No More Learning

As Sam Weller tells it, it
takes round about a thousand words. Long before getting to the point we have been told
all about the patient’s clothes, his meals, his manners, even the newspapers he reads, and
about the peculiar construction of the doctor’s carriage, which conceals the fact that the
coachman’s trousers do not match his coat. Then there is the dialogue between the doctor
and the patient. “Crumpets is wholesome, sir,’ said the patient. ‘Crumpets is NOT
wholesome, sir,’ says the doctor, wery fierce,’ etc. , etc. In the end the original story had
been buried under the details. And in all of Dickens’s most characteristic passages it is
the same. His imagination overwhelms everything, like a kind of weed. Squeers stands up
to address his boys, and immediately we are hearing about Bolder’s father who was two
pounds ten short, and Mobbs’s stepmother who took to her bed on hearing that Mobbs
wouldn’t eat fat and hoped Mr. Squeers would flog him into a happier state of mind. Mrs.
Leo Hunter writes a poem, ‘Expiring Frog’; two full stanzas are given. Boffin takes a
fancy to pose as a miser, and instantly we are down among the squalid biographies of
eighteenth-century misers, with names like Vulture Hopkins and the Rev. Blewberry
Jones, and chapter headings like ‘The Story of the Mutton Pies’ and ‘The Treasures of a
Dunghill’. Mrs. Harris, who does not even exist, has more detail piled on to her than any
three characters in an ordinary novel. Merely in the middle of a sentence we learn, for
instance, that her infant nephew has been seen in a bottle at Greenwich Fair, along with
the pink-eyed lady, the Prussian dwarf and the living skeleton. Joe Gargery describes
how the robbers broke into the house of Pumblechook, the corn and seed merchant — ‘and
they took his till, and they took his cashbox, and they drinked his wine, and they partook



of his wittles, and they slapped his face, and they pulled his nose, and they tied him up to
his bedpust, and they give him a dozen, and they stuffed his mouth full of flowering
annuals to perwent his crying out. ’ Once again the unmistakable Dickens touch, the
flowering annuals; but any other novelist would only have mentioned about half of these
outrages. Everything is piled up and up, detail on detail, embroidery on embroidery. It is
futile to object that this kind of thing is rococo — one might as well make the same
objection to a wedding-cake. Either you like it or you do not like it. Other nineteenth-
century writers, Surtees, Barham, Thackeray, even Marryat, have something of Dickens’s
profuse, overflowing quality, but none of them on anything like the same scale. The
appeal of all these writers now depends partly on period-flavour and though Marryat is
still officially a ‘boy’s writer’ and Surtees has a sort of legendary fame among hunting
men, it is probable that they are read mostly by bookish people.

Significantly, Dickens’s most successful books (not his BEST books) are THE
PICKWICK PAPERS, which is not a novel, and HARD TIMES and A TALE OF TWO
CITIES, which are not funny. As a novelist his natural fertility greatly hampers him,
because the burlesque which he is never able to resist, is constantly breaking into what
ought to be serious situations. There is a good example of this in the opening chapter of
GREAT EXPECTATIONS. The escaped convict, Magwitch, has just captured the six-
year-old Pip in the churchyard. The scene starts terrifyingly enough, from Pip’s point of
view. The convict, smothered in mud and with his chain trailing from his leg, suddenly
starts up among the tombs, grabs the child, turns him upside down and robs his pockets.
Then he begins terrorizing him into bringing foal and a file:

He held me by the arms in an upright position on the top of the stone, and went on in
these fearful terms:

‘You bring me, tomorrow morning early, that file and them wittles. You bring the lot to
me, at that old Battery over yonder. You do it and you never dare to say a word or dare to
make a sign concerning your having seen such a person as me, or any person sumever,
and you shall be let to live. You fail, or you go from my words in any partickler, no
matter how small it is, and your heart and liver shall be tore out, roasted and ate. Now, I
ain’t alone, as you may think I am. There’s a young man hid with me, in comparison with
which young man I am a Angel. That young man hears the words I speak. That young



man has a secret way pecooliar to himself, of getting at a boy, and at his heart, and at his
liver. It is in wain for a boy to attempt to hide himself from that young man. A boy may
lock his doors, may be warm in bed, may tuck himself up, may draw the clothes over his
head, may think himself comfortable and safe, but that young man will softly creep his
way to him and tear him open. I am keeping that young man from hanning you at the
present moment, but with great difficulty. I find it wery hard to hold that young man off
of your inside. Now, what do you say? ’

Here Dickens has simply yielded to temptation. To begin with, no starving and hunted
man would speak in the least like that. Moreover, although the speech shows a
remarkable knowledge of the way in which a child’s mind works, its actual words are
quite out of tune with what is to follow. It turns Magwitch into a sort of pantomime
wicked uncle, or, if one sees him through the child’s eyes, into an appalling monster.
Later in the book he is to be represented as neither, and his exaggerated gratitude, on
which the plot turns, is to be incredible because of just this speech. As usual, Dickens’s
imagination has overwhelmed him. The picturesque details were too good to be left out.
Even with characters who are more of a piece than Magwitch he is liable to be tripped up
by some seductive phrase. Mr. Murdstone, for instance, is in the habit of ending David
Copperfield’s lessons every morning with a dreadful sum in arithmetic. ‘If I go into a
cheesemonger’s shop, and buy four thousand double-Gloucester cheeses at fourpence
halfpenny each, present payment’, it always begins. Once again the typical Dickens
detail, the double-Gloucester cheeses. But it is far too human a touch for Murdstone; he
would have made it five thousand cashboxes. Every time this note is struck, the unity of
the novel suffers. Not that it matters very much, because Dickens is obviously a writer
whose parts are greater than his wholes. He is all fragments, all details — rotten
architecture, but wonderful gargoyles — and never better than when he is building up
some character who will later on be forced to act inconsistently.

Of course it is not usual to urge against Dickens that he makes his characters behave
inconsistently. Generally he is accused of doing just the opposite. His characters are
supposed to be mere ‘types’, each crudely representing some single trait and fitted with a
kind of label by which you recognize him. Dickens is ‘only a caricaturist’ — that is the
usual accusation, and it does him both more and less than justice. To begin with, he did
not think of himself as a caricaturist, and was constantly setting into action characters



who ought to have been purely static. S queers, Micawber, Miss Mowcher,* Wegg,
Skimpole, Pecksniff and many others are finally involved in ‘plots’ where they are out of
place and where they behave quite incredibly. They start off as magic-lantern slides and
they end by getting mixed up in a third-rate movie. Sometimes one can put one’s finger
on a single sentence in which the original illusion is destroyed. There is such a sentence
in DAVID COPPERFIELD. After the famous dinner-party (the one where the leg of
mutton was underdone), David is showing his guests out. He stops Traddles at the top of
the stairs:


* Dickens turned Miss Mowcher into a sort of heroine because the real woman whom he
had caricatured had read the earlier chapters and was bitterly hurt. He had previously meant
her to play a villainous part. But ANY action by such a character would seem incongruous.
(Author’s footnote)

‘Traddles’, said I, ‘Mr. Micawber don’t mean any harm, poor fellow: but if I were you I
wouldn’t lend him anything. ’

‘My dear Copperfield’, returned Traddles, smiling, ‘I haven’t got anything to lend. ’

‘You have got a name, you know,’ I said.

At the place where one reads it this remark jars a little though something of the kind was
inevitable sooner or later. The story is a fairly realistic one, and David is growing up;
ultimately he is bound to see Mr. Micawber for what he is, a cadging scoundrel.
Afterwards, of course, Dickens’s sentimentality overcomes him and Micawber is made to
turn over a new leaf. But from then on, the original Micawber is never quite recaptured,
in spite of desperate efforts. As a rule, the ‘plot’ in which Dickens’s characters get
entangled is not particularly credible, but at least it makes some pretence at reality,
whereas the world to which they belong is a never-never land, a kind of eternity. But just
here one sees that ‘only a caricaturist’ is not really a condemnation. The fact that Dickens
is always thought of as a caricaturist, although he was constantly trying to be something
else, is perhaps the surest mark of his genius. The monstrosities that he created are still
remembered as monstrosities, in spite of getting mixed up in would-be probable
melodramas. Their first impact is so vivid that nothing that comes afterwards effaces it.
As with the people one knew in childhood, one seems always to remember them in one




particular attitude, doing one particular thing. Mrs. Squeers is always ladling out
brimstone and treacle, Mrs. Gummidge is always weeping, Mrs. Gargery is always
banging her husband’s head against the wall, Mrs. Jellyby is always scribbling tracts
while her children fall into the area — and there they all are, fixed up for ever like little
twinkling miniatures painted on snuffbox lids, completely fantastic and incredible, and
yet somehow more solid and infinitely more memorable than the efforts of serious
novelists. Even by the standards of his time Dickens was an exceptionally artificial
writer. As Ruskin said, he ‘chose to work in a circle of stage fire. ’ His characters are even
more distorted and simplified than Smollett’s. But there are no rules in novel-writing, and
for any work of art there is only one test worth bothering about — survival. By this test
Dickens’s characters have succeeded, even if the people who remember them hardly
think of them as human beings. They are monsters, but at any rate they exist.

But all the same there is a disadvantage in writing about monsters. It amounts to this, that
it is only certain moods that Dickens can speak to. There are large areas of the human
mind that he never touches. There is no poetic feeling anywhere in his books, and no
genuine tragedy, and even sexual love is almost outside his scope. Actually his books are
not so sexless as they are sometimes declared to be, and considering the time in which he
was writing, he is reasonably fra nk . But there is not a trace in him of the feeling that one
finds in MANON LESCAUT, SALAMMBO, CARMEN, WUTHERING HEIGHTS.
According to Aldous Huxley, D. H. Lawrence once said that Balzac was ‘a gigantic
dwarf, and in a sense the same is true of Dickens. There are whole worlds which he
either knows nothing about or does not wish to mention. Except in a rather roundabout
way, one cannot learn very much from Dickens. And to say this is to think almost
immediately of the great Russian novelists of the nineteenth century. Why is it that
Tolstoy’s grasp seems to be so much larger than Dickens’s — why is it that he seems able
to tell you so much more ABOUT YOURSELF? It is not that he is more gifted, or even,
in the last analysis, more intelligent. It is because he is writing about people who are
growing. His characters are struggling to make their souls, whereas Dickens’s are already
finished and perfect. In my own mind Dickens’s people are present far more often and far
more, vividly than Tolstoy’s, but always in a single unchangeable attitude, like pictures
or pieces of furniture. You cannot hold an imaginary conversation with a Dickens
character as you can with, say, Peter Bezoukhov. And this is not merely because of
Tolstoy’s greater seriousness, for there are also comic characters that you can imagine



yourself talking to — Bloom, for instance, or Pecuchet, or even Wells’s Mr. Polly. It is
because Dickens’s characters have no mental life. They say perfectly the thing that they
have to say, but they cannot be conceived as talking about anything else. They never
learn, never speculate. Perhaps the most meditative of his characters is Paul Dombey, and
his thoughts are mush. Does this mean that Tolstoy’s novels are ‘better’ than Dickens’s?
The truth is that it is absurd to make such comparisons in terms of ‘better’ and ‘worse’. If
I were forced to compare Tolstoy with Dickens, I should say that Tolstoy’s appeal will
probably be wider in the long run, because Dickens is scarcely intelligible outside the
English-speaking culture; on the other hand, Dickens is able to reach simple people,
which Tolstoy is not. Tolstoy’s characters can cross a frontier, Dickens can be portrayed
on a cigarette-card. But one is no more obliged to choose between them than between a
sausage and a rose. Their purposes barely intersect.

VI

If Dickens had been merely a comic writer, the chances are that no one would now
remember his name. Or at best a few of his books would survive in rather the same way
as books like FRANK FAIRLEIGH, MR. VERDANT GREEN and MRS. CAUDLE’S
CURTAIN LECTURES, as a sort of hangover of the Victorian atmosphere, a pleasant
little whiff of oysters and brown stout. Who has not felt sometimes that it was ‘a pity’
that Dickens ever deserted the vein of PICKWICK for things like LITTLE DORRIT and
HARD TIMES? What people always demand of a popular novelist is that he shall write
the same book over and over again, forgetting that a man who would write the same book
twice could not even write it once. Any writer who is not utterly lifeless moves upon a
kind of parabola, and the downward curve is implied in the upper one. Joyce has to start
with the frigid competence of DUBLINERS and end with the dream-language of
FINNEGAN’S WAKE, but ULYSSES and PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST are part of the
trajectory. The thing that drove Dickens forward into a form of art for which he was not
really suited, and at the same time caused us to remember him, was simply the fact that
he was a moralist, the consciousness of ‘having something to say’. He is always
preaching a sermon, and that is the final secret of his inventiveness. For you can only
create if you can CARE. Types like Squeers and Micawber could not have been produced
by a hack writer looking for something to be funny about. A joke worth laughing at
always has an idea behind it, and usually a subversive idea. Dickens is able to go on



being funny because he is in revolt against authority, and authority is always there to be
laughed at. There is always room for one more custard pie.

His radicalism is of the vaguest kind, and yet one always knows that it is there. That is
the difference between being a moralist and a politician. He has no constructive
suggestions, not even a clear grasp of the nature of the society he is attacking, only an
emotional perception that something is wrong, all he can finally say is, ‘Behave
decently’, which, as I suggested earlier, is not necessarily so shallow as it sounds. Most
revolutionaries are potential Tories, because they imagine that everything can be put right
by altering the SHAPE of society; once that change is effected, as it sometimes is, they
see no need for any other. Dickens has not this kind of mental coarseness. The vagueness
of his discontent is the mark of its permanence. What he is out against is not this or that
institution, but, as Chesterton put it, ‘an expression on the human face. ’ Roughly
speaking, his morality is the Christian morality, but in spite of his Anglican upbringing he
was essentially a Bible-Christian, as he took care to make plain when writing his will. In
any case he cannot properly be described as a religious man. He ‘believed’, undoubtedly,
but religion in the devotional sense does not seem to have entered much into his
thoughts. * Where he is Christian is in his quasi-instinctive siding with the oppressed
against the oppressors. As a matter of course he is on the side of the underdog, always
and everywhere. To carry this to its logical conclusion one has got to change sides when
the underdog becomes an upperdog, and in fact Dickens does tend to do so. He loathes
the Catholic Church, for instance, but as soon as the Catholics are persecuted
(BARNABY RUDGE) he is on their side. He loathes the aristocratic class even more, but
as soon as they are really overthrown (the revolutionary chapters in A TALE OF TWO
CITIES) his sympathies swing round. Whenever he departs from this emotional attitude
he goes astray. A well-known example is at the ending of DAVID COPPERFIELD, in
which everyone who reads it feels that something has gone wrong. What is wrong is that
the closing chapters are pervaded, faintly but not noticeably, by the cult of success. It is
the gospel according to Smiles, instead of the gospel according to Dickens. The
attractive, out-at-elbow characters are got rid of, Micawber makes a fortune, Heep gets
into prison — both of these events are flagrantly impossible — and even Dora is killed off
to make way for Agnes. If you like, you can read Dora as Dickens’s wife and Agnes as
his sister-in-law, but the essential point is that Dickens has ‘turned respectable’ and done
violence to his own nature. Perhaps that is why Agnes is the most disagreeable of his



heroines, the real legless angel of Victorian romance, almost as bad as Thackeray’s
Laura.


* From a letter to his youngest son (in 1868): ‘You will remember that you have never at
home been harassed about religious observances, or mere formalities. I have always been
anxious not to weary my children with such things, before they are old enough to form
opinions respecting them. Y ou will therefore understand the better that I now most solemnly
impress upon you the truth and beauty of the Christian Religion, as it came from Christ
Flimself, and the impossibility of your going far wrong if you humbly but heartily respect it.

. . Never abandon the wholesome practice of saying your own private prayers, night and
morning. I have never abandoned it myself, and I know the comfort of it. ’ (Author’s
footnote)

No grown-up person can read Dickens without feeling his limitations, and yet there does
remain his native generosity of mind, which acts as a kind of anchor and nearly always
keeps him where he belongs. It is probably the central secret of his popularity. A good-
tempered antinomianism rather of Dickens’s type is one of the marks of Western popular
culture. One sees it in folk-stories and comic songs, in dream-figures like Mickey Mouse
and Pop-eye the Sailor (both of them variants of Jack the Giant-killer), in the history of
working-class Socialism, in the popular protests (always ineffective but not always a
sham) against imperialism, in the impulse that makes a jury award excessive damages
when a rich man’s car runs over a poor man; it is the feeling that one is always on the
wrong side of the underdog, on the side of the weak against the strong. In one sense it is a
feeling that is fifty years out of date. The common man is still living in the mental world
of Dickens, but nearly every modern intellectual has gone over to some or other form of
totalitarianism. From the Marxist or Fascist point of view, nearly all that Dickens stands
for can be written off as ‘bourgeois morality’. But in moral outlook no one could be more
‘bourgeois’ than the English working classes. The ordinary people in the Western
countries have never entered, mentally, into the world of ‘realism’ and power-politics.
They may do so before long, in which case Dickens will be as out of date as the cab-
horse. But in his own age and ours he has been popular chiefly because he was able to
express in a comic, simplified and therefore memorable form the native decency of the
common man. And it is important that from this point of view people of very different
types can be described as ‘common’. In a country like England, in spite of its class-




structure, there does exist a certain cultural unity. All through the Christian ages, and
especially since the French Revolution, the Western world has been haunted by the idea
of freedom and equality; it is only an IDEA, but it has penetrated to all ranks of society.
The most atrocious injustices, cruelties, lies, snobberies exist everywhere, but there are
not many people who can regard these things with the same indifference as, say, a Roman
slave-owner. Even the millionaire suffers from a vague sense of guilt, like a dog eating a
stolen leg of mutton. Nearly everyone, whatever his actual conduct may be, responds
emotionally to the idea of human brotherhood. Dickens voiced a code which was and on
the whole still is believed in, even by people who violate it. It is difficult otherwise to
explain why he could be both read by working people (a thing that has happened to no
other novelist of his stature) and buried in Westminster Abbey.

When one reads any strongly individual piece of writing, one has the impression of
seeing a face somewhere behind the page. It is not necessarily the actual face of the
writer. I feel this very strongly with Swift, with Defoe, with Fielding, Stendhal,
Thackeray, Flaubert, though in several cases I do not know what these people looked like
and do not want to know. What one sees is the face that the writer OUGHT to have. Well,
in the case of Dickens I see a face that is not quite the face of Dickens’s photographs,
though it resembles it. It is the face of a man of about forty, with a small beard and a high
colour. He is laughing, with a touch of anger in his laughter, but no triumph, no
malignity. It is the face of a man who is always fighting against something, but who
fights in the open and is not frightened, the face of a man who is GENEROUSLY
ANGRY — in other words, of a nineteenth-century liberal, a free intelligence, a type
hated with equal hatred by all the smelly little orthodoxies which are now contending for
our souls.
CHARLES READE (1940)

Since Charles Reade’s books are published in cheap editions one can assume that he still
has his following, but it is unusual to meet anyone who has voluntarily read him. In most
people his name seems to evoke, at most, a vague memory of ‘doing’ THE CLOISTER
AND THE HEARTH as a school holiday task. It is his bad luck to be remembered by this
particular book, rather as Mark Twain, thanks to the films, is chiefly remembered by A



CONNECTICUT YANKEE IN KING ARTHUR’S COURT. Reade wrote several dull
books, and THE CLOISTER AND THE HEARTH is one of them. But he also wrote
three novels which I personally would back to outlive the entire works of Meredith and
George Eliot, besides some brilliant long-short stories such as A JACK OF ALL
TRADES and THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A THIEF.

What is the attraction of Reade? At bottom it is the same charm as one finds in R. Austin
Freeman’s detective stories or Lieutenant-Commander Gould’s collections of
curiosities — the charm of useless knowledge. Reade was a man of what one might call
penny-encyclopaedic learning. He possessed vast stocks of disconnected information
which a lively narrative gift allowed him to cram into books which would at any rate pass
as novels. If you have the sort of mind that takes a pleasure in dates, lists, catalogues,
concrete details, descriptions of processes, junk-shop windows and back numbers of the
EXCHANGE AND MART, the sort of mind that likes knowing exactly how a medieval
catapult worked or just what objects a prison cell of the eighteen-forties contained, then
you can hardly help enjoying Reade. He himself, of course, did not see his work in quite
this light. He prided himself on his accuracy and compiled his books largely from
newspaper cuttings, but the strange facts which he collected were subsidiary to what he
would have regarded as his ‘purpose’. For he was a social reformer in a fragmentary way,
and made vigorous attacks on such diverse evils as blood-letting, the treadmill, private
asylums, clerical celibacy and tight-lacing.

My own favourite has always been FOUL PLAY, which as it happens is not an attack on
anything in particular. Like most nineteenth-century novels FOUL PLAY is too
complicated to be summarized, but its central story is that of a young clergyman, Robert
Penfold, who is unjustly convicted of forgery, is transported to Australia, absconds in
disguise, and is wrecked on a desert island together with the heroine. Here, of course,
Reade is in his element. Of all men who ever lived, he was the best fitted to write a
desert-island story. Some desert-island stories, of course, are worse than others, but none
is altogether bad when it sticks to the actual concrete details of the struggle to keep alive.
A list of the objects in a shipwrecked man’s possession is probably the surest winner in
fiction, surer even than a trial scene. Nearly thirty years after reading the book I can still
remember more or less exactly what things the three heroes of Ballantyne’s CORAL
ISLAND possessed between them. (A telescope, six yards of whipcord, a penknife, a



brass ring and a piece of hoop iron. ) Even a dismal book like ROBINSON CRUSOE, so
unreadable as a whole that few people even know that the second part exists, becomes
interesting when it describes Crusoe’s efforts to make a table, glaze earthenware and
grow a patch of wheat. Reade, however, was an expert on desert islands, or at any rate he
was very well up in the geography textbooks of the time. Moreover he was the kind of
man who would have been at home on a desert island himself. He would never, like
Crusoe, have been stumped by such an easy problem as that of leavening bread and,
unlike Ballantyne, he knew that civilized men cannot make fire by rubbing sticks
together.

The hero of FOUL PLAY, like most of Reade’s heroes, is a kind of supennan. He is hero,
saint, scholar, gentleman, athlete, pugilist, navigator, physiologist, botanist, blacksmith
and carpenter all rolled into one, the sort of compendium of all the talents that Reade
honestly imagined to be the normal product of an English university. Needless to say, it is
only a month or two before this wonderful clergyman has got the desert island running
like a West End hotel. Even before reaching the island, when the last survivors of the
wrecked ship are dying of thirst in an open boat, he has shown his ingenuity by
constructing a distilling apparatus with ajar, a hot- water bottle and a piece of tubing. But
his best stroke of all is the way in which he contrives to leave the island. He himself, with
a price on his head, would be glad enough to remain, but the heroine, Helen Rollestone,
who has no idea that he is a convict, is naturally anxious to escape. She asks Robert to
turn his ‘great mind’ to this problem. The first difficulty, of course, is to discover exactly
where the island is. Luckily, however, Helen is still wearing her watch, which is still
keeping Sydney time. By fixing a stick in the ground and watching its shadow Robert
notes the exact moment of noon, after which it is a simple matter to work out the
longitude — for naturally a man of his calibre would know the longitude of Sydney. It is
equally natural that he can detennine the latitude within a degree or two by the nature of
the vegetation. But the next difficulty is to send a message to the outside world. After
some thought Robert writes a series of messages on pieces of parchment made from
seals’ bladders, with ink obtained from cochineal insects. He has noticed that migrant
birds often use the island as a stopping-place, and he fixes on ducks as the likeliest
messengers, because every duck is liable to be shot sooner or later. By a stratagem often
used in India he captures a number of ducks, ties a message to each of their legs and lets
them go. Finally, of course, one of the ducks takes refuge on a ship, and the couple are



rescued, but even then the story is barely half finished. There follow enonnous
ramifications, plots and counterplots, intrigues, triumphs and disasters, ending with the
vindication of Robert, and wedding bells.

In any of Reade’s three best books, FOUL PLAY, HARD CASH and IT IS NEVER TOO
LATE TO MEND, it is not fair to say that the sole interest is in the technical detail. His
power of descriptive writing, especially of describing violent action, is also very striking,
and on a serial-story level he is a wonderful contriver of plots. Simply as a novelist it is
impossible to take him seriously, because he has no sense whatever of character or of
probability, but he himself had the advantage of believing in even the absurdest details of
his own stories. He wrote of life as he saw it, and many Victorians saw it in the same
way: that is, as a series of tremendous melodramas, with virtue triumphant every time. Of
all the nineteenth-century novelists who have remained readable, he is perhaps the only
one who is completely in tune with his own age. For all his unconventionality, his
‘purpose’, his eagerness to expose abuses, he never makes a fundamental criticism. Save
for a few surface evils he sees nothing wrong in an acquisitive society, with its equation
of money and virtue, its pious millionaires and erastian clergymen. Perhaps nothing gives
one his measure better than the fact that in introducing Robert Penfold, at the beginning
of FOUL PLAY, he mentions that he is a scholar and a cricketer and only thirdly and
almost casually adds that he is a priest.

That is not to say that Reade’s social conscience was not sound so far as it went, and in
several minor ways he probably helped to educate public opinion. His attack on the
prison system in IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND is relevant to this day, or was so
till very recently, and in his medical theories he is said to have been a long way ahead of
his time. What he lacked was any notion that the early railway age, with the special
scheme of values appropriate to it, was not going to last for ever. This is a little surprising
when one remembers that he was the brother of Winwood Reade. However hastily and
unbalanced Winwood Reade’s MARTYRDOM OF MAN may seem now, it is a book
that shows an astonishing width of vision, and it is probably the unacknowledged
grandparent of the ‘outlines’ so popular today. Charles Reade might have written an
‘outline’ of phrenology, cabinet-making or the habits of whales, but not of human history.
He was simply a middle-class gentleman with a little more conscience than most, a
scholar who happened to prefer popular science to the classics. Just for that reason he is



one of the best ‘escape’ novelists we have. FOUL PLAY and HARD CASH would be
good books to send to a soldier enduring the miseries of trench warfare, for instance.
There are no problems in them, no genuine ‘messages’, merely the fascination of a gifted
mind functioning within very narrow limits, and offering as complete a detachment from
real life as a game of chess or a jigsaw puzzle.


INSIDE THE WHALE (1940)

I

When Henry Miller’s novel, TROPIC OF CANCER, appeared in 1935, it was greeted
with rather cautious praise, obviously conditioned in some cases by a fear of seeming to
enjoy pornography. Among the people who praised it were T. S. Eliot, Herbert Read,
Aldous Huxley, John dos Passes, Ezra Pound — on the whole, not the writers who are in
fashion at this moment. And in fact the subject matter ofthebook, and to a certain extent
its mental atmosphere, belong to the twenties rather than to the thirties.

TROPIC OF CANCER is a novel in the first person, or autobiography in the form of a
novel, whichever way you like to look at it. Miller himself insists that it is straight
autobiography, but the tempo and method of telling the story are those of a novel. It is a
story of the American Paris, but not along quite the usual lines, because the Americans
who figure in it happen to be people without money. During the boom years, when
dollars were plentiful and the exchange-value of the franc was low, Paris was invaded by
such a swarm of artists, writers, students, dilettanti, sight-seers, debauchees, and plain
idlers as the world has probably never seen. In some quarters of the town the so-called
artists must actually have outnumbered the working population — indeed, it has been
reckoned thatm the late twenties ther were as many as 30,000 painters in Paris, most of
them impostors. The populace had grown so hardened to artists that gruff-voiced lesbians
in corduroy breeches and young men in Grecian or medieval costume could walk the
streets without attracting a glance, and along the Seine banks Notre Dame it was almost
impossible to pick one’s way between the sketching-stools. It was the age of dark horses
and neglected genii; the phrase on everybody’s lips was ‘QUAND JE SERAI LANCE’.
As it turned out, nobody was ‘LANCE’, the slump descended like another Ice Age, the
cosmopolitan mob of artists vanished, and the huge Montparnasse cafes which only ten



years ago were filled till the small hours by hordes of shrieking poseurs have turned into
darkened tombs in which there arc not even any ghosts. It is this world — described in,
among other novels, Wyndham Lewis’s TARR — that Miller is writing about, but he is
dealing only with the under side of it, the lumpen-proletarian fringe which has been able
to survive the slump because it is composed partly of genuine artists and partly of
genuine scoundrels. The neglected genii, the paranoiacs who art always ‘going to’ write
the novel that will knock Proust into a cocked hat, are there, but they are only genii in the
rather rare moments when they are not scouting about for the next meal. For the most part
it is a story of bug-ridden rooms in working-men’s hotels, of fights, drinking bouts, cheap
brothels, Russian refugees, cadging, swindling, and temporary jobs. And the whole
atmosphere of the poor quarters of Paris as a foreigner sees them — the cobbled alleys, the
sour reek of refuse, the bistros with their greasy zinc counters and worn brick floors, the
green waters of the Seine, the blue cloaks of the Republican Guard, the crumbling iron
urinals, the peculiar sweetish smell of the Metro stations, the cigarettes that come to
pieces, the pigeons in the Luxembourg Gardens — it is all there, or at any rate the feeling
of it is there.

On the face of it no material could be less promising. When TROPIC OF CANCER was
published the Italians were marching into Abyssinia and Hitler’s concentration camps
were already bulging. The intellectual foci of the world were Rome, Moscow, and Berlin.
It did not seem to be a moment at which a novel of outstanding value was likely to be
written about American dead-beats cadging drinks in the Latin Quarter. Of course a
novelist is not obliged to write directly about contemporary history, but a novelist who
simply disregards the major public events of the moment is generally either a footler or a
plain idiot. From a mere account of the subject matter of TROPIC OF CANCER most
people would probably assume it to be no more thatt a bit of naughty-naughty left over
from the twenties. Actually, nearly everyone who read it saw at once that it was nothing
of the kind, but a very remarkable book. How or why remarkable? That question is never
easy to answer. It is better to begin by describing the impression that TROPIC OF
CANCER has left on my own mind.

When I first opened TROPIC OF CANCER and saw that it was full of unprintable words,
my immediate reaction was a refusal to be impressed. Most people’s would be the same, I
believe. Nevertheless, after a lapse of time the atmosphere of the book, besides



innumerable details, seemed to linger in my memory in a peculiar way. A year later
Miller’s second book, BLACK SPRING, was published. By this tim? TROPIC OF
CANCER was much more vividly present in my mind than it had been when I first read
it. My first feeling about BLACK SPRING was that it showed a falling-off, and it is a
fact that it has not the same unity as the other book. Yet after another year there were
many passages in BLACK SPRING that had also rooted themselves in my memory.
Evidently these books are of the sort to leave a flavour behind them — books that ‘create a
world of their own’, as the saying goes. The books that do this are not necessarily good
books, they may be good bad books like RAFFLES or the SHERLOCK HOLMES
stories, or perverse and morbid books like WUTHERING HEIGHTS or THE HOUSE
WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS. But now and again there appears a novel which opens
up a new world not by revealing what is strange, but by revealing what is familiar. The
truly remarkable thing about ULYSSES, for instance, is the commonplaceness of its
material. Of course there is much more in ULYSSES than this, because Joyce is a kind of
poet and also an elephantine pedant, but his real achievement has been to get the familiar
on to paper. He dared — for it is a matter of DARING just as much as of technique — to
expose the imbecilities of the inner mind, and in doing so he discovered an America
which was under everybody’s nose. Here is a whole world of stuff which you supposed to
be of its nature incommunicable, and somebody has managed to communicate it. The
effect is to break down, at any rate momentarily, the solitude in which the human being
lives. When you read certain passages in ULYSSES you feel that Joyce’s mind and your
mind are one, that he knows ah about you though he has never heard your name, that
there some world outside time and space in which you and he are together. And though
he does not resemble Joyce in other ways, there is a touch of this quality in Henry Miller.
Not everywhere, because his work is very uneven, and sometimes, especially in BLACK
SPRING, tends to slide away into more verbiage or into the squashy universe of the
surresalists. But read him for five pages, ten pages, and you feel the peculiar relief that
comes not so much from understanding as from being UNDERSTOOD. ‘He knows ah
about me,’ you feel; ‘he wrote this specially for me’. It is as though you could hear a
voice speaking to you, a friendly Amierican voice, with no humbug in it, no moral
purpose, merely an implicit assumption that we are ah alike. For the moment you have
got away from the lies and simplifications, the stylized, marionette-like quality of



ordinary fiction, even quite good fiction, and are dealing with the recognizable
experiences of human beings.


But what kind of experience? What kind of human beings? Miller is writing about the
man in the street, and it is incidentally rather a pity that it should be a street full of
brothers. That is the penalty of leaving your native land. It means transferring your roots
into shallower soil. Exile is probably more damaging to a novelist than to a painter or
even a poet, because its effect is to take him out of contact with working life and narrow
down his range to the street, the cafe, the church, the brothel and the studio. On the
whole, in Miller’s books you are reading about people living the expatriate life, people
drinking, talking, meditating, and fornicating, not about people working, marrying, and
bringing up children; a pity, because he would have described the one set of activities as
well as the other. In BLACK SPRING there is a wonderful flashback of New York, the
swarming Irish-infested New York of the O. Henry period, but the Paris scenes are the
best, and, granted their utter worthlessness as social types, the drunks and dead-beats of
the cafes are handled with a feeling for character and a mastery of technique that are
unapproached in any at all recent novel. All of them are not only credible but completely
familiar; you have the feeling that all their adventures have happened to yourself. Not
that they are anything very startling in the way of adventures. Henry gets a job with a
melancholy Indian student, gets another job at a dreadful French school during a cold
snap when the lavatories are frozen solid, goes on drinking bouts in Le Havre with his
friend Collins, the sea captain, goes tse brothels where there are wonderful Negresses,
talks with his friend Van Norden, the novelist, who has got the great novel of the world in
his head but can never bring himself to begin writing it. His friend Karl, on the verge of
starvation, is picked up by a wealthy widow who wishes to marry him. There are
intenninable Hamlet-like conversations in which Karl tries to decide which is worse,
being hungry or sleeping with an old woman. In great detail he describes his visits to the
widow, how he went to the hotel dressed in his best, how before going in he neglected to
urinate, so that the whole evening was one long crescendo of torment etc. , etc. And after
all, none of it is true, the widow doesn’t even exist — Karl has simply invented her in
order to make himself seem important. The whole book is in this vein, more or less. Why
is it that these monstrous trivialities are so engrossing? Simply because the whole
atmosphere is deeply familiar, because you have all the while the feeling that these things
are happening to YOU. And you have this feeling because somebody has chosen to drop



the Geneva language of the ordinary novel and drag the REAL-POLITIK of the inner
mind into the open. In Miller’s case it is not so much a question of exploring the
mechanisms of the mind as of owning up to everyday facts and everyday emotions. For
the truth is that many ordinary people, perhaps an actual majority, do speak and behave in
just the way that is recorded here. The callous coarseness with which the characters in
TROPIC OF CANCER talk is very rare in fiction, but it is extremely common in real life;
again and again I have heard just such conversations from people who were not even
aware that they were talking coarsely. It is worth noticing that TROPIC OF CANCER is
not a young man’s book. Miller was in his forties when it was published, and though
since then he has produced three or four others, it is obvious that this first book had been
lived with for years. It is one of those books that are slowly matured in poverty and
obscurity, by people who know what they have got to do and therefore are able to wait.
The prose is astonishing, and in parts of BLACK SPRING is even better. Unfortunately I
cannot quote; unprintable words occur almost everywhere. But get hold of TROPIC OF
CANCER, get hold of BLACK SPRING and read especially the first hundred pages.
They give you an idea of what can still be done, even at this late date, with English prose.
In them, English is treated as a spoken language, but spoken WITHOUT FEAR, i. e.
without fear of rhetoric or of the unusual or poetical word. The adjective has come back,
after its ten years’ exile. It is a flowing, swelling prose, a prose with rhythms in it,
something quite different from the flat cautious statements and snack-bar dialects that are
now in fashion.

When a book like TROPIC OF CANCER appears, it is only natural that the first thing
people notice should be its obscenity. Given our current notions of literary decency, it is
not at all easy to approach an unprintable book with detachment. Either one is shocked
and disgusted, or one is morbidly thrilled, or one is determined above all else not to be
impressed. The last is probably the commonest reaction, with the result that unprintable
books often get less attention than they deserve. It is rather the fashion to say that nothing
is easier than to write an obscene book, that people only do it in order to get themselves
talked about and make money, etc. , etc. What makes it obvious that this is not the case is
that books which are obscene in the police-court sense are distinctly uncommon. If there
were easy money to be made out of dirty words, a lot more people would be making it.
But, because ‘obscene’ books do not appear very frequently, there is a tendency to lump
them together, as a rule quite unjustifiably. TROPIC OF CANCER has been vaguely



associated with two other books, ULYSSES and VOYAGE AU BOUT DE LA NUIT,
but in neither case is there much resemblance. What Miller has in common with Joyce is
a willingness to mention the inane, squalid facts of everyday life. Putting aside
differences of technique, the funeral scene in ULYSSES, for instance, would fit into
TROPIC OF CANCER; the whole chapter is a sort of confession, an expose of the
frightful inner callousness of the human being. But there the resemblance ends. As a
novel, TROPIC OF CANCER is far inferior to ULYSSES. Joyce is an artist, in a sense in
which Miller is not and probably would not wish to be, and in any case he is attempting
much more. He is exploring different states of consciousness, dream, reverie (the
‘bronze-by-gold’ chapter), drunkenness, etc. , and dovetailing them all into a huge
complex pattern, almost like a Victorian ‘plot’. Miller is simply a hard-boiled person
talking about life, an ordinary American businessman with intellectual courage and a gift
for words. It is perhaps significant that he looks exactly like everyone’s idea of an
American businessman. As for the comparison with VOYAGE AU BOUT DE LA NUIT,
it is even further from the point. Both books, use unprintable words, both are in some
sense autobiographical, but that is all. VOYAGE AU BEUT DE LA NUIT is a book-
with-a-purpose, and its purpose is to protest against the horror and meaninglessness of
modem life — actually, indeed, of LIFE. It is a cry of unbearable disgust, a voice from the
cesspool. TROPIC OF CANCER is almost exactly the opposite. The thing has become so
unusual as to seem almost anomalous, but it is the book of a man who is happy. So is
BLACK SPRING, though slightly less so, because tinged in places with nostalgia. With
years of lumpen-proletarian life behind him, hunger, vagabondage, dirt, failure, nights in
the open, battles with immigration officers, endless struggles for a bit of cash, Miller
finds that he is enjoying himself. Exactly the aspects of life that feel Celine with horror
are the ones that appeal to him. So far from protesting, he is ACCEPTING. And the very
word ‘acceptance’ calls up his real affinity, another American, Walt Whitman.

But there is something rather curious in being Whitman in the nineteen- thirties. It is not
certain that if Whitman himself were alive at the moment he would write anything in the
least degree resembling LEAVES OF GRASS. For what he is saying, after all, is ‘I
accept’, and there is a radical difference between acceptance now and acceptance then.
Whitman was writing in a time of unexampled prosperity, but more than that, he was
writing in a country where freedom was something more than a word. The democracy,
equality, and comradeship that he is always talking about arc not remote ideals, but



something that existed in front of his eyes. In mid-nineteenth-century America men felt
themselves free and equal, WERE free and equal, so far as that is possible outside-a
society of pure communism. There was povery and there were even class distinctions, but
except for the Negroes there was no permanently submerged class. Everyone had inside
him, like a kind of core, the, iteaowledge that he could earn a decent living, and earn it
without bootlicking. When you read about Mark Twain’s Mississippi raftsmen and pilots,
or Bret Harte’s Western gold-miners, they seem more remote than the cannibals of the
Stone Age. The reason is simply that they are free human beings. But it is the same even
with the peaceful domesticated America of the Eastern states, the America of the LITTLE
WOMEN, HELEN’S BABIES, and RIDING DOWN FROM BANGOR. Life has a
buoyant, carefree quality that you can feel as you read, like a physical sensation in your
belly. If is this that Whitman is celebrating, though actually he does it very badly,
because he is one of those writers who tell you what you ought to feel instead of making
you feel it. Luckilly for his beliefs, perhaps, he died too early to see the deterioration in
American life that came with the rise of large-scale industry and the exploiting of cheap
immigrant labour.

Millers outlook is deeply akin to that of Whitman, and neaarly everyone who has read
him has remarked on this. TROPIC OF CANCER ends with an especially Whitmanesque
passage, in which, after the lecheries, the swindles, the fights, the drinking bouts, and the
imbecilities, he simply sits down and watches the Seine flowing past, in a sort of mystical
acceptance of thihg-as-it-is. Only, what is he accepting? In the first place, not America,
but the ancient bone -heap of Europe, where every grain of soil has passed through
innumerable human bodies. Secondly, not an epoch of expansion and liberty, but an
epoch of fear, tyranny, and regimentation. To say ‘I accept’ in an age like our own is to
say that you accept concentration camps, rubber truncheons. Hitler, Stalin, bombs,
aeroplanes, tinned food, machine guns, putsches, purges, slogans, Bedaux belts, gas
masks, submarines, spies, PROVOCATEURS, press censorship, secret prisons, aspirins,
Hollywood films, and political murders. Not only those things, of course, but, those
things among-others. And on the whole this is Henry Miller’s attitude. Not quite always,
because at moments he shows signs of a fairly ordinary kind of literary nostalgia.