possibly Eliot’s most famous literary idea was the objective correlative — whereby he sought a general, and culturally relevant, explanation of works which transcended personal responses to them. This involved a semi-objective as well as a subjective reading of the text. A piece attempts to mean what it says, but it also indicates states of mind and experiences which are factual and that can be essayed without being unduly personal about literature.

This hunt for a more general meaning indicates a social vision for art in a man whose own work is very abstruse and ‘difficult’ to understand. This is particularly true of the early poems such as “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” (1917) and “The Wasteland” (1922), but changes somewhat after “Ash Wednesday” in 1927.

If we might turn to the poetry now: “Prufrock” begins with a stream of consciousness which is typical of early modernism — although much of Eliot’s early poetic vision owes something to his discovery of Arthur Symonds’ The Symbolist Movement in Literature ^[5] in 1908. Prufrock begins with comparing the evening to an etherized patient upon a table which was considered scandalous at the time when Georgian poetry was all the rage. There is even a hint of the right-wing nihilism of Gottfried Benn in early Eliot. In “Prufrock” he deals with a disappointed life, states of physical and intellectual inertia, and the absence of both carnal love and spiritual progress.

In October 1922 “The Wasteland,” edited extensively by Ezra Pound, made its appearance and extended the analysis, amid many other concerns, to his failing marriage to Vivienne, both of whom were suffering from nervous and mental disorders at the time. The poem definitely chimes with the post-First World War disillusionment of an entire generation.

“The Hollow Men” in 1925 confirms and extends this triad of despair until his conversion to Anglicanism from Unitarianism in 1927. This event was definitely the key metaphysical moment in this very fastidious man’s life. The hunger for meaning and a dormant metaphysical purpose came out. For, in his conversion or re-conversion, Eliot illuminated the idea that life is spiritually barren and meaningless without an over-arching quest, sensibility or teleology.

Certainly once his conversion is definite, the pitch of Eliot’s life and his poetry (above all) takes a decisive turn. “Ash Wednesday,” the “Ariel” poems, and the “Four Quartets” (for which he was awarded the Nobel Prize in 1948) are much more certain in their direction, as well as being more casual, melodic, and contemplative in their creative method. Although secular literati remain discomfited by these poems’ transparent religiosity. This is nowhere more apparent than in the “Four Quartets” which is immersed in Christian thought, traditions, and imagery.

Much of his creative energy after “Ash Wednesday” went into writing plays in an attempt to broaden the poet’s social role — all of these pieces were verse dramas. The whole point of Sweeney Agonistes (1932), The Rock (1934), and Murder in the Cathedral dealing with Thomas a Beckett’s assassination was to bring a larger or wider audience to a conservative purpose for Christian poetry.

For Eliot is that rare thing in twentieth century literary art — an ex-nihilist, someone who reverses the positions of Dostoyevsky’s The Possessed (without the enervation) and wanders back towards C. S. Lewis, Belloc, and Chesterton. I think the key point about these partial dandies and Right-wing conservative intellectuals is their belief in belief. . . . For, without the prospect (even in its absence) of metaphysics, life had no ultimate meaning for them, or for us. Almost everything else about them is incidental to this truth.

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Article printed from Counter-Currents Publishing: http://www.counter-currents.com

Edgar Allan Poe: Cosmotheist Thinker, White Racialist

Edgar Allan Poe: Cosmotheist Thinker, White Racialist

by Kevin Alfred Strom

 

Ex: http://thoughtsagainsttime.wordpress.com/

TODAY MARKS the 200th anniversary of the birth of the European-American literary genius and racially concious writer Edgar Allan Poe. I have paid my respects to the eternal memory of Edgar Poe in person at the Poe Museum in Richmond and at his and his beloved Virginia’s grave site in Baltimore, and I offer them again to all who read my words today.

Just as an abomination like Barack Hussein Obama could only be elected in an artificial multiracial slave state (and never in the White America of recent and lamented memory, and likewise never in a healthy all-Black nation) — just as a degenerate like “Martin Luther” King could only be lionized by a degraded, ignorant, and servile population — so Edgar Poe could never be published in modern America. His recognition of individual and racial inequality would have made him anathema to those who control the media today, and his private life and reputation would have been ripped to shreds by the international vermin and the vultures they employ.

According to the most plausible theory of his death, Poe died as a result of the corrupt mass ‘democracy’ he despised. Never able to withstand drink without severe reactions, it appears that Poe was shanghaied by ward politicians who were sweeping people off the streets and pumping them with free liquor in between sessions of herding them to the polls to be “voted” several times in succession. (Similar techniques are still used today, especially in “communities of color.”) He was found on the street inebriated and half-mad with alcohol poisoning. He died shortly thereafter. He was only 40 years old and had been planning to remarry when he died.

Who knows what works this sensitive genius might have bequeathed to us had his life not been ended so early? What might he have said about the tragic war brought to this nation by the abolitionists’ equalitarian delusions? What advance might he have made to the Cosmotheist ideas he began to express in his late work Eureka ? What would he have said of Karl Marx and Nietzsche and Wagner and Herbert Spencer? What works of ratiocination and romance and high poetry might he have given us in his second 40 years? We will never know.

Had he been born in our times, we would never even have heard of him. How many European-American geniuses have been relegated to obscurity and despair, about whom we will never know because they refuse to serve the alien masters of the media? We will never know that, either.

Here is one of Poe’s greatest short poems, A Dream Within a Dream :

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow—
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand—
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep—while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

Source: http://www.kevinalfredstrom.com/2009/01/edgar-allan-poe-cosmotheist-thinker-white-racialist/

Edgar Alan Poe: Cosmotheist?

Edgar Allan Poe: Cosmotheist?

by Kevin Alfred Strom

Ex: http://thoughtsagainsttime.wordpress.com.

A READER recently wrote: “I share your enthusiasm for Poe, but I do not understand how he is a Cosmotheist.”

I regard Poe as an instinctive, intuitive Cosmotheist thinker, though he did not construct or expound a religion or philosophy based upon his ideas as did William Pierce and others.

Consider Poe’s words from his ‘prose poem’ Eureka, which he held to be one of his most important works, though it is among his most ignored today. Poe makes many errors in Eureka, but few that cannot be excused by the limited scientific knowledge of his day. He didn’t have the facts available to Pierce, Romer, Dawkins, Cattell, or even Shaw and Nietzsche; but he did see far more deeply than most writers of his time. Some of his intuitive insights are astounding.

One of the central ideas of Cosmotheism is that Man’s consciousness is but part of the emerging self-consciousness of the universe. Poe, who also seems to anticipate the idea of entropy in this passage, said:

‘Now the very definition of Attraction implies particularity — the existence of parts, particles, or atoms; for we define it as the tendency of “each atom &c. to every other atom,” &c. according to a certain law. Of course where there are no parts — where there is absolute Unity — where the tendency to oneness is satisfied — there can be no Attraction: — this has been fully shown, and all Philosophy admits it. When, on fulfilment of its purposes, then, Matter shall have returned into its original condition of One — a condition which presupposes the expulsion of the separative ether, whose province and whose capacity are limited to keeping the atoms apart until that great day when, this ether being no longer needed, the overwhelming pressure of the finally collective Attraction shall at length just sufficiently predominate… and expel it: — when, I say, Matter, finally, expelling the Ether, shall have returned into absolute Unity, — it will then (to speak paradoxically for the moment) be Matter without Attraction and without Repulsion — in other words, Matter without Matter — in other words, again, Matter no more. In sinking into Unity, it will sink at once into that Nothingness which, to all Finite Perception, Unity must be — into that Material Nihility from which alone we can conceive it to have been evoked — to have been created by the Volition of God.

‘I repeat then — Let us endeavor to comprehend that the final globe of globes will instantaneously disappear, and that God will remain all in all.

‘But are we here to pause? Not so. On the Universal agglomeration and dissolution, we can readily conceive that a new and perhaps totally different series of conditions may ensue — another creation and irradiation, returning into itself — another action and reaction of the Divine Will. Guiding our imaginations by that omniprevalent law of laws, the law of periodicity, are we not, indeed, more than justified in entertaining a belief — let us say, rather, in indulging a hope — that the processes we have here ventured to contemplate will be renewed forever, and forever, and forever; a novel Universe swelling into existence, and then subsiding into nothingness, at every throb of the Heart Divine?

‘And now — this Heart Divine — what is it? It is our own. Let not the merely seeming irreverence of this idea frighten our souls from that cool exercise of consciousness — from that deep tranquillity of self-inspection — through which alone we can hope to attain the presence of this, the most sublime of truths, and look it leisurely in the face.’

Poe explicitly rejects the idea of an anthropomorphic God, and ridicules the idea of a God with a human-like body:

‘The force which carries a stellar body around its primary they assert to have originated in an impulse given immediately by the finger -– this is the childish phraseology employed -– by the finger of Deity itself. In this view, the planets, fully formed, are conceived to have been hurled from the Divine hand, to a position in the vicinity of the suns, with an impetus mathematically adapted to the masses, or attractive capacities, of the suns themselves. An idea so grossly unphilosophical, although so supinely adopted, could have arisen only from the difficulty of otherwise accounting for the absolutely accurate adaptation, each to each, of two forces so seemingly independent, one of the other, as are the gravitating and tangential.’

Poe refers to God repeatedly as the God of Nature — not of scripture — though he differs from Cosmotheists and Pantheists when he suggests that Nature and God are distinct:

For my part, I have no patience with fantasies at once so timorous, so idle, and so awkward. They belong to the veriest cowardice of thought. That Nature and the God of Nature are distinct, no thinking being can long doubt. By the former we imply merely the laws of the latter.’

However, he posits a universe in which God and the divine stand outside of time (an idea that Savitri Devi was to elaborate) and in which all natural laws and all occurrences within time are connected by a chain of what I would call crystalline inevitability and can one and all be subsumed under the word “Law.”

‘But with the very idea of God, omnipotent, omniscient, we entertain, also, the idea of the infallibility of his laws. With Him there being neither Past nor Future -– with Him all being Now –- do we not insult him in supposing his laws so contrived as not to provide for every possible contingency? -– or, rather, what idea can we have of any possible contingency, except that it is at once a result and a manifestation of his laws? He who, divesting himself of prejudice, shall have the rare courage to think absolutely for himself, cannot fail to arrive, in the end, at the condensation of laws into Law -– cannot fail of reaching the conclusion that each law of Nature is dependent at all points upon all other laws, and that all are but consequences of one primary exercise of the Divine Volition. Such is the principle of the Cosmogony which, with all necessary deference, I here venture to suggest and to maintain.

‘In this view, it will be seen that, dismissing as frivolous, and even impious, the fancy of the tangential force having been imparted to the planets immediately by “the finger of God,” I consider this force as originating in the rotation of the stars: -– this rotation as brought about by the in-rushing of the primary atoms, towards their respective centres of aggregation: –- this in-rushing as the consequence of the law of Gravity: –- this law as but the mode in which is necessarily manifested the tendency of the atoms to return into imparticularity: -– this tendency to return as but the inevitable rëaction of the first and most sublime of Acts -– that act by which a God, selfexisting and alone existing, became all things at once, through dint of his volition, while all things were thus constituted a portion of God.’

And that I would call an early and distinct intimation of Cosmotheism.

Source: http://www.kevinalfredstrom.com/2009/01/edgar-allan-poe-cosmotheist/

James J. O'Meara on Henry James & H. P. Lovecraft

James O’Meara on Henry James & H. P. Lovecraft

The Lesson of the Monster; or, The Great, Good Thing on the Doorstep

James J. O'Meara

Ex: http://www.counter-currents.com/

We’ve been very pleased by the response to our essay “The Eldritch Evola,” which was not only picked up by Greg Johnson (whose own Confessions of a Reluctant Hater is out and essential reading) for his estimable website Counter-Currents, but even managed to lurch upwards and lay a terrible, green claw on the bottom rung of the “Top Ten Most Visited Posts” there in January.

Coincidentally, we’ve been delving into the newer Penguin Portable Henry James, being a sucker for the Portables in general, and especially those in which a wise editor goes to the trouble of cutting apart a life’s work of legendary unreadability and stitching together a coherent, or at least assimilable, narrative, for the convenience of us amateurs, from Malcolm Cowley’s first, the legendary Portable Faulkner that rescued “Count No-Account,” as he was known among his homies, to the recent Portable Jack Kerouac epic saga recounted by Ann Charters.

The “new” Portable Henry James attempts something of the sort (as opposed to the older one, which was your basic collection) by recognizing the impossibility of even including large excerpts from the “major” works, and instead gives us some of the basic short works (Daisy Miller, Turn of the Screw, “The Jolly Corner,” etc.) and then hundreds of pages of travel pieces, criticism, letters, even parodies and tributes, as well a a list of bizarre names (Cockster? Dickwinter?) and above all, in a section called “Definition and Description,” little vignettes, often only a paragraph, exemplifying the Jamesian precision, a sort of anthology of epiphanies, the great memorable moments from “An Absolutely Unmarried Woman” to “An American Corrected on What Constitutes ‘the Self’” from the novels, and similar nonfiction moments from James’ travels, such as “The Individual Jew” to “New York Power” to “American Teeth” and “The Absence of Penetralia.”

The latter section in particular is part of a defense which the editor seems to feel needs to be mounted in his Introduction, of the Jamesian “difficult” prose style (as are the collection of tributes, including the surprising, to me at least, Ezra Pound).

I bring these two together because I could not help but think of ol’ Lovecraft himself in this context. Is Lovecraft not the corresponding Master of Bad Prose? As Edmund Wilson once quipped, the only horror in Lovecraft’s corpus was the author’s “bad taste and bad art.”

One can only imagine what James would have thought of Lovecraft, although we know, from excerpts here on Baudelaire and Hawthorne, what he thought of Poe, and more importantly, of those who were fans: “to take [Poe] with more than a certain degree of seriousness is to lack seriousness one’s self. An enthusiasm for Poe is the mark of a decidedly primitive stage of reflection”; James may even have based the poet in “The Aspern Papers,” a meditation on America’s cultural wasteland, on Poe. However, his distaste is somewhat ambiguous, as compared with Baudelaire, Poe is “vastly the greater charlatan of the two, as well as the greater genius.”

For all his “better” taste and talent for reflection, it’s little realized today, as well, that James’s reputation went into steep decline after his death, and was only revived in the fifties, as part of a general reconsideration of 19th century American writers, like Melville, so that even James could be said to have, like Lovecraft, been forgotten after death except for a small coterie that eventually stage managed a revival years later.

Are James and Lovecraft as different as all that? One can’t help but notice, from the list above, that a surprising amount of James’s work, and among it the best, is in the ‘weird’ mode, and in precisely the same “long short story” form, “the dear, the blessed nouvelle,” in which Lovecraft himself hit his stride for his best and most famous work. (Both “Daisy Miller” and “At the Mountains of Madness” suffered the same fate: rejection by editors solely put off by their ‘excessive’ length for magazine publication.) The nouvelle of course accommodated James’ legendary prolixity.

The editor, John Auchard, puts James’s prolixity into the context of the 19th century ‘loss of faith.’ Art was intended to take the place of religion, principally by replacing the lost “next world” by an increased concentration on the minutia of this one. Experience might be finite, but it could still “burn with a hard, gem-like flame” as Pater famously counseled.

That counsel, of course, took place in the first, then self-suppressed, then retained afterword to his The Renaissance. René Guénon has in various places diagnosed this as the essential fraud of the Renaissance, the exchange of a vertical path to transcendence for a horizontal dissipation and dispersal among finite trivialities, usually hoked-up as “man discovered the vast extent of the world and himself,” blah blah blah. As Guénon points out, it’s a fool’s bargain, as the finite, no matter how extensive and intricate, is, compared to the infinite, precisely nothing.

Baron Evola, on the other hand, distinguishes several types of Man, and is willing to let some of them find their fulfillment in such worldliness. It is, however, unworthy of one type of Man: Aryan Man. See the chapter “Determination of the Vocations” in his The Doctrine of Awakening: The Attainment of Self-Mastery According to the Earliest Buddhist Texts.

So the nouvelle length accumulation of detail and precision of judgment, in James, is intended to produce some kind of this-worldly ersatz transcendence. Was this perhaps the same intent in Lovecraft, the use of the nouvelle length tale to pile up detail until the mind breaks?

Lovecraft of course was also a thorough-going post-Renaissance materialist, a Cartesian mechanist with the best of them; when he finally got “The Call of Cthulhu” published, he advised his editor that:

Now all my tales are based on the fundamental premise that common human laws and interests and emotions have no validity or significance in the vast cosmos-at-large. One must forget that such things as organic life, good and evil, love and hate, and all such local attributes of a negligible and temporary race called mankind, have any existence at all.

But as John Miller notes, this is exactly what is needed to produce the Lovecraft Effect:

That’s nihilism, of course, and we’re free to reject it. But there’s nothing creepier or more terrifying than the possibility that our lives are exercises in meaninglessness.

What is there to choose, between the unrealized but metaphysically certain nothingness of the Jamesian finite detail, and the all-too-obvious nothingness of Lovecraft’s worldview?

What separates James from Lovecraft and Evola is, along the lines of our previous effort, is precisely what T. S. Eliot, in praise of James (the essay is in the Portable too): “He has a mind so fine no idea could penetrate it.” Praise, note, and contrasted with the French, “the Home of Ideas,” and such Englishmen, or I guess pseudo-Englishmen, as Chesterton, “whose brain swarms with ideas” but cannot think, meaning, one gathers, stand apart with skepticism. One notes the Anglican Eliot seeming to flinch back, like a good English gentleman, from those dirty, unruly Frenchmen like Guénon, and such Englishmen who, like Chesterton, went “too far” and went and “turned Catholic” out of their love of “smells and bells.”

What Evola and Lovecraft had was precisely an Idea, the idea of Tradition; in Lovecraft’s case, a made-up, fictional one, but designed to have the same effect. But that’s the issue: when is Tradition only made up? For Evola and Guénon, the mind of Traditional Man is indeed not “fine” enough to evade penetration by the Idea; he is open to the transcendent, vertical dimension, which is realized in Intellectual Intuition.

I’ve suggested elsewhere that Intellectual Intuition, or what Evola calls his “Traditional Method” is usefully compared with what Spengler called, speaking of his own method, “physiognomic tact.” I wrote: “A couple years ago I found a passage in one of the few books on Spengler in English, by H. Stuart Hughes, where it seemed like he was actually giving a good explication of Guénon’s metaphysical (vs. systematic philosophy) method. I think it could apply to Evola’s method as well” Hughes writes:

Spengler rejected the whole idea of logical analysis. Such “systematic” practices apply only in the natural sciences. To penetrate below the surface of history, to understand at least partially the mysterious substructure of the past, a new method — that of “physiognomic tact”— is required.

This new method, “which few people can really master,” means “instinctively to see through the movement of events. It is what unites the born statesman and the true historian, despite all opposition between theory and practice.” [It takes from Goethe and Nietzsche] the injunction to “sense” the reality of human events rather than dissect them. In this new orientation, the historian ceases to be a scientist and becomes a poet. He gives up the fruitless quest for systematic understanding. . . . “The more historically men tried to think, the more they forgot that in this domain they ought not to think.” They failed to observe the most elementary rule of historical investigation: respect for the mystery of human destiny.

So causality/science, destiny/history. Rather than chains of reasoning and “facts” the historian employs his “tact” [really, a kind of Paterian "taste"] to “see” the big picture: how facts are composed into a destiny. Rather than compelling assent, the historian’s words are used to bring about a shared intuition.

I suppose Guénon and Co. would bristle at being lumped in with “poets” but I think the general point is helpful in understanding the “epistemology” of what Guénon is doing: not objective (but empty) fact-gathering but not merely aesthetic and “subjective” either, since metaphysically “seeing” the deeper connection can be “induced” by words and thus “shared.”

What Guénon, Evola, and Spengler seek to do deliberately, what Lovecraft did fictionally or even accidentally, what James’s mind was “too fine” to do at all, is to not see mere facts, or see a lot of them, or even see them very very intently, but to see through them and thus acquire metaphysical insight, and, through the method of obsessive accumulation of detail, share that insight by inducing it in others.

 

To do this one must be “penetrated” by the Idea, Guénon’s metaphysics, Evola’s historical cycles, Lovecraft’s Mythos, and allow it be be generated within oneself. Only then can you see.

 

“You are privileged to witness a great becoming. . . . Do you see? Do you see now?”

Speaking of “penetration,” one does note James’s obsession with “penetralia”; also one recalls the remarkable way Schuon brings out how in Christianity the Word is brought by Gabriel to Mary, who in mediaeval paintings is often shown with a stream of words penetrating her ear, thus conceiving virginally, while in Islam, Gabriel brings the Word to Muhammad, who recites (gives birth to) the Koran. Itself a wonderful example of the Traditional Method: moving freely among the material elements of various traditions to weave a pattern that re-creates an Idea in the mind of the listener. Do you see how Christianity and Islam relate? Do you see?

Finally, we should note that Lovecraft, for his own sake, did get in a preemptive shot at James:

In The Turn of the Screw, Henry James triumphs over his inevitable pomposity and prolixity sufficiently well to create a truly potent air of sinister menace; depicting the hideous influence of two dead and evil servants, Peter Quint and the governess, Miss Jessel, over a small boy and girl who had been under their care. James is perhaps too diffuse, too unctuously urbane, and too much addicted to subtleties of speech to realise fully all the wild and devastating horror in his situations; but for all that there is a rare and mounting tide of fright, culminating in the death of the little boy, which gives the novelette a permanent place in its special class.– Supernatural Horror in Literature, Chapter VIII.

Source: http://jamesjomeara.blogspot.com/

Il pugilato visto da Jack London

Il pugilato visto da Jack London

di Michele De Feudis

Fonte: secolo d'italia

«E mentre la moglie si stringeva a lui, Tom King cercò di ridere di cuore. Lanciò uno sguardo alla stanza nuda, alle spalle di lei: era tutto quel che possedeva al mondo, più un affitto arretrato, una moglie, due bambini. E ora stava per lasciare tutto e uscir fuori, nella notte, in cerca di cibo per la sua femmina e i suoi cuccioli, non come un operaio moderno che si reca alla macchina, ma nel vecchio modo primigenio, eroico, animale: combattendo per il cibo».

Il pugilato raccontato da Jack London, con raffinate pennellate, intrise di richiami a suggestioni politiche e sociali, consente di riscoprire l'anima popolare e autentica della "noble art". La classica faccia da pugile (pp. 117, euro 10, Mattioli 1885) è una chicca per appassionati del mondo dei guantoni ma allo stesso tempo costituisce una lettura essenziale per comprendere le ragioni profonde che sottendono lo spirito di sacrificio e l'agonismo di un atleta. E tra queste c'è anche la fame, o la fuga dalla indigenza o dall'emarginazione, caratteristiche che delineano assonanze tra le biografie di campioni del calcio come l'argentino Diego Armando Maradona con Antonio Cassano, ed emerge dalle storie complicate e piene di colpi di scena tipici di anime fragili. Basterebbe osservare le immagini arcaiche del ritorno alle radici praticato dal brasiliano Adriano, attaccante finora senza fortuna nella Roma, quando ritorna nelle favelas in cui è cresciuto. Questa carica dirompente assurge ad archetipo proprio nell'austero mondo del pugilato, nel quale domina la legge del sacrificio e degli allenamenti inflessibili; dove Iron Mike, al secolo Mike Tyson, si è costruito la fama di picchiatore in un quartiere malfamato della Grande Mela, Brownsville, mettendo al tappeto a soli undici anni un ragazzo più grande, reo di aver staccato la testa ad un povero piccione...

London fu l'apripista di una serie di autori che erano stati pugili-dilettanti, da Ernest Hemingway a Norman Mailer fino a F.X. Toole, che ha scritto Million Dollar Baby, da cui Clint Eastwood ha poi tratto la sceneggiatura dell'omonimo e riuscitissimo film (nel 2004).

L'opera dello scrittore vagabondo americano raccoglie due brevi storie di boxe, La bistecca e Il messicano, narrazioni sorprendenti per l'umanità non artificiale che sottende gli incontri sul ring, i ritratti delle anime dei combattenti appaiono a tutto tondo, con le pulsioni più animali legate all'istinto di sopravvivenza e le serenità di riconoscere il valore dell'avversario, vincente o perdente che sia, alla fine della dura contesa. London, romanziere dallo stile di vita bohèmien, era stato in gioventù un pugile dilettante, poi pregevole cronista di sport. La penna era arrivata dopo aver tentato fortuna nei più svariati ambiti lavorativi: era stato strillone di giornali, cacciatore di foche, corrispondente di guerra, agente assicurativo, contadino e cercatore d'oro. Ne La bistecca l'anziano pugile Tom King è costretto per sbarcare il lunario a sfidare il giovane Sandel. Vorrebbe alimentarsi come si deve durante gli allenamenti, ma non ha denaro, i bottegai non gli fanno più credito mentre avrebbe desiderato addentare una fetta di carne: il denaro come variabile nelle dinamiche di classe diventa rivelatore delle venature socialisteggianti di London. Le medesime coordinate appaiono ancora più evidenti ne Il messicano, dove è l'ansia rivoluzionaria a spingere lo smilzo Rivera sul ring: deve reperire cinquemila dollari per acquistare fucili, indispensabili alla lotta armata. Il miraggio della conquista di una lauta borsa contro un avversario di grido, Danny Ward, appare l'unico mezzo per assicurarsi le risorse economiche necessarie alla Giunta rivoluzionaria. «Le ginocchia gli tremavano, ansimava per lo sfinimento. Davanti ai suoi occhi, tra nausea e vertigini, le facce odiate ondeggiavano avanti ed indietro. Allora ricordò che ogni faccia era un fucile. E i fucili adesso erano i suoi. La Rivoluzione poteva andare avanti».

Roberto Perrone, scrittore e firma del Corriere della Sera ha definito così il pugilato: «Non si tratta solo di darsi cazzotti. E' una metafora della vita. Devi ballare e menare, essere leggero nei movimenti e pesante nel pugno. Devi scappare ma anche avere coraggio. Hai paura e non ce l'hai. Mi sa tanto di vita vera, di palestre di periferia. Spesso, a guardare certi pugili che vengono da paesi dell'Est o del Sud del mondo, mi rendo conto che è ancora il solo modo per dare alla propria vita una certa dignità. Questo è tragico e al tempo stesso sublime". Tutto questo si ritrova nelle pagine dedicate a questa disciplina dall'autore de Il richiamo della foresta, come spiega Mario Maffi: «Ora, proprio nella capacità di superare le contraddizioni individuali e di andare oltre le dinamiche isolate, personali o collettive, di un momento, di un tempo o di un luogo, per restituirci invece, potentemente e limpidamente, istantanee e affreschi di tensioni sociali e culturali diffuse e ricoorenti, proprio qui risiede il continuo fascino della scrittura di London. Perché, in fondo e ancora una volta, come succede nelle narrazioni mitiche e leggendarie, e con tante opere di quell'epoca convulsa, "de te fabula narratur": è di te (è di noi) che si parla in queste storie».

 

Tante altre notizie su www.ariannaeditrice.it

Jack London: The Protean Writer Who Mixed Racism with Socialism

The Protean writer who mixed racism with socialism : Jack London

Instauration

Ex: http://www.counter-currents.com/

“There never was a good biography of a good novelist,” F. Scott Fitzgerald once observed. “He is too many people, if he’s any good.” This dictum holds particularly true in the case of Jack London (1876–1916). For biographers and critics as well, he is the most elusive of subjects. As a person, as a writer, and most of all as a man of ideas, he continually takes on different and sharply contrasting forms.

For nearly half of his short, turbulent and adventurous life he was a member of the Socialist Party. He wrote books and articles championing Socialist principles. He liked to end his letters with “Yours for the revolution.” Twice he ran as a Socialist for mayor of his hometown Oakland (he came nowhere near victory). Once, when serving as president of the Intercollegiate Socialist Society, he spoke with menacing rhetoric of an imminent violent revolution at Harvard and Yale. Long revered as a patron saint of the left, he was for years the most widely read American author in the Soviet Union.

His best-known Socialist work is The Iron Heel (1907). Set in a future America, the novel expounds Marxist theory and vividly portrays the bloody suppression of a workers’ revolt by a Bilderbergerish cabal of plutocrats called the Oligarchy. Predictably, Iiberal-minority critics praise the book as a prophetic vision of the evils of twentieth-century fascism. Just as predictably, they deplore the shadowy presence of London the hereditarian. To him the book’s slum proletarians, “the people of the abyss,” are “the refuse and the scum of life,” a stock irredeemably inferior to the plutocrats and the Socialist elite who are the heroes and heroines of the novel.

London was usually much more explicit about the genetic coloring of his Socialism. He once horrified some fellow party members by declaring: “What the Devil! I am first of all a white man and only then a Socialist!” And he wrote a friend, “Socialism is not an ideal system devised for the happiness of all men. It is devised so as to give more strength to [Northern European] races so that they may survive and inherit the earth to the extinction of the lesser, weaker races.”

London became a Socialist because first-hand experience — he once worked 14-hour days in a cannery for ten cents an hour — had made him an enemy of economic injustice. But Socialist theory was just one of the three strong intellectual currents of the time that shaped his world view and found expression in his writing. He was also drawn, by his instinctive belief in the primacy of the self, to the ideas of Nietzsche, Schopenhauer, and Max Stirner. The third, probably the most profound influence on his thinking, was Darwinism and Herbert Spencer’s application of it to philosophy and ethics. This doctrine was for London an essential key to the pattern of existence.

The contradictions’ between such divergent sources, writes London’s most recent biographer, Andrew Sinclair (Jack, 1977), “suited his divided nature. . . .  Jack was most a Socialist when he was depressed. . . . When he felt confident, he decided that the survival of the self and the race determined all human behavior.”

We cannot judge to what extent it is fair to describe London’s thinking in terms of manic-depressive psychology. But it is certainly true that throughout his work the writer gravitates from one theoretical matrix to another. For example, in describing his own climb to eminence, either in autobiography or in thinly disguised fiction (notably in the 1909 novel Martin Eden), he casts himself variously as a social underdog victimized by class barriers, as a man of indomitable will, and as a biological specimen superbly fitted for survival.

However he depicted it, his rise was an impressive story. He fought his way up from poverty, educated himself, served a grueling literary apprenticeship, and virtually by main force became a popular, well-paid and influential writer. Glorying in his hard-won status, he established himself in baronial (and un-Socialist) fashion on a sprawling California ranch and labored to maintain his lifestyle by grinding out an average of three books a year.

By instinct and by conviction, London was a literary naturalist-one of a new breed of writers who focused on the harsh, deterministic forces shaping nature and human society. Working at the top of his form, he had an enormous gift for graphically dramatizing primal conflict, and several of his books are classics of their kind. The most famous of these are two novels: The Call of the Wild (1903), in which the canine hero, Buck, learns “the law of the club and fang” in the Yukon; and The Sea-Wolf (1904), a complex and compelling portrait of a sealer captain who is a proto-superman.

Unfortunately, London is not at his best when he makes racial themes central in his fiction. The material, like most of his work, has raw power and vitality. But the modern reader will also find it full of operatic melodrama, stereotyped characters, and Kiplingesque assumptions about the imperial mission of the Anglo-Saxons. (Kipling was a major influence on London’s style and many of his attitudes.)

However, one of London’s themes, racial displacement, is more relevant now than when he wrote. It is the theme of his novel The Valley of the Moon (1913), a sympathetic study of poor, landless Anglo-Saxon Americans in California. They have lost the land to exploiters of their own kind, to more energetic immigrants, and through their own improvidence. They are “the white folks that failed.” Their salvation, London says, lies in returning

with new dedication to the land that is their birthright. His prescription, simplistic as it is, merits respect as a pioneering attempt. And we should note that it has been followed in recent years by a small but significant number of Majority members, people who for various reasons have gone back to the land to start over again.

The innate superiority of Anglo Saxon stock to all others is an article of faith in The Valley of the Moon and in London’s work generally. He was himself of Welsh descent on his mother’s side, English on the side of his presumptive father, a vagabond jack of-all-trades who never married London’s mother and never admitted his paternity.

Racial displacement on a larger scale is foreseen in The Mutiny of the Elsinore (1914). The hero-narrator, obviously London’s persona, is a playwright on an ocean voyage whose atavistic instincts help him crush a mutiny of his genetic inferiors But even as he exults in his victory, he judges it as all for naught in the long historical pull; and throughout the novel he delivers twilight-of-the-gods valedictories to his own kind, the blond, “white-skinned, blue-eyed Aryan.” Born to roam over the world and govern and command it, the paleface Aryan “perishes because of the too-white light he encounters” The brunette races “will inherit the earth, not because of their capacity for mastery and government, but because of their skin-pigmentation which enables their tissues to resist the ravages of the sun.”

This strange hypothesis the writer got from The Effects of Tropical Light on White Men, a book by a Major Woodruff. It was a theory which had been made horribly real for London by the nightmarish skin disease he had contracted on a cruise in the Solomon Islands.

London’s racial pessimism was reinforced by the decline in his fortunes in the last years of his life and by World War I, which he viewed as an orgy of racial fratricide But the writer who once had a heroine make the sensible observation that “white men shouldn’t go around killing each other” was outvoted by the inveterate Anglo-Saxon, and he became an advocate of American intervention on the side of England against Germany (One reason he left the SociaIist Party in 1916 was to protest its neutralist position. Another was his growing dissatisfaction with its dogma. “Liberty, freedom, and independence,” he wrote in his letter of resignation, “are royal things that cannot be presented to, nor thrust upon, races or classes.”)

Given to treating his increasing numbers of ailments, including alcoholism, with morphine and arsenic compounds, he died in 1916 of a self-administered drug overdose. Whether it was accidental or deliberate has never been determined

It is easy enough in retrospect to point out the flaws in London’s racial thinking. But the point to be stressed is that he knew, through his instinct and reason, how primary a factor race is, and he is one of the very few writers in this century who deals forthrightly with the fundamental role of racial dynamics m human affairs.

Like Proteus, London assumes different forms the Darwinian, the Socialist, the self-styled Nietzschean “blond beast,” the man of letters, the man of action, the “sailor on horseback” of his projected autobiography, and the major American author He is also reminiscent of the sea god in that he was something of a prophet. For example, the writer of such works as The Call of the Wild can be considered, to use biographer Sinclair’s words, “the prophet of the correspondences between beasts and men,” and a forerunner of Lorenz and E. O. Wilson.

Sinclair goes on to observe that London’s varied prophetic gifts make him “curiously modern as a thinker, despite the dark corridors of his racial beliefs.” Those of us who have made empirical journeys through our own “dark corridors,” will conclude that in this territory too London IS “curiously modern” and prophetic.

Instauration, vol. 3, no. 8 (June 1978), 5, 17, online: http://www.instaurationonline.com/pdf-files/Instauration-...

"Tom Sawyer" censuré aux Etats-Unis

« Tom Sawyer » censuré aux Etats-Unis

 

Levée de boucliers contre le « politiquement correct »

 

Montgomery/Alabama – Les esprits critiques viennent de réagir vivement en apprenant la prochaine sortie de presse d’une version « politiquement correcte » des « Aventures de Tow Sawyer et d’Huckleberry Finn », le célèbre ouvrage de Mark Twain. Le « New York Times », dans un éditorial, fustige le fait que le célèbre livre subira des « dégâts irréparables » dans cette nouvelle version «politiquement correcte ». Le principal quotidien des Etats-Unis écrit : « Ce n’est plus Twain ».

 

Répondant aux questions du magazine à sensation et à gros tirages, « USA Today », Jeff Nichols, le directeur du Musée Mark Twain de Hartford (Connecticut), déclare au sujet de l’élimination du terme « Nigger » dans la version expurgée du livre : « Ce mot peut certes être terrible, il peut meurtrir, mais il y a une raison pour laquelle il se trouve écrit là ». Finalement, l’auteur voulait dresser un tableau exact de la vie des années 40 du 19^ème siècle dans l’Etat américain du Missouri. Le professeur de droit Randall Kennedy, de l’Université de Harvard, a déclaré, à propos de l’élimination du « N-word », du « mot-qui-commence-par-N » (*), qu’il « était fondamentalement erroné de vouloir éradiquer un mot qui appartient à notre histoire ».

 

Mark Twain sera-t-il exclu de la liste des livres à lire pour l’école ?

 

Dans cette nouvelle version du roman de l’écrivain américain Mark Twain, « Les aventures de Tom Sawyer et d’Huckleberry Finn », le terme « Nigger », très usité à l’époque, est remplacé par le mot « slave » (= « esclave ») ; de même le terme « Injun », jugé désormais injurieux, est remplacé par « Indian » (= « Indien ») (**). Or le roman restitue l’atmosphère qui régnait dans les Etats du Sud des Etats-Unis à l’époque où subsistait encore l’esclavage.

 

Comment la petite maison d’édition « New South Books » justifie-t-elle son alignement sur le « politiquement correct », dans le cas du livre de Mark Twain qui paraitra, expurgé, en février 2011 ? Elle estime qu’elle est contrainte à pratiquer cette politique d’expurgation en ôtant du livre tous les termes qui pourraient aujourd’hui choquer parce que les établissements d’enseignement américains menacent de censurer le livre et de ne plus le donner à lire aux enfants. Sans l’élimination des termes qui choquent, le livre de Mark Twain disparaîtrait tout bonnement des listes de lectures obligatoires ou du contenu des cours de littérature américaine. Non seulement dans les écoles mais aussi dans les universités. Tels sont les arguments de la maison d’édition de Montgomery/Alabama. Les dirigeants de celle-ci étaient si mal assurés qu’ils n’ont même pas écrit noir sur blanc, dans leur communiqué à la presse, les termes qu’ils entendent remplacer par des « vocables moins blessants ».

 

(source : http://www.jungefreiheit.de/ - 10 janvier 2011).

 

Notes :

(*) L’utilisation de l’expression « N-word » est calquée sur celle, déjà ancienne, de « F-word », pour « fuck ». Dans l’ambiance souvent puritaine du monde anglo-saxon, le terme « fuck », équivalent de l’allemand « ficken », a posé problème au moment de sa vulgarisation généralisée à partir des années 50 du 20^ème siècle.

 

(**) Le terme « Injun » est simplement une graphie simplifiée et purement phonétique du terme « Indian », tel qu’il était prononcé par les colons anglophones du territoire nord-américain. De même, « Cajun », désignant les francophones catholiques de la région de la Nouvelle Orléans, est aussi une transcription phonétique de la prononciation écornée du terme « Acadian », soit « Acadien ». Les francophones de la Nouvelle Orléans étaient partiellement originaires de l’Acadie, région jouxtant le Canada français. Arrivés en Louisiane, suite à leur expulsion par les fondamentalistes protestants, ils ont reçu le nom de « Cajuns », dès qu’ils se sont déclarés « Acadiens », en prononçant ce mot de surcroît avec l’accent que l’on dit aujourd’hui « québécois ». Il ne viendrait à aucun représentant de la « francité » l’idée saugrenue de vouloir purger tous les livres américains où figure le terme de « cajun ». Au contraire, il est perçu comme l’expression d’une spécificité francophone originale. 

 

 

Kritik an Zensur von "Tom Sawyer" wächst

Kritik an Zensur von „Tom Sawyer“ wächst

Ex: http://www.jungefreiheit.de/

MONTGOMERY. Kritiker haben empört auf die „politisch korrekte“ Neuauflage von „Die Abenteuer von Tom Sawyer und Huckleberry Finn“ reagiert. Die New York Times schreibt in einem Leitartikel, dem Werk würde durch die zensierte Neuauflage „irreparabler Schaden“ zugefügt. „Das ist nicht Twain“, sagt die wichtigste Tageszeitung in den  USA.

Gegenüber dem auflagenstärksten Boulevardblatt USA Today sagte der Direktor des Mark-Twain-Museums in Hartford (Conneticut) Jeff Nichols über das gestrichene Wort „Nigger“: „Das Wort mag schrecklich sein, mag verletzend sein, aber es gibt einen Grund dafür, daß es da ist.“ Schließlich sei es dem Autor darum gegangen, die Welt der 40er Jahre des 19. Jahrhunderts in Missouri zu portraitieren. Der Jura-Professor Randall Kennedy von der Harvard Universität sagte mit Blick auf das N-Wort, es sei „grundfalsch ein Wort aus unserer Geschichte einfach auslöschen zu wollen.“

Fliegt Mark Twain aus dem Unterricht?

Hintergrund ist die Neuauflage des bekanntesten Romans des amerikanischen Schriftstellers Mark Twain „Die Abenteuer von Tom Sawyer und Huckleberry Finn“. Das vielgebrauchte Wort „Nigger“ wurde durch „Sklave“ ersetzt und das ebenfalls als Schimpfwort empfundene „Injun“ durch „Indianer“. Der Roman handelt in den amerikanischen Südstaaten in der Zeit der Negersklaverei.

Der kleine New South Books Verlag begründete die Neuauflage, die im Februar auf den Markt kommt, mit der drohenden Zensur durch amerikanische Bildungseinrichtungen. Andernfalls drohe das Werk Twains aus dem Unterrichtmaterial amerikanischer Schulen und Universitäten entfernt zu werden, teilte der Verlag aus Montgomery (Alabama) mit. Der Verlag war so verunsichert, daß er noch nicht einmal die Worte nennen wollte, die durch „weniger verletzende Worte“ ersetzt worden sind. (rg)

Lovecraft? Perchè no...

Lovecraft? Perchè no...

di Marco Iacona

Fonte: scandalizzareeundiritto

 

 

È appena nata all’interno della facoltà di filosofia dell’Università di Milano, Antarès, rivista bimestrale “indipendente di antimodernismo”, ideata e curata da Andrea Marini e Andrea Scarabelli. Il sottotitolo dice già molto… In un ambiente sottoposto a censura ideologica, aggiunge Scarabelli, si sente la necessità di creare uno strumento attorno al quale costituire un’associazione studentesca che si occupi dei “problemi” del moderno, grazie anche a internet e alle possibilità offerte dai caffè letterari.

 

Il primo numero – anzi il numero zero – della rivista uscito nell’ottobre scorso in novanta copie per la distribuzione “interna” ed “esterna”, è completamente dedicato a Howard Phillips Lovecraft (1890-1937), autore di narrativa fantastica fra i più singolari dei nostri anni. Un autore “assoluto”, per usare la terminologia di Michel Houellebecq che predilige la vita al di fuori della realtà, perché stanco del mondo e del suo contenuto. Lovecraft il gentiluomo, è probabilmente la scelta più azzeccata se si tiene conto, in profondità, del “significato” di Antarés e delle intenzioni dei due curatori. Leggiamo per capire il “manifesto” introduttivo del bimestrale (le firme sono quelle di Marini, Scarabelli e della “redazione”): «...l’opuscolo … si presenta come apice e coronamento di un percorso riflessivo, svolto dai membri del comitato centrale di Antarés intorno ai DOGMI della Modernità – intorno a quelle mitologie deputate dal Mondo Moderno a scandire la dignità di tutto l’esistente». E poi ancora: « Antarés invoca la molteplicità a discapito delle riduzioni. Reclama la molteplicità del pensiero e rifiuta che esso venga ridotto ad UNA sua modalità, vale a dire quella logico-discorsiva. Ammette la molteplicità dell’uomo e si oppone alla riduzione di quest’ultimo ad UNO dei suoi stati, vale a dire quello fisico e materiale. Ammette la molteplicità intrinseca alla storia delle idee e rifiuta ch’esse vengano ridotte a poche concettualità… Queste pagine intendono valorizzare – pensatori – sovente messi a tacere da cattedre ed accademie – che intravidero un DOPPIO volto della Modernità, sovente celato da materialismi, progressismi, analitiche etc., nonché intere regioni del pensiero consegnate all’oblio – in quanto non disponenti dei caratteri richiesti dalla scientificità e dall’esattezza del pensare moderno».

E infine: «Il progetto si muoverà … secondo topoi tematici, fulcri, a nostro avviso, di un sistema la cui crisi non può non preoccupare chi abbia a cuore una cultura continentale che deve, in misura crescente, fare i conti con un panorama tecno-scientifico sempre più onnicomprensivo e totalizzantesi. Ogni numero sarà dedicato ad una sfaccettatura del Mondo Moderno o a gruppi tematici di critiche allo stesso…». Pessimismo antropologico dunque, che si sposa alla perfezione con la parabola esistenziale di Lovecraft e del suo “disgusto” (per usare ancora le parole di Houellebecq) verso il mondo moderno; uno scrittore che riesce anche a far proprio un “sapere” scientifico e matematico, ma che vede la scienza come verità esclusivamente negativa, come ricorda Gianfranco de Turris.

Lovecraft è “vittima” di se stesso in quanto essere “reale” che odia il “reale” (per Houellebecq è un “masochista”), è profondamente razzista (“vittima” di un razzismo tipicamente “anglosassone”, in un mondo nel quale le coordinate culturali si sono incredibilmente moltiplicate), ed è fermamente convinto che l’essere umano – quello dotato di sensibilità autentica – perirà per mano degli scimpanzé (per l’esattezza di “scimpanzé bisunti”, ossia dei negri…). Un uomo tormentato (si legga la biografia…), il cui impegno nel mondo è meno che ridotto, ma un uomo che spinge i lettori, come altri autori dalla personalità e dal vissuto emblematici a una quasi emulazione… Non auguriamo, ovviamente, né all’“umanità” né agli autori di Antarés di subire o assumere, nel tempo, posizioni così “nette”, che lascino poco spazio alla luce dell’ottimismo. È anche vero, però, e da un versante opposto, che Lovecraft e gli altri antimoderni, pongono in discussione i dogmi (termine quanto mai appropriato), sui quali si fondano le società delicatamente totalitarie al cui interno ogni cosa è prevista secondo scale di “valori”, che possono legittimamente non soddisfare. E non è poco.

Se si assume un punto di vista estremo allora, fa piacere che ancora oggi ci sia chi non cedendo a quell’abitudine alla “moralità” che portò uomini e donne a scandalizzarsi per la morte violenta di Pier Paolo Pasolini, diriga i propri sforzi nella discussione dei principi del nostro vivere civile e della nostra società “fondata sul lavoro”. Ma l’errore esiziale – considerazione del tutto personale – è quello di cadere nell’abitudine (ancora una volta un’abitudine, ma di segno opposto alla prima), di “guardare” il mondo attraverso lenti colorate e di vederlo, dunque, sempre e solo di un unico colore. Che alcune università italiane, oggi, siano poco più che delle fogne (e i giovani le difendono!!), dei “comitati d’affari” per gruppi esclusivi e per famiglie prive di scrupoli è una verità fin troppo vera per essere negata, ma forse basterebbe Freud (e guarda caso Lovecraft non lo amava), per riflettere sul fatto che l’equazione modernità = schifezza non postula affatto l’esistenza di un’altra “realtà”, ove la “modernità” (nel senso però di attualità alla Sant’Agostino), sia invece piacevole, luminosa, armoniosa e quant’altro…

Forse, in alcune università (meno puzzolenti di altre) è proprio questo che si cerca di spiegare. Magari male, ma almeno si tenta… Facendo il verso a un “antievoliano” come Francesco Germinario potrei arrivare anche a concludere che con “Lovecraft non si va da nessuna parte…”, e che per dei giovani che stanno per affacciarsi sul “mondo moderno” i “valori” (seppur in negativo) che riempiono le esistenze di Lovecraft - malvagità ed egoismo - non sono proprio il massimo, o forse sono destinati, detti valori, a essere presto “traditi” (in senso bonario, ovviamente), o forse, essi stessi, “rischieranno” di essere frullati all’interno di un contenitore ove il malcontento e l’escapismo – non certo quello di Houdini ma quello, come dire, spirituale – la faranno da padroni per sempre… chissà, forse… speriamo di no dai…

La soluzione (la solita “benedetta” soluzione)? Né recitare una o due preghierine serali né leggere i romanzetti rosa della “Collezione Harmony”… sognare per sognare è preferibile la grande arte di chi accorda modernità e realtà come un direttore d’orchestra sposa una partitura del Settecento a un’orchestra dei giorni nostri: i grandi artisti, quelli che lasciano spazi liberi alla riflessione placida, seria o divertita (Giorgio Morandi, Jean Calogero, per citare due personalità che abbiamo “visitato” di recente). Per altro verso la grande tradizione laica (nel pensiero e nella fede), aperta al futuro e dalle scelte moderate (sempre). Infine, considerazione personale: una buona risata. Woody Allen il grande scettico (lo abbiamo detto, “scherzando” tempo fa a un amico: mille volte più “fascista” di un Clint Eastwood, oggi), Charlie Chaplin se si ha bisogno di una morale buona e mai sfacciatamente ottimista (a volte occorre dai…) e Stan Laurel che vale Tristan Tzara del quale, altra stranezza, solo in pochi conosco non solo le opere ma perfino la faccia. Anche loro percepiscono il “doppio volto” della modernità, e forse più di altri…

Detto questo, troviamo in Antarès una radice entusiasmante che metterà fiori e frutti. Il secondo numero, poi, (una portata molto ricca con Thoureau, Benjamin, Baudelaire, Evola, Daumal e Montale), promette davvero bene. Auguri!

 

 
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