The debunking of Western
civilization
had reached its Climax
and ‘disillusionment’ was immensely widespread.
and ‘disillusionment’ was immensely widespread.
Orwell
’) that are not likely to remain
long out of favour. But at bottom it is always a writer’s tendency, his ‘purpose’, his
‘message’, that makes him liked or disliked. The proof of this is the extreme difficulty of
seeing any literary merit in a book that seriously damages your deepest beliefs. And no
book is ever truly neutral. Some or other tendency is always discernible, in verse as much
as in prose, even if it does no more than detennine the fonn and the choice of imagery.
But poets who attain wide popularity, Uke Housman, are as a rule definitely gnomic
writers.
After the war, after Housman and the Nature poets, there appears a group of writers of
completely different tendency — Joyce, Eliot, Pound, Lawrence, Wyndham, Lewis,
Aldous Huxley, Lytton Strachey. So far as the middle and late twenties go, these are ‘the
movement’, as surely as the Auden-Spender group have been ‘the movement’ during the
past few years. It is true that not all of the gifted writers of the period can be fitted into
the pattern. E. M. Forster, for instance, though he wrote his best book in 1923 or
thereabouts, was essentially, pre-war, and Yeats does not seem in either of his phases to
belong to the twenties. Others who were still living, Moore, Conrad, Bennett, Wells,
Norman Douglas, had shot their bolt before the war ever happened. On the other hand, a
writer who should be added to the group, though in the narrowly literary sense he hardly
‘belongs’, is Somerset Maughami. Of course the dates do not fit exactly; most of these
writers had already published books before the war, but they can be classified as post-war
in the same sense that the younger men now writing are post-slump. Equally, of course,
you could read through most of the literary papers of the time without grasping that these
people are ‘the movement’. Even more then than at most times the big shots of literary
journalism were busy pretending that the age-before-last had not come to an end. Squire
ruled the LONDON MERCURY Gibbs and Walpole were the gods of the lending
libraries, there was a cult of cheeriness and manliness, beer and cricket, briar pipes and
monogamy, and it was at all times possible to earn a few guineas by writing an article
denouncing ‘high-brows’. But all the same it was the despised highbrows who had
captured the young. The wind was blowing from Europe, and long before 1930 it had
blowu the beer-and-cricket school naked, except for their knight-hoods.
But the first thing one would notice about the group of writers I have named above is that
they do not look like a group. Moreover several of them would strongly object to being
coupled with several of the others. Lawrence and Eliot were in reality antipathetic,
Huxley worshipped Lawrence but was repelled by Joyce, most of the others would have
looked down on Huxley, Strachey, and Maugham, and Lewis attacked everyone in turn;
indeed, his reputation as a writer rests largely on these attacks. And yet there is a certain
temperamental similarity, evident enough now, though it would not have been so a dozen
years ago. What it amounts to is PESSIMISM OF OUTLOOK. But it is necessary to
make clear what is meant by pessimism.
If the keynote of the Georgian poets was ‘beauty of Nature’, the keynote of the post-war
writers would be ‘tragic sense of life’. The spirit behind Housman’s poems for instance,
is not tragic, merely querulous; it is hedonism disappointed. The same is true of Hardy,
though one ought to make an exception of THE DYNASTS. But the Joyce-Eliot group
come later in time, puritanism is not their main adversary, they are able from the start to
‘see through’ most of the things that their predecessors had fought for. All of them are
temperamentally hostile to the notion of ‘progress’; it is felt that progress not only
doesn’t happen, but OUGHT not to happen. Given this general similarity, there are, of
course, differences of approach between the writers I have named as well as different
degrees of talent. Eliot’s pessimism is partly the Christian pessimism, which implies a
certain indifference to human misery, partly a lament over the decadence of Western
civilization (‘We are the hollow men, we are the stuffed men’, etc. , etc. ), a sort of
twilight-of-the-gods feeling, which finally leads him, in Sweeney Agonistes for instance,
to achieve the difficult feat of making modern life out to be worse than it is. With
Strachey it is merely a polite eighteenth-century scepticism mixed up with a taste for
debunking. With Maugham it is a kind of stoical resignation, the stiff upper lip of the
pukka sahib somewhere east of Suez, carrying on with his job without believing in it, like
an Antonine Emperor. Lawrence at first sight does not seem to be a pessimistic writer,
because, like Dickens, he is a ‘change-of-heart’ man and constantly insisting that life here
and now would be all right if only you looked at it a little differently. But what he is
demanding is a movement away from our mechanized civilization, which is not going to
happen. Therefore his exasperation with the present turns once more into idealization of
the past, this time a safely mythical past, the Bronze Age. When bawrence prefers the
Etruscans (his Etruscans) to ourselves it is difficult not to agree with him, and yet, after
all, it is a species of defeatism, because that is not the direction in which the world is
moving. The kind of life that he is always pointing to, a life centring round the simple
mysteries — sex, earth, fire, water, blood — is merely a lost cause. All he has been able to
produce, therefore, is a wish that things would happen in a way in which they are
manifestly not going to happen. ‘A wave of generosity or a wave of death’, he says, but it
is obvious that there are no waves of generosity this side of the horizon. So he flees to
Mexico, and then dies at forty-five, a few years before the wave of death gets going. It
will be seen that once again I am speaking of these people as though they were not artists,
as though they were merely propagandists putting a ‘message’ across. And once again it
is obvious that all of them are more than that. It would be absurd, for instance, to look on
ULYSSES as MERELY a show-up of the horror of modern life, the ‘dirty DAILY MAIL
era’, as Pound put it. Joyce actually is more of a ‘pure artist’ than most writers. But
ULYSSES could not have been written by someone who was merely dabbling with word-
patterns; it is the product of a special vision of life, the vision of a Catholic who has lost
his faith. What Joyce is saying is ‘Here is life without God. Just look at it! ’ and his
technical innovations, important though they are, are primarily to serve this purpose.
But what is noticeable about all these writers is that what ‘purpose’ they have is very
much up in the air. There is no attention to the urgent problems of the moment, above all
no politics in the narrower sense. Our eyes are directed to Rome, to Byzantium, to
Montparnasse, to Mexico, to the Etruscans, to the Subconscious, to the solar plexus — to
everywhere except the places where things are actually happening. When one looks back
at the twenties, nothing is queerer than the way in which every important event in Europe
escaped the notice of the English intelligentsia. The Russian Revolution, for instance, all
but vanishes from the English consciousness between the death of Lenin and the Ukraine
famine — about ten years. Throughout those years Russia means Tolstoy, Dostoievsky,
and exiled counts driving taxi-cabs. Italy means picture-galleries, ruins, churches, and
museums — but not Black-shirts. Gennany means films, nudism, and psychoanalysis — but
not Hitler, of whom hardly anyone had heard till 1931. In ‘cultured’ circles art-for-art’s-
saking extended practically to a worship of the meaningless. Literature was supposed to
consist solely in the manipulation of words. To judge a book by its subject matter was the
unforgivable sin, and even to be aware of its subject matter was looked on as a lapse of a
taste. About 1928, in one of the three genuinely funny jokes that PUNCH has produced
since the Great War, an intolerable youth is pictured infonning his aunt that he intends to
‘write’. ‘And what are you going to write about, dear? ’ asks the aunt. ‘My dear aunt,’
says the youth crushingly, ‘one doesn’t write ABOUT anything, one just WRITES. ’ The
best writers of the twenties did not subscribe to this doctrine, their ‘purpose’ is in most
cases fairly overt, but it is usually ‘purpose’ along moral-religious-cultural lines. Also,
when translatable into political terms, it is in no case ‘left’. In one way or another the
tendency of all the writers in this group is conservative. Lewis, for instance, spent years
in frenzied witch-smellings after ‘Bolshevism’, which he was able to detect in very
unlikely places. Recently he has changed some of his views, perhaps influenced by
Hitler’s treatment of artists, but it is safe to bet that he will not go very far leftward.
Pound seems to have plumped definitely for Fascism, at any rate the Italian variety. Eliot
has remained aloof, but if forced at the pistol’s point to choose between Fascism and
some more democratic fonn of socialism, would probably choose Fascism. Huxley starts
off with the usual despair-of-life, then, under the influence of Lawrence’s ‘dark
abdomen’, tries something called Life-Worship, and finally arrives at pacifism — atenable
position, and at this moment an honourable one, but probably in the long run involving
rejection of socialism. It is also noticeable that most of the writers in this group have a
certain tenderness for the Catholic Church, though not usually of a kind that an orthodox
Catholic would accept.
The mental connexion between pessimism and a reactionary outlook is no doubt obvious
enough. What is perhaps less obvious is just WHY the leading writers of the twenties
were predominantly pessimistic. Why always the sense of decadence, the skulls and
cactuses, the yearning after lost faith and impossible civilizations? Was it not, after all,
BECAUSE these people were writing in an exceptionally comfortable epoch? It is just in
such times that ‘cosmic despair’ can flourish. People with empty bellies never despair of
the universe, nor even think about the universe, for that matter. The whole period 1910-
30 was a prosperous one, and even the war years were physically tolerable if one
happened to be a non-combatant in one of the Allied countries. As for the twenties, they
were the golden age of the RENTIER-intellectual, a period of irresponsibility such as the
world had never before seen. The war was over, the new totalitarian states had not arisen,
moral and religious tabus of all descriptions had vanished, and the cash was rolling in.
‘Disillusionment’ was all the fashion. Everyone with a safe £500 a year turned highbrow
and began training himself in TAEDIUM VITAE. It was an age of eagles and of
crumpets, facile despairs, backyard Hamlets, cheap return tickets to the end of the night.
In some of the minor characteristic novels of the period, books like TOLD BY AN
IDIOT, the despair-of-life reaches a Turkish-bath atmosphere of self-pity. And even the
best writers of the time can be convicted of a too Olympian attitude, a too great readiness
to wash their hands of the immediate practical problem. They see life very
comprehensively, much more so than those who come immediately before or after them,
but they see it through the wrong end of the telescope. Not that that invalidates their
books, as books. The first test of any work of art is survival, and it is a fact that a great
deal that was written in the period 1910-30 has survived and looks like continuing to
survive. One has only to think of ULYSSES, OF HUMAN BONDAGE, most of
Lawrence’s early work, especially his short stories, and virtually the whole of Eliot’s
poems up to about 1930, to wonder what is now being written that will wear so well.
But quite Suddenly, in the years 1930-5, something happens. The literary climate
changes. A new group of writers, Auden and Spender and the rest of them, has made its
appearance, and although technically these writers owe something to their predecessors,
their ‘tendency’ is entirely different. Suddenly we have got out of the twilight of the gods
into a sort of Boy Scout atmosphere of bare knees and community singing. The typical
literary man ceases to be a cultured expatriate with a leaning towards the Church, and
becomes an eager-minded schoolboy with a leaning towards Communism. If the keynote
of the writers of the twenties is ‘tragic sense of life’, the keynote of the new writers is
‘serious purpose’.
The differences between the two schools are discussed at some length in Mr Louis
MacNeice’s book MODERN POETRY. This book is, of course, written entirely from the
angle of the younger group and takes the superiority of their standards for granted.
According to Mr MacNeice:
The poets of NEW SIGNATURES,* unlike Yeats and Eliot, are emotionally partisan.
Yeats proposed to turn his back on desire and hatred; Eliot sat back and watched other
people’s emotions with ennui and an ironical self-pity. . . . The whole poetry, on the other
hand, of Auden, Spender, and Day Lewis implies that they have desires and hatreds of
their own and, further, that they think some things ought to be desired and others hated.
* Published in 1932. (Author’s footnote)
And again:
The poets of NEW SIGNATURES have swung back. . . to the Greek preference for
information or statement. Then first requirement is to have something to say, and after
that you must say it as well as you can.
In other words, ‘purpose’ has come back, the younger writers have ‘gone into politics’.
As I have pointed out already, Eliot & Co. are not really so non-partisan as Mr MacNeice
seems to suggest. Still, it is broadly true that in the twenties the literary emphasis was
more on technique and less on subject matter than it is now.
The leading figures in this group are Auden, Spender, Day Lewis, MacNeice, and there is
a long string of writers of more or less the same tendency, Isherwood, John Lehmann,
Arthur Calder-Marshall, Edward Upward, Alee Brown, Philip Henderson, and many
others. As before, I am lumping them together simply according to tendency. Obviously
there are very great variations in talent. But when one compares these writers with the
Joyce-Eliot generation, the immediately striking thing is how much easier it is to form
them into a group. Technically they are closer together, politically they are almost
indistinguishable, and their criticisms of one another’s work have always been (to put it
mildly) good-natured. The outstanding writers of the twenties were of very varied origins,
few of them had passed through the ordinary English educational mill (incidentally, the
best of them, barring Lawrence, were not Englishmen), and most of them had had at
some time to struggle against poverty, neglect, and even downright persecution. On the
other hand, nearly all the younger writers fit easily into the public-school-university-
Bloomsbury pattern. The few who are of proletarian origin are of the kind that is
declassed early in life, first by means of scholarships and then by the bleaching-tub of
London ‘culture’. It is significant that several of the writers in this group have been not
only boys but, subsequently, masters at public schools. Some years ago I described
Auden as ‘a sort of gutless Kipling’. As criticism this was quite unworthy, indeed it was
merely a spiteful remark, but it is a fact that in Auden’s work, especially his earlier work,
an atmosphere of uplift — something rather like Kipling’s If or Newbolt’s Play up, Play
up, and Play the Game! — never seems to be very far away. Take, for instance, a poem
like ‘You’re leaving now, and it’s up to you boys’. It is pure scoutmaster, the exact note
of the ten-minutes’ straight talk on the dangers of self-abuse. No doubt there is an
element of parody that he intends, but there is also a deeper resemblance that he does not
intend. And of course the rather priggish note that is common to most of these writers is a
symptom, of release. By throwing ‘pure art’ overboard they have freed themselves from
the fear of being laughed at and vastly enlarged their scope. The prophetic side of
Marxism, for example, is new material for poetry and has great possibilities.
We are nothing We have fallen Into the dark and shall be destroyed. Think though, that in
this darkness We hold the secret hub of an idea Whose living sunlit wheel revolves in
future years outside.
(Spender, TRIAL OF A JUDGE)
But at the same time, by being Marxized literature has moved no nearer to the masses.
Even allowing for the time-lag, Auden and Spender are somewhat farther from being
popular writers than Joyce and Eliot, let alone Lawrence. As before, there are many
contemporary writers who are outside the current, but there is not much doubt about what
is the current. For the middle and late thirties, Auden Spender & Co. ARE ‘the
movement’, just as Joyce, Eliot & Co. were for the twenties. And the movement is in the
direction of some rather ill-defined thing called Communism. As early as 1934 or 1935 it
was considered eccentric in literary circles not to be more or less ‘left’, and in another
year or two there had grown up a left-wing orthodoxy that made a certain set of opinions
absolutely DE RIGUEUR on certain subjects, The idea had begun to gain ground (VIDE
Edward Upward and others) that a writer must either be actively ‘left’ or write badly.
Between 1935 and 1939 the Communist Party had an almost irresistible fascination for
any writer under forty. It became as normal to hear that so-and-so had ‘joined’ as it had
been a few years earlier, when Roman Catholicism was fashionable, to hear that So-and-
so had ‘been received’. For about three years, in fact, the central stream of English
literature was more or less directly under Communist control. How was it possible for
such a thing to happen? And at the same time, what is meant by ‘Communism’? It is
better to answer the second question first.
The Communist movement in Western Europe began, as a movement for the violent
overthrow of capitalism, and degenerated within a few years into an instrument of
Russian foreign policy. This was probably inevitable when this revolutionary fennent that
followed the Great War had died down. So far as I know, the only comprehensive history
of this subject in English is Franz Borfcenau’s book, THE COMMUNIST
INTERNATIONAL. What Borkcnau’s facts even more than his deductions make clear is
that Communism could never have developed along its present lines if any revolutionary
feeling had existed in the industrialized countries. In England, for instance, it is obvious
that no such feeling has existed for years past. The pathetic membership figures of all
extremist parties show this clearly. It is, only natural, therefore, that the English
Communist movement should be controlled by people who are mentally sub-servient to
Russia and have no real aim except to manipulate British foreign policy in the Russian
interest. Of course such an aim cannot be openly admitted, and it is this fact that gives the
Communist Party its very peculiar character. The more vocal kind of Communist is in
effect a Russian publicity agent posing as an international socialist. It is a pose that is
easily kept up at nonnal times, but becomes difficult in moments of crisis, because of the
fact that the U. S. S. R. is no more scrupulous in its foreign policy than the rest of the Great
Powers. Alliances, changes of front etc. , which only make sense as part of the game of
power politics have to be explained and justified in terms of international socialism.
Every time Stalin swaps partners, ‘Marxism’ has to be hammered into a new shape. This
entails sudden and violent changes of ‘line’, purges, denunciations, systematic
destruction of party literature, etc. , etc. Every Communist is in fact liable at any moment
to have to alter his most fundamental convictions, or leave the party. The unquestionable
dogma of Monday may become the damnable heresy of Tuesday, and so on. This has
happened at least three times during the past ten years. It follows that in any Western
country a Communist Party is always unstable and usually very small. Its long-term
membership really consists of an inner ring of intellectuals who have identified with the
Russian bureaucracy, and a slightly larger body of working-class people who feel a
loyalty towards Soviet Russia without necessarily understanding its policies. Otherwise
there is only a shifting membership, one lot coming and another going with each change
of ‘line’.
In 1930 the English Communist Party was a tiny, barely legal organization whose main
activity was libelling the Labour Party. But by 1935 the face of Europe had changed, and
left-wing politics changed with it. Hitler had risen to power and begun to reann, the
Russian five-year plans had succeeded, Russia had reappeared as a great military power.
As Hitler’s three targets of attack were, to all appearances, Great Britain, France, and the
U. S. S. R. , the three countries were forced into a sort of uneasy RAPPROCHEMENT. This
meant that the English or French Communist was obliged to become a good patriot and
imperialist — that is, to defend the very things he had been attacking for the past fifteen
years. The Comintern slogans suddenly faded from red to pink. ‘World revolution’ and
‘Social-Fascism’ gave way to ‘Defence of democracy’ and ‘Stop Hitler’. The years 1935-
9 were the period of anti-Fascism and the Popular Front, the heyday of the Left Book
Club, when red Duchesses and ‘broadminded’ deans toured the battlefields of the Spanish
war and Winston Churchill was the blue-eyed boy of the DAILY WORKER. Since then,
of course, there has been yet another change of ‘line’. But what is important for my
purpose is that it was during the ‘anti-Fascist’ phase that the younger English writers
gravitated towards Communism.
The Fascism-democracy dogfight was no doubt an attraction in itself, but in any case
their conversion was due at about that date. It was obvious that LAISSEZ-FAIRE
capitalism was finished and that there had got to be some kind of reconstruction; in the
world of 1935 it was hardly possible to remain politically indifferent. But why did these
young men turn towards anything so alien as Russian Communism? Why should
WRITERS be attracted by a form of socialism that makes mental honesty impossible?
The explanation really lies in something that had already made itself felt before the slump
and before Hitler: middle-class unemployment.
Unemployment is not merely a matter of not having a job. Most people can get a job of
sorts, even at the worst of times. The trouble was that by about 1930 there was no
activity, except perhaps scientific research, the arts, and left-wing politics, that a thinking
person could believe in.
The debunking of Western civilization had reached its Climax
and ‘disillusionment’ was immensely widespread. Who now could take it for granted to
go through life in the ordinary middle-class way, as a soldier, a clergyman, a stockbroker,
an Indian Civil Servant, or what-not? And how many of the values by which our
grandfathers lived could not be taken seriously? Patriotism, religion, the Empire, the
family, the sanctity of marriage, the Old School Tie, birth, breeding, honour, discipline —
anyone of ordinary education could turn the whole lot of them inside out in three minutes.
But what do you achieve, after all, by getting rid of such primal things as patriotism and
religion? You have not necessarily got rid of the need for SOMETHING TO BELIEVE
IN. There had been a sort of false dawn a few years earlier when numbers of young
intellectuals, including several quite gifted writers (Evelyn Waugh, Christopher Hollis,
and others), had fled into the Catholic Church. It is significant that these people went
almost invariably to the Roman Church and not, for instance, to the C. of E. , the Greek
Church, or the Protestants sects. They went, that is, to the Church with a world-wide
organization, the one with a rigid discipline, the one with power and prestige behind it.
Perhaps it is even worth noticing that the only latter-day convert of really first-rate gifts,
Eliot, has embraced not Romanism but Anglo-Catholicism, the ecclesiastical equivalent
of Trotskyism. But I do not think one need look farther than this for the reason why the
young writers of the thirties flocked into or towards the Communist Party. If was simply
something to believe in. Here was a Church, an army, an orthodoxy, a discipline. Here
was a Fatherland and — at any rate since 1935 or thereabouts — a Fuehrer. All the
loyalties and superstitions that the intellect had seemingly banished could come rushing
back under the thinnest of disguises. Patriotism, religion, empire, military glory — all in
one word, Russia. Father, king, leader, hero, saviour — all in one word, Stalin. God —
Stalin. The devil — Hitler. Heaven — Moscow. Hell — Berlin. All the gaps were filled up.
So, after all, the ‘Communism’ of the Ebglish intellectual is something explicable
enough. It is the patriotism of the deracinated
But there is one other thing that undoubtedly contributed to the cult of Russia among the
English intelligentsia during these years, and that is the softness and security of life in
England itself. With all its injustices, England is still the land of habeas corpus, and the
over-whelming majority of English people have no experience of violence or illegality. If
you have grown up in that sort of atmosphere it is not at all easy to imagine what a
despotic regime is like. Nearly all the dominant writers of the thirties belonged to the
soft-boiled emancipated middle class and were too young to have effective memories of
the Great War. To people of that kind such things as purges, secret police, summary
executions, imprisonment without trial etc. , etc. , are too remote to be terrifying. They can
swallow totalitarianism BECAUSE they have no experience of anything except
liberalism. Look, for instance, at this extract from Mr Auden’s poem ‘Spain’ (incidentally
this poem is one of the few decent things that have been written about the Spanish war):
To-morrow for the young, the poets exploding like bombs,
The walks by the lake, the weeks of perfect communion;
To-morrow the bicycle races
Through the suburbs on summer evenings. But to-day the struggle.
To-day the deliberate increase in the chances of death,
The conscious acceptance of guilt in the necessary murder;
To-day the expending of powers
On the flat ephemeral pamphlet and the boring meeting.
The second stanza is intended as a sort of thumb-nail sketch of a day in the life of a ‘good
party man’. In the -morning a couple of political murders, a ten-minutes’ interlude to stifle
‘bourgeois’ remorse, and then a hurried luncheon and a busy afternoon and evening
chalking walls and distributing leaflets. All very edifying. But notice the phrase
‘necessary murder’. It could only be written by a person to whom murder is at most a
WORD. Personally I would not speak so lightly of murder. It so happens that I have seen
the bodies of numbers of murdered men — I don’t mean killed in battle, I mean murdered.
Therefore I have some conception of what murder means — the terror, the hatred, the
howling relatives, the post-mortems, the blood, the smells. To me, murder is something to
be avoided. So it is to any ordinary person. The Hitlers and Stalins find murder necessary,
but they don’t advertise their callousness, and they don’t speak of it as murder; it is
‘liquidation’, ‘elimination’, or some other soothing phrase. Mr Auden’s brand of
amoralism is only possible, if you are the kind of person who is always somewhere else
when the trigger is pulled. So much of left-wing thought is a kind of playing with fire by
people who don’t even know that fire is hot. The warmongering to which the English
intelligentsia gave themselves up in the period 1935-9 was largely based on a sense of
personal immunity. The attitude was very different in France, where the military service
is hard to dodge and even literary men know the weight of a pack.
Towards the end of Mr Cyril Connolly’s recent book, ENEMIES OF PROMISE, there
occurs an interesting and revealing passage. The first part of the book, is, more or less, an
evaluation of present-day literature. Mr Connolly belongs exactly to the generation of the
writers of ‘the movement’, and with not many reservations their values are his values. It
is interesting to notice that among prose-writers her admires chiefly those specialising in
violence — the would-be tough American school, Hemingway, etc. The latter part of the
book, however, is autobiographical and consists of an account, fascinatingly accurate, of
life at a preparatory school and Eton in the years 1910-20. Mr Connolly ends by
remarking:
Were I to deduce anything from my feelings on leaving Eton, it might be called THE
THEORY OF PERMANENT ADOLESCENCE. It is the theory that the experiences
undergone by boys at the great public schools are so intense as to dominate their lives and
to arrest their development.
When you read the second sentence in this passage, your natural impulse is to look for
the misprint. Presumably there is a ‘not’ left out, or something. But no, not a bit of it! He
means it! And what is more, he is merely speaking the truth, in an inverted fashion.
‘Cultured’ middle-class life has reached a depth of softness at which a public-school
education — five years in a lukewarm bath of snobbery — can actually be looked back
upon as an eventful period. To nearly all the writers who have counted during the thirties,
what more has ever happened than Mr Connolly records in ENEMIES OF PROMISE? It
is the same pattern all the time; public school, university, a few trips abroad, then
London. Hunger, hardship, solitude, exile, war, prison, persecution, manual labour —
hardly even words. No wonder that the huge tribe known as ‘the right left people’ found
it so easy to condone the purge-and-Ogpu side of the Russian regime and the horrors of
the first Five-Year Plan. They were so gloriously incapable of understanding what it all
meant.
By 1937 the whole of the intelligentsia was mentally at war. Left-wing thought had
narrowed down to ‘anti-Fascism’, i. e. to a negative, and a torrent of hate-literature
directed against Germany and the politicians supposedly friendly to Germany was
pouring from the Press. The thing that, to me, was truly frightening about the war in
Spain was not such violence as I witnessed, nor even the party feuds behind the lines, but
the immediate reappearance in left-wing circles of the mental atmosphere of the Great
War. The very people who for twenty years had sniggered over their own superiority to
war hysteria were the ones who rushed straight back into the mental slum of 1915. All the
familiar wartime idiocies, spy-hunting, orthodoxy-sniffing (Sniff, sniff. Are you a good
anti-Fascist? ), the retailing of atrocity stories, came back into vogue as though the
intervening years had never happened. Before the end of the Spanish war, and even
before Munich, some of the better of the left-wing writers were beginning to squirm.
Neither Auden nor, on the whole, Spender wrote about the Spanish war in quite the vein
that was expected of them. Since then there has been a change of feeling and much
dismay and confusion, because the actual course of events has made nonsense of the left-
wing orthodoxy of the last few years. But then it did not need very great acuteness to see
that much of it was nonsense from the start. There is no certainty, therefore, that the next
orthodoxy to emerge will be any better than the last.
On the whole the literary history of the thirties seems to justify the opinion that a writer
does well to keep out of politics. For any writer who accepts or partially accepts the
discipline of a political party is sooner or later faced with the alternative: toe the line, or
shut up. It is, of course, possible to toe the line and go on writing — after a fashion. Any
Marxist can demonstrate with the greatest of ease that ‘bourgeois’ liberty of thought is an
illusion. But when he has finished his demonstration there remains the psychological
FACT that without this ‘bourgeois’ liberty the creative powers wither away. In the future
a totalitarian literature may arise, but it will be quite different from anything we can now
imagine. Literature as we know it is an individual thing, demanding mental honesty and a
minimum of censorship. And this is even truer of prose than of verse. It is probably not a
coincidence that the best writers of the thirties have been poets. The atmosphere of
orthodoxy is always damaging to prose, and above all it is completely ruinous to the
novel, the most anarchical of all forms of literature. How many Roman Catholics have
been good novelists? Even the handful one could name have usually been bad Catholics.
The novel is practically a Protestant form of art; it is a product of the free mind, of the
autonomous individual. No decade in the past hundred and fifty years has been so barren
of imaginative prose as the nineteen-thirties. There have been good poems, good
sociological works, brilliant pamphlets, but practically no fiction of any value at all. From
1933 onwards the mental climate was increasingly against it. Anyone sensitive enough to
be touched by the ZEITGEIST was also involved in politics. Not everyone, of course,
was definitely in the political racket, but practically everyone was on its periphery and
more or less mixed up in propaganda campaigns and squalid controversies. Communists
and near-Communists had a disproportionately large influence in the literary reviews. It
was a time of labels, slogans, and evasions. At the worst moments you were expected to
lock yourself up in a constipating little cage of lies; at the best a sort of voluntary
censorship (‘Ought I to say this? Is it pro-Fascist? ’) was at work in nearly everyone’s
mind. It is almost inconceivable that good novels should be written in such an
atmosphere. ‘Good novels are not written by by orthodoxy-sniffers, nor by people who
are conscienee-stricken about their own unorthodoxy. Good novels are written by people
who are NOT FRIGHTENED. This brings me back to Henry Miller.
Ill
If this were a likely, moment for the launching of ‘schools’ literature, Henry Miller might
be the starting-point of a new ‘school’. He does at any rate mark an unexpected swing of
the pendulum. In his books one gets right away from the ‘political animal’ and back to a
viewpoint not only individualistic but completely passive — the view -point of a man who
believes the world-process to be outside his control and who in any case hardly wishes to
control it.
I first met Miller at the end of 1936, when I was passing trrough Paris on my way to
Spain. What most intrigued me about him was to find that he felt no interest in the
Spanish war whatever. He merely told me in forcible tenns that to go to Spain at that
moment was the act of an idiot. He could understand anyone going there from purely
selfish motives, out of curiosity, for instance, but to mix oneself up in such things FROM
A SENSE OBLIGATION was sheer stupidity. In any case my Ideas about combating
Fascism, defending democracy, etc. , etc. , were all baloney. Our civilization was destined
to be swept away and replaced by something so different that we should scarcely regard it
as human — a prospect that did not bother him, he said. And some such outlook is implicit
throughout his work. Everywhere there is the sense of the approaching cataclysm, and
almost everywhere the implied belief that it doesn’t matter. The only political declaration
which, so far as I know, he has ever made in print is a purely negative one. A year or so
ago an American magazine, the MARXIST QUARTERLY, sent out a questionnaire to
various American writers asking them to define their attitude on the subject of war.
Miller replied in terms of extreme pacifism, an individual refusal to fight, with no
apparent wish to convert others to the same opinion — practically, in fact, a declaration of
irresponsibility.
However, there is more than one kind of irresponsibility. As a rule, writers who do not
wish to identify themselves with the historical process at the moment either ignore it or
fight against if. If they can ignore it, they are probably fools. If they can understand it
well enough to want to fight against it, they probably have enough vision to realize that
they cannot win. Look, for instance, at a poem like ‘The Scholar Gipsy’, with its railing
against the ‘strange disease of modern life’ and its magnificent defeatist simile is the final
stanza. It expresses one of the normal literary attitudes, perhaps actually the prevailing
attitude during the last hundred years. And on the other hand there are the ‘progressives’,
the yea-sayers, the Shaw-Wells type, always leaping forward to embrace the ego-
projections which they mistake for the future. On the whole the writers of the twenties
took the first line and the writers of the thirties the second. And at any given moment, of
course, there is a huge tribe of Barries and Deepings and Dells who simply don’t notice
what is happening. Where Miller’s work is symptomatically important is in its avoidance
of any of these attitudes. He is neither pushing the world-process forward nor trying to
drag it back, but on the other hand he is by no means ignoring it. I should say that he
believes in the impending ruin of Western Civilization much more firmly than the
majority of ‘revolutionary’ writers; only he does not feel called upon to do anything
about it. He is fiddling While Rome is burning, and, unlike the enonnous majority of
people who do this, fiddling with his face towards the flames.
In MAX AND THE WHITE PHAGOCYTES there is one of those revealing passages in
which a writer tells you a great deal about himself while talking about somebody else.
The book includes a long essay on the diaries of Anais Nin, which I have never read,
except for a few fragments, and which I believe have not been published. Miller claims
that they are the only true feminine writing that has ever appeared, whatever that may
mean. But the interesting passage is one in which he compares Anais Nin — evidently a
completely subjective, introverted writer — to Jonah in the whale’s belly. In passing he
refers to an essay that Aldous Huxley wrote some years ago about El Greco’s picture,
The Dream of Philip the Second. Huxley remarks that the people in El Greco’s pictures
always look as though they were in the bellies of whales, and professes to find something
peculiarly horrible in the idea of being in a ‘visceral prison’. Miller retorts that, on the
contrary, there are many worse things than being swallowed by whales, and the passage
makes it dear that he himself finds the idea rather attractive. Here he is touching upon
what is probably a very widespread fantasy. It is perhaps worth noticing that everyone, at
least every English-speaking person, invariably speaks of Jonah and the WHALE. Of
course the creature that swallowed Jonah was a fish, and was so described in the Bible
(Jonah i. 17), but children naturally confuse it with a whale, and this fragment of baby-
talk is habitually carried into later life — a sign, perhaps, of the hold that the Jonah myth
has upon our imaginations. For the fact is that being inside a whale is a very comfortable,
cosy, homelike thought. The historical Jonah, if he can be so called, was glad enough to
escape, but in imagination, in day-dream, countless people have envied him. It is, of
course, quite obvious why. The whale’s belly is simply a womb big enough for an adult.
There you are, in the dark, cushioned space that exactly fits you, with yards of blubber
between yourself and reality, able to keep up an attitude of the completest indifference,
no matter what HAPPENS. A storm that would sink ah the battleships in the world would
hardly reach you as an echo. Even the whale’s own movements would probably be
imperceptible to you. He might be wallowing among the surface waves or shooting down
into the blackness of the middle seas (a mile deep, according to Herman Melville), but
you would never notice the difference. Short of being dead, it is the final, unsurpassable
stage of irresponsibility. And however it may be with Anais Nin, there is no question that
Miller himself is inside the whale. Ah his best and most characteristic passages are
written from the angle of Jonah, a willing Jonah. Not that he is especially introverted —
quite the contrary. In his case the whale happens to be transparent. Only he feels no
impulse to alter or control the process that he is undergoing. He has perfonned the
essential Jonah act of allowing himself to be swallowed, remaining passive,
ACCEPTING.
It will be seen what this amounts to. It is a species of quietism, implying either complete
unbelief or else a degree of belief amounting to mysticism. The attitude is ‘JE M’EN
FOUS’ or ‘Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him’, whichever way you like to look
at it; for practical purposes both are identical, the moral in either case being ‘Sit on your
bum’. But in a time like ours, is this a defensible attitude? Notice that it is almost
impossible to refrain from asking this question. At the moment of writing, we are still in a
period in which it is taken for granted that books ought always to be positive, serious, and
‘constructive’. A dozen years ago this idea would have been greeted with titters. (‘My
dear aunt, one doesn’t write about anything, one just WRITES. ’) Then the pendulum
swung away from the frivolous notion that art is merely technique, but it swung a very
long distance, to the point of asserting that a book can only be ‘good’ if it is founded on a
‘true’ vision of life. Naturally the people who believe this also believe that they are in
posssion of the truth themselves. Catholic critics, for instance, tend to claim that books
arc only ‘good’ when they are of Catholic tendency. Marxist critics make the same claim
more boldy for Marxist books. For instance, Mr Edward Upward (‘A Marxist
Interpretation of Literature,’ in the MIND IN CHAINS):
Literary criticism which aims at being Marxist must. . . proclaim that no book written at
the present time can be ‘good’ unless it is written from a Marxist or near-Marxist
viewpoint.
Various other writers have made similar or comparable statements. Mr Upward italicizes
‘at the present time’ because, he realizes that you cannot, for instance, dismiss HAMLET
on the ground that Shakespeare was not a Marxist. Nevertheless his interesting essay only
glances very shortly at this difficulty. Much of the literature that comes to us out of the
past is penneated by and in fact founded on beliefs (the belief in the immortality of the
soul, for example) which now seem to us false and in some cases contemptibly silly. Yet
if is ‘good’ literature, if survival is any test. Mr Upward would no doubt answer that a
belief which was appropriate several centuries ago might be inappropriate and therefore
stultifying now. But this does not get one much farther, because it assumes that in any
age there will be ONE body of belief which is the current approximation to truth, and that
the best literature of the time will be more or less in hannony with it. Actually no such
uniformity has ever existed. In seventeenth-century England, for instance, there was a
religious and political cleavage which distinctly resembled the left-right antagonism of
to-day. Looking back, most modern people would feel that the bourgeois-Puritan
viewpoint was a better approximation to truth than the Catholic-feudal one. But it is
certainly not the case that all or even a majority of the best writers of the time were
puritans. And more than this, there exist ‘good’ writers whose world-view would in any
age be recognized false and silly. Edgar Allan Poe is an example. Poe’s outlook is at best
a wild romanticism and at worst is not far from being insane in the literal clinical sense.
Why is it, then that stories like The Black Cat, The Tell-tale Heart, The Fall of the House
of Usher and so forth, which might very nearly have been written by a lunatic, do not
convey a feeling of falsity? Because they are true within a certain framework, they keep
the rules of their own peculiar world, like a Japanese picture. But it appears that to write
successfully about such a world you have got to believe in it. One sees the difference
immediately if one compares Poe’s TALES with what is, in my opinion, an insincere
attempt to work up a similar atmosphere, Julian Green’s MINUIT. The thing that
immediately strikes one about MINUIT is that there is no reason why any of the events in
it should happen. Everything is completely arbitrary; there is no emotional sequence.
long out of favour. But at bottom it is always a writer’s tendency, his ‘purpose’, his
‘message’, that makes him liked or disliked. The proof of this is the extreme difficulty of
seeing any literary merit in a book that seriously damages your deepest beliefs. And no
book is ever truly neutral. Some or other tendency is always discernible, in verse as much
as in prose, even if it does no more than detennine the fonn and the choice of imagery.
But poets who attain wide popularity, Uke Housman, are as a rule definitely gnomic
writers.
After the war, after Housman and the Nature poets, there appears a group of writers of
completely different tendency — Joyce, Eliot, Pound, Lawrence, Wyndham, Lewis,
Aldous Huxley, Lytton Strachey. So far as the middle and late twenties go, these are ‘the
movement’, as surely as the Auden-Spender group have been ‘the movement’ during the
past few years. It is true that not all of the gifted writers of the period can be fitted into
the pattern. E. M. Forster, for instance, though he wrote his best book in 1923 or
thereabouts, was essentially, pre-war, and Yeats does not seem in either of his phases to
belong to the twenties. Others who were still living, Moore, Conrad, Bennett, Wells,
Norman Douglas, had shot their bolt before the war ever happened. On the other hand, a
writer who should be added to the group, though in the narrowly literary sense he hardly
‘belongs’, is Somerset Maughami. Of course the dates do not fit exactly; most of these
writers had already published books before the war, but they can be classified as post-war
in the same sense that the younger men now writing are post-slump. Equally, of course,
you could read through most of the literary papers of the time without grasping that these
people are ‘the movement’. Even more then than at most times the big shots of literary
journalism were busy pretending that the age-before-last had not come to an end. Squire
ruled the LONDON MERCURY Gibbs and Walpole were the gods of the lending
libraries, there was a cult of cheeriness and manliness, beer and cricket, briar pipes and
monogamy, and it was at all times possible to earn a few guineas by writing an article
denouncing ‘high-brows’. But all the same it was the despised highbrows who had
captured the young. The wind was blowing from Europe, and long before 1930 it had
blowu the beer-and-cricket school naked, except for their knight-hoods.
But the first thing one would notice about the group of writers I have named above is that
they do not look like a group. Moreover several of them would strongly object to being
coupled with several of the others. Lawrence and Eliot were in reality antipathetic,
Huxley worshipped Lawrence but was repelled by Joyce, most of the others would have
looked down on Huxley, Strachey, and Maugham, and Lewis attacked everyone in turn;
indeed, his reputation as a writer rests largely on these attacks. And yet there is a certain
temperamental similarity, evident enough now, though it would not have been so a dozen
years ago. What it amounts to is PESSIMISM OF OUTLOOK. But it is necessary to
make clear what is meant by pessimism.
If the keynote of the Georgian poets was ‘beauty of Nature’, the keynote of the post-war
writers would be ‘tragic sense of life’. The spirit behind Housman’s poems for instance,
is not tragic, merely querulous; it is hedonism disappointed. The same is true of Hardy,
though one ought to make an exception of THE DYNASTS. But the Joyce-Eliot group
come later in time, puritanism is not their main adversary, they are able from the start to
‘see through’ most of the things that their predecessors had fought for. All of them are
temperamentally hostile to the notion of ‘progress’; it is felt that progress not only
doesn’t happen, but OUGHT not to happen. Given this general similarity, there are, of
course, differences of approach between the writers I have named as well as different
degrees of talent. Eliot’s pessimism is partly the Christian pessimism, which implies a
certain indifference to human misery, partly a lament over the decadence of Western
civilization (‘We are the hollow men, we are the stuffed men’, etc. , etc. ), a sort of
twilight-of-the-gods feeling, which finally leads him, in Sweeney Agonistes for instance,
to achieve the difficult feat of making modern life out to be worse than it is. With
Strachey it is merely a polite eighteenth-century scepticism mixed up with a taste for
debunking. With Maugham it is a kind of stoical resignation, the stiff upper lip of the
pukka sahib somewhere east of Suez, carrying on with his job without believing in it, like
an Antonine Emperor. Lawrence at first sight does not seem to be a pessimistic writer,
because, like Dickens, he is a ‘change-of-heart’ man and constantly insisting that life here
and now would be all right if only you looked at it a little differently. But what he is
demanding is a movement away from our mechanized civilization, which is not going to
happen. Therefore his exasperation with the present turns once more into idealization of
the past, this time a safely mythical past, the Bronze Age. When bawrence prefers the
Etruscans (his Etruscans) to ourselves it is difficult not to agree with him, and yet, after
all, it is a species of defeatism, because that is not the direction in which the world is
moving. The kind of life that he is always pointing to, a life centring round the simple
mysteries — sex, earth, fire, water, blood — is merely a lost cause. All he has been able to
produce, therefore, is a wish that things would happen in a way in which they are
manifestly not going to happen. ‘A wave of generosity or a wave of death’, he says, but it
is obvious that there are no waves of generosity this side of the horizon. So he flees to
Mexico, and then dies at forty-five, a few years before the wave of death gets going. It
will be seen that once again I am speaking of these people as though they were not artists,
as though they were merely propagandists putting a ‘message’ across. And once again it
is obvious that all of them are more than that. It would be absurd, for instance, to look on
ULYSSES as MERELY a show-up of the horror of modern life, the ‘dirty DAILY MAIL
era’, as Pound put it. Joyce actually is more of a ‘pure artist’ than most writers. But
ULYSSES could not have been written by someone who was merely dabbling with word-
patterns; it is the product of a special vision of life, the vision of a Catholic who has lost
his faith. What Joyce is saying is ‘Here is life without God. Just look at it! ’ and his
technical innovations, important though they are, are primarily to serve this purpose.
But what is noticeable about all these writers is that what ‘purpose’ they have is very
much up in the air. There is no attention to the urgent problems of the moment, above all
no politics in the narrower sense. Our eyes are directed to Rome, to Byzantium, to
Montparnasse, to Mexico, to the Etruscans, to the Subconscious, to the solar plexus — to
everywhere except the places where things are actually happening. When one looks back
at the twenties, nothing is queerer than the way in which every important event in Europe
escaped the notice of the English intelligentsia. The Russian Revolution, for instance, all
but vanishes from the English consciousness between the death of Lenin and the Ukraine
famine — about ten years. Throughout those years Russia means Tolstoy, Dostoievsky,
and exiled counts driving taxi-cabs. Italy means picture-galleries, ruins, churches, and
museums — but not Black-shirts. Gennany means films, nudism, and psychoanalysis — but
not Hitler, of whom hardly anyone had heard till 1931. In ‘cultured’ circles art-for-art’s-
saking extended practically to a worship of the meaningless. Literature was supposed to
consist solely in the manipulation of words. To judge a book by its subject matter was the
unforgivable sin, and even to be aware of its subject matter was looked on as a lapse of a
taste. About 1928, in one of the three genuinely funny jokes that PUNCH has produced
since the Great War, an intolerable youth is pictured infonning his aunt that he intends to
‘write’. ‘And what are you going to write about, dear? ’ asks the aunt. ‘My dear aunt,’
says the youth crushingly, ‘one doesn’t write ABOUT anything, one just WRITES. ’ The
best writers of the twenties did not subscribe to this doctrine, their ‘purpose’ is in most
cases fairly overt, but it is usually ‘purpose’ along moral-religious-cultural lines. Also,
when translatable into political terms, it is in no case ‘left’. In one way or another the
tendency of all the writers in this group is conservative. Lewis, for instance, spent years
in frenzied witch-smellings after ‘Bolshevism’, which he was able to detect in very
unlikely places. Recently he has changed some of his views, perhaps influenced by
Hitler’s treatment of artists, but it is safe to bet that he will not go very far leftward.
Pound seems to have plumped definitely for Fascism, at any rate the Italian variety. Eliot
has remained aloof, but if forced at the pistol’s point to choose between Fascism and
some more democratic fonn of socialism, would probably choose Fascism. Huxley starts
off with the usual despair-of-life, then, under the influence of Lawrence’s ‘dark
abdomen’, tries something called Life-Worship, and finally arrives at pacifism — atenable
position, and at this moment an honourable one, but probably in the long run involving
rejection of socialism. It is also noticeable that most of the writers in this group have a
certain tenderness for the Catholic Church, though not usually of a kind that an orthodox
Catholic would accept.
The mental connexion between pessimism and a reactionary outlook is no doubt obvious
enough. What is perhaps less obvious is just WHY the leading writers of the twenties
were predominantly pessimistic. Why always the sense of decadence, the skulls and
cactuses, the yearning after lost faith and impossible civilizations? Was it not, after all,
BECAUSE these people were writing in an exceptionally comfortable epoch? It is just in
such times that ‘cosmic despair’ can flourish. People with empty bellies never despair of
the universe, nor even think about the universe, for that matter. The whole period 1910-
30 was a prosperous one, and even the war years were physically tolerable if one
happened to be a non-combatant in one of the Allied countries. As for the twenties, they
were the golden age of the RENTIER-intellectual, a period of irresponsibility such as the
world had never before seen. The war was over, the new totalitarian states had not arisen,
moral and religious tabus of all descriptions had vanished, and the cash was rolling in.
‘Disillusionment’ was all the fashion. Everyone with a safe £500 a year turned highbrow
and began training himself in TAEDIUM VITAE. It was an age of eagles and of
crumpets, facile despairs, backyard Hamlets, cheap return tickets to the end of the night.
In some of the minor characteristic novels of the period, books like TOLD BY AN
IDIOT, the despair-of-life reaches a Turkish-bath atmosphere of self-pity. And even the
best writers of the time can be convicted of a too Olympian attitude, a too great readiness
to wash their hands of the immediate practical problem. They see life very
comprehensively, much more so than those who come immediately before or after them,
but they see it through the wrong end of the telescope. Not that that invalidates their
books, as books. The first test of any work of art is survival, and it is a fact that a great
deal that was written in the period 1910-30 has survived and looks like continuing to
survive. One has only to think of ULYSSES, OF HUMAN BONDAGE, most of
Lawrence’s early work, especially his short stories, and virtually the whole of Eliot’s
poems up to about 1930, to wonder what is now being written that will wear so well.
But quite Suddenly, in the years 1930-5, something happens. The literary climate
changes. A new group of writers, Auden and Spender and the rest of them, has made its
appearance, and although technically these writers owe something to their predecessors,
their ‘tendency’ is entirely different. Suddenly we have got out of the twilight of the gods
into a sort of Boy Scout atmosphere of bare knees and community singing. The typical
literary man ceases to be a cultured expatriate with a leaning towards the Church, and
becomes an eager-minded schoolboy with a leaning towards Communism. If the keynote
of the writers of the twenties is ‘tragic sense of life’, the keynote of the new writers is
‘serious purpose’.
The differences between the two schools are discussed at some length in Mr Louis
MacNeice’s book MODERN POETRY. This book is, of course, written entirely from the
angle of the younger group and takes the superiority of their standards for granted.
According to Mr MacNeice:
The poets of NEW SIGNATURES,* unlike Yeats and Eliot, are emotionally partisan.
Yeats proposed to turn his back on desire and hatred; Eliot sat back and watched other
people’s emotions with ennui and an ironical self-pity. . . . The whole poetry, on the other
hand, of Auden, Spender, and Day Lewis implies that they have desires and hatreds of
their own and, further, that they think some things ought to be desired and others hated.
* Published in 1932. (Author’s footnote)
And again:
The poets of NEW SIGNATURES have swung back. . . to the Greek preference for
information or statement. Then first requirement is to have something to say, and after
that you must say it as well as you can.
In other words, ‘purpose’ has come back, the younger writers have ‘gone into politics’.
As I have pointed out already, Eliot & Co. are not really so non-partisan as Mr MacNeice
seems to suggest. Still, it is broadly true that in the twenties the literary emphasis was
more on technique and less on subject matter than it is now.
The leading figures in this group are Auden, Spender, Day Lewis, MacNeice, and there is
a long string of writers of more or less the same tendency, Isherwood, John Lehmann,
Arthur Calder-Marshall, Edward Upward, Alee Brown, Philip Henderson, and many
others. As before, I am lumping them together simply according to tendency. Obviously
there are very great variations in talent. But when one compares these writers with the
Joyce-Eliot generation, the immediately striking thing is how much easier it is to form
them into a group. Technically they are closer together, politically they are almost
indistinguishable, and their criticisms of one another’s work have always been (to put it
mildly) good-natured. The outstanding writers of the twenties were of very varied origins,
few of them had passed through the ordinary English educational mill (incidentally, the
best of them, barring Lawrence, were not Englishmen), and most of them had had at
some time to struggle against poverty, neglect, and even downright persecution. On the
other hand, nearly all the younger writers fit easily into the public-school-university-
Bloomsbury pattern. The few who are of proletarian origin are of the kind that is
declassed early in life, first by means of scholarships and then by the bleaching-tub of
London ‘culture’. It is significant that several of the writers in this group have been not
only boys but, subsequently, masters at public schools. Some years ago I described
Auden as ‘a sort of gutless Kipling’. As criticism this was quite unworthy, indeed it was
merely a spiteful remark, but it is a fact that in Auden’s work, especially his earlier work,
an atmosphere of uplift — something rather like Kipling’s If or Newbolt’s Play up, Play
up, and Play the Game! — never seems to be very far away. Take, for instance, a poem
like ‘You’re leaving now, and it’s up to you boys’. It is pure scoutmaster, the exact note
of the ten-minutes’ straight talk on the dangers of self-abuse. No doubt there is an
element of parody that he intends, but there is also a deeper resemblance that he does not
intend. And of course the rather priggish note that is common to most of these writers is a
symptom, of release. By throwing ‘pure art’ overboard they have freed themselves from
the fear of being laughed at and vastly enlarged their scope. The prophetic side of
Marxism, for example, is new material for poetry and has great possibilities.
We are nothing We have fallen Into the dark and shall be destroyed. Think though, that in
this darkness We hold the secret hub of an idea Whose living sunlit wheel revolves in
future years outside.
(Spender, TRIAL OF A JUDGE)
But at the same time, by being Marxized literature has moved no nearer to the masses.
Even allowing for the time-lag, Auden and Spender are somewhat farther from being
popular writers than Joyce and Eliot, let alone Lawrence. As before, there are many
contemporary writers who are outside the current, but there is not much doubt about what
is the current. For the middle and late thirties, Auden Spender & Co. ARE ‘the
movement’, just as Joyce, Eliot & Co. were for the twenties. And the movement is in the
direction of some rather ill-defined thing called Communism. As early as 1934 or 1935 it
was considered eccentric in literary circles not to be more or less ‘left’, and in another
year or two there had grown up a left-wing orthodoxy that made a certain set of opinions
absolutely DE RIGUEUR on certain subjects, The idea had begun to gain ground (VIDE
Edward Upward and others) that a writer must either be actively ‘left’ or write badly.
Between 1935 and 1939 the Communist Party had an almost irresistible fascination for
any writer under forty. It became as normal to hear that so-and-so had ‘joined’ as it had
been a few years earlier, when Roman Catholicism was fashionable, to hear that So-and-
so had ‘been received’. For about three years, in fact, the central stream of English
literature was more or less directly under Communist control. How was it possible for
such a thing to happen? And at the same time, what is meant by ‘Communism’? It is
better to answer the second question first.
The Communist movement in Western Europe began, as a movement for the violent
overthrow of capitalism, and degenerated within a few years into an instrument of
Russian foreign policy. This was probably inevitable when this revolutionary fennent that
followed the Great War had died down. So far as I know, the only comprehensive history
of this subject in English is Franz Borfcenau’s book, THE COMMUNIST
INTERNATIONAL. What Borkcnau’s facts even more than his deductions make clear is
that Communism could never have developed along its present lines if any revolutionary
feeling had existed in the industrialized countries. In England, for instance, it is obvious
that no such feeling has existed for years past. The pathetic membership figures of all
extremist parties show this clearly. It is, only natural, therefore, that the English
Communist movement should be controlled by people who are mentally sub-servient to
Russia and have no real aim except to manipulate British foreign policy in the Russian
interest. Of course such an aim cannot be openly admitted, and it is this fact that gives the
Communist Party its very peculiar character. The more vocal kind of Communist is in
effect a Russian publicity agent posing as an international socialist. It is a pose that is
easily kept up at nonnal times, but becomes difficult in moments of crisis, because of the
fact that the U. S. S. R. is no more scrupulous in its foreign policy than the rest of the Great
Powers. Alliances, changes of front etc. , which only make sense as part of the game of
power politics have to be explained and justified in terms of international socialism.
Every time Stalin swaps partners, ‘Marxism’ has to be hammered into a new shape. This
entails sudden and violent changes of ‘line’, purges, denunciations, systematic
destruction of party literature, etc. , etc. Every Communist is in fact liable at any moment
to have to alter his most fundamental convictions, or leave the party. The unquestionable
dogma of Monday may become the damnable heresy of Tuesday, and so on. This has
happened at least three times during the past ten years. It follows that in any Western
country a Communist Party is always unstable and usually very small. Its long-term
membership really consists of an inner ring of intellectuals who have identified with the
Russian bureaucracy, and a slightly larger body of working-class people who feel a
loyalty towards Soviet Russia without necessarily understanding its policies. Otherwise
there is only a shifting membership, one lot coming and another going with each change
of ‘line’.
In 1930 the English Communist Party was a tiny, barely legal organization whose main
activity was libelling the Labour Party. But by 1935 the face of Europe had changed, and
left-wing politics changed with it. Hitler had risen to power and begun to reann, the
Russian five-year plans had succeeded, Russia had reappeared as a great military power.
As Hitler’s three targets of attack were, to all appearances, Great Britain, France, and the
U. S. S. R. , the three countries were forced into a sort of uneasy RAPPROCHEMENT. This
meant that the English or French Communist was obliged to become a good patriot and
imperialist — that is, to defend the very things he had been attacking for the past fifteen
years. The Comintern slogans suddenly faded from red to pink. ‘World revolution’ and
‘Social-Fascism’ gave way to ‘Defence of democracy’ and ‘Stop Hitler’. The years 1935-
9 were the period of anti-Fascism and the Popular Front, the heyday of the Left Book
Club, when red Duchesses and ‘broadminded’ deans toured the battlefields of the Spanish
war and Winston Churchill was the blue-eyed boy of the DAILY WORKER. Since then,
of course, there has been yet another change of ‘line’. But what is important for my
purpose is that it was during the ‘anti-Fascist’ phase that the younger English writers
gravitated towards Communism.
The Fascism-democracy dogfight was no doubt an attraction in itself, but in any case
their conversion was due at about that date. It was obvious that LAISSEZ-FAIRE
capitalism was finished and that there had got to be some kind of reconstruction; in the
world of 1935 it was hardly possible to remain politically indifferent. But why did these
young men turn towards anything so alien as Russian Communism? Why should
WRITERS be attracted by a form of socialism that makes mental honesty impossible?
The explanation really lies in something that had already made itself felt before the slump
and before Hitler: middle-class unemployment.
Unemployment is not merely a matter of not having a job. Most people can get a job of
sorts, even at the worst of times. The trouble was that by about 1930 there was no
activity, except perhaps scientific research, the arts, and left-wing politics, that a thinking
person could believe in.
The debunking of Western civilization had reached its Climax
and ‘disillusionment’ was immensely widespread. Who now could take it for granted to
go through life in the ordinary middle-class way, as a soldier, a clergyman, a stockbroker,
an Indian Civil Servant, or what-not? And how many of the values by which our
grandfathers lived could not be taken seriously? Patriotism, religion, the Empire, the
family, the sanctity of marriage, the Old School Tie, birth, breeding, honour, discipline —
anyone of ordinary education could turn the whole lot of them inside out in three minutes.
But what do you achieve, after all, by getting rid of such primal things as patriotism and
religion? You have not necessarily got rid of the need for SOMETHING TO BELIEVE
IN. There had been a sort of false dawn a few years earlier when numbers of young
intellectuals, including several quite gifted writers (Evelyn Waugh, Christopher Hollis,
and others), had fled into the Catholic Church. It is significant that these people went
almost invariably to the Roman Church and not, for instance, to the C. of E. , the Greek
Church, or the Protestants sects. They went, that is, to the Church with a world-wide
organization, the one with a rigid discipline, the one with power and prestige behind it.
Perhaps it is even worth noticing that the only latter-day convert of really first-rate gifts,
Eliot, has embraced not Romanism but Anglo-Catholicism, the ecclesiastical equivalent
of Trotskyism. But I do not think one need look farther than this for the reason why the
young writers of the thirties flocked into or towards the Communist Party. If was simply
something to believe in. Here was a Church, an army, an orthodoxy, a discipline. Here
was a Fatherland and — at any rate since 1935 or thereabouts — a Fuehrer. All the
loyalties and superstitions that the intellect had seemingly banished could come rushing
back under the thinnest of disguises. Patriotism, religion, empire, military glory — all in
one word, Russia. Father, king, leader, hero, saviour — all in one word, Stalin. God —
Stalin. The devil — Hitler. Heaven — Moscow. Hell — Berlin. All the gaps were filled up.
So, after all, the ‘Communism’ of the Ebglish intellectual is something explicable
enough. It is the patriotism of the deracinated
But there is one other thing that undoubtedly contributed to the cult of Russia among the
English intelligentsia during these years, and that is the softness and security of life in
England itself. With all its injustices, England is still the land of habeas corpus, and the
over-whelming majority of English people have no experience of violence or illegality. If
you have grown up in that sort of atmosphere it is not at all easy to imagine what a
despotic regime is like. Nearly all the dominant writers of the thirties belonged to the
soft-boiled emancipated middle class and were too young to have effective memories of
the Great War. To people of that kind such things as purges, secret police, summary
executions, imprisonment without trial etc. , etc. , are too remote to be terrifying. They can
swallow totalitarianism BECAUSE they have no experience of anything except
liberalism. Look, for instance, at this extract from Mr Auden’s poem ‘Spain’ (incidentally
this poem is one of the few decent things that have been written about the Spanish war):
To-morrow for the young, the poets exploding like bombs,
The walks by the lake, the weeks of perfect communion;
To-morrow the bicycle races
Through the suburbs on summer evenings. But to-day the struggle.
To-day the deliberate increase in the chances of death,
The conscious acceptance of guilt in the necessary murder;
To-day the expending of powers
On the flat ephemeral pamphlet and the boring meeting.
The second stanza is intended as a sort of thumb-nail sketch of a day in the life of a ‘good
party man’. In the -morning a couple of political murders, a ten-minutes’ interlude to stifle
‘bourgeois’ remorse, and then a hurried luncheon and a busy afternoon and evening
chalking walls and distributing leaflets. All very edifying. But notice the phrase
‘necessary murder’. It could only be written by a person to whom murder is at most a
WORD. Personally I would not speak so lightly of murder. It so happens that I have seen
the bodies of numbers of murdered men — I don’t mean killed in battle, I mean murdered.
Therefore I have some conception of what murder means — the terror, the hatred, the
howling relatives, the post-mortems, the blood, the smells. To me, murder is something to
be avoided. So it is to any ordinary person. The Hitlers and Stalins find murder necessary,
but they don’t advertise their callousness, and they don’t speak of it as murder; it is
‘liquidation’, ‘elimination’, or some other soothing phrase. Mr Auden’s brand of
amoralism is only possible, if you are the kind of person who is always somewhere else
when the trigger is pulled. So much of left-wing thought is a kind of playing with fire by
people who don’t even know that fire is hot. The warmongering to which the English
intelligentsia gave themselves up in the period 1935-9 was largely based on a sense of
personal immunity. The attitude was very different in France, where the military service
is hard to dodge and even literary men know the weight of a pack.
Towards the end of Mr Cyril Connolly’s recent book, ENEMIES OF PROMISE, there
occurs an interesting and revealing passage. The first part of the book, is, more or less, an
evaluation of present-day literature. Mr Connolly belongs exactly to the generation of the
writers of ‘the movement’, and with not many reservations their values are his values. It
is interesting to notice that among prose-writers her admires chiefly those specialising in
violence — the would-be tough American school, Hemingway, etc. The latter part of the
book, however, is autobiographical and consists of an account, fascinatingly accurate, of
life at a preparatory school and Eton in the years 1910-20. Mr Connolly ends by
remarking:
Were I to deduce anything from my feelings on leaving Eton, it might be called THE
THEORY OF PERMANENT ADOLESCENCE. It is the theory that the experiences
undergone by boys at the great public schools are so intense as to dominate their lives and
to arrest their development.
When you read the second sentence in this passage, your natural impulse is to look for
the misprint. Presumably there is a ‘not’ left out, or something. But no, not a bit of it! He
means it! And what is more, he is merely speaking the truth, in an inverted fashion.
‘Cultured’ middle-class life has reached a depth of softness at which a public-school
education — five years in a lukewarm bath of snobbery — can actually be looked back
upon as an eventful period. To nearly all the writers who have counted during the thirties,
what more has ever happened than Mr Connolly records in ENEMIES OF PROMISE? It
is the same pattern all the time; public school, university, a few trips abroad, then
London. Hunger, hardship, solitude, exile, war, prison, persecution, manual labour —
hardly even words. No wonder that the huge tribe known as ‘the right left people’ found
it so easy to condone the purge-and-Ogpu side of the Russian regime and the horrors of
the first Five-Year Plan. They were so gloriously incapable of understanding what it all
meant.
By 1937 the whole of the intelligentsia was mentally at war. Left-wing thought had
narrowed down to ‘anti-Fascism’, i. e. to a negative, and a torrent of hate-literature
directed against Germany and the politicians supposedly friendly to Germany was
pouring from the Press. The thing that, to me, was truly frightening about the war in
Spain was not such violence as I witnessed, nor even the party feuds behind the lines, but
the immediate reappearance in left-wing circles of the mental atmosphere of the Great
War. The very people who for twenty years had sniggered over their own superiority to
war hysteria were the ones who rushed straight back into the mental slum of 1915. All the
familiar wartime idiocies, spy-hunting, orthodoxy-sniffing (Sniff, sniff. Are you a good
anti-Fascist? ), the retailing of atrocity stories, came back into vogue as though the
intervening years had never happened. Before the end of the Spanish war, and even
before Munich, some of the better of the left-wing writers were beginning to squirm.
Neither Auden nor, on the whole, Spender wrote about the Spanish war in quite the vein
that was expected of them. Since then there has been a change of feeling and much
dismay and confusion, because the actual course of events has made nonsense of the left-
wing orthodoxy of the last few years. But then it did not need very great acuteness to see
that much of it was nonsense from the start. There is no certainty, therefore, that the next
orthodoxy to emerge will be any better than the last.
On the whole the literary history of the thirties seems to justify the opinion that a writer
does well to keep out of politics. For any writer who accepts or partially accepts the
discipline of a political party is sooner or later faced with the alternative: toe the line, or
shut up. It is, of course, possible to toe the line and go on writing — after a fashion. Any
Marxist can demonstrate with the greatest of ease that ‘bourgeois’ liberty of thought is an
illusion. But when he has finished his demonstration there remains the psychological
FACT that without this ‘bourgeois’ liberty the creative powers wither away. In the future
a totalitarian literature may arise, but it will be quite different from anything we can now
imagine. Literature as we know it is an individual thing, demanding mental honesty and a
minimum of censorship. And this is even truer of prose than of verse. It is probably not a
coincidence that the best writers of the thirties have been poets. The atmosphere of
orthodoxy is always damaging to prose, and above all it is completely ruinous to the
novel, the most anarchical of all forms of literature. How many Roman Catholics have
been good novelists? Even the handful one could name have usually been bad Catholics.
The novel is practically a Protestant form of art; it is a product of the free mind, of the
autonomous individual. No decade in the past hundred and fifty years has been so barren
of imaginative prose as the nineteen-thirties. There have been good poems, good
sociological works, brilliant pamphlets, but practically no fiction of any value at all. From
1933 onwards the mental climate was increasingly against it. Anyone sensitive enough to
be touched by the ZEITGEIST was also involved in politics. Not everyone, of course,
was definitely in the political racket, but practically everyone was on its periphery and
more or less mixed up in propaganda campaigns and squalid controversies. Communists
and near-Communists had a disproportionately large influence in the literary reviews. It
was a time of labels, slogans, and evasions. At the worst moments you were expected to
lock yourself up in a constipating little cage of lies; at the best a sort of voluntary
censorship (‘Ought I to say this? Is it pro-Fascist? ’) was at work in nearly everyone’s
mind. It is almost inconceivable that good novels should be written in such an
atmosphere. ‘Good novels are not written by by orthodoxy-sniffers, nor by people who
are conscienee-stricken about their own unorthodoxy. Good novels are written by people
who are NOT FRIGHTENED. This brings me back to Henry Miller.
Ill
If this were a likely, moment for the launching of ‘schools’ literature, Henry Miller might
be the starting-point of a new ‘school’. He does at any rate mark an unexpected swing of
the pendulum. In his books one gets right away from the ‘political animal’ and back to a
viewpoint not only individualistic but completely passive — the view -point of a man who
believes the world-process to be outside his control and who in any case hardly wishes to
control it.
I first met Miller at the end of 1936, when I was passing trrough Paris on my way to
Spain. What most intrigued me about him was to find that he felt no interest in the
Spanish war whatever. He merely told me in forcible tenns that to go to Spain at that
moment was the act of an idiot. He could understand anyone going there from purely
selfish motives, out of curiosity, for instance, but to mix oneself up in such things FROM
A SENSE OBLIGATION was sheer stupidity. In any case my Ideas about combating
Fascism, defending democracy, etc. , etc. , were all baloney. Our civilization was destined
to be swept away and replaced by something so different that we should scarcely regard it
as human — a prospect that did not bother him, he said. And some such outlook is implicit
throughout his work. Everywhere there is the sense of the approaching cataclysm, and
almost everywhere the implied belief that it doesn’t matter. The only political declaration
which, so far as I know, he has ever made in print is a purely negative one. A year or so
ago an American magazine, the MARXIST QUARTERLY, sent out a questionnaire to
various American writers asking them to define their attitude on the subject of war.
Miller replied in terms of extreme pacifism, an individual refusal to fight, with no
apparent wish to convert others to the same opinion — practically, in fact, a declaration of
irresponsibility.
However, there is more than one kind of irresponsibility. As a rule, writers who do not
wish to identify themselves with the historical process at the moment either ignore it or
fight against if. If they can ignore it, they are probably fools. If they can understand it
well enough to want to fight against it, they probably have enough vision to realize that
they cannot win. Look, for instance, at a poem like ‘The Scholar Gipsy’, with its railing
against the ‘strange disease of modern life’ and its magnificent defeatist simile is the final
stanza. It expresses one of the normal literary attitudes, perhaps actually the prevailing
attitude during the last hundred years. And on the other hand there are the ‘progressives’,
the yea-sayers, the Shaw-Wells type, always leaping forward to embrace the ego-
projections which they mistake for the future. On the whole the writers of the twenties
took the first line and the writers of the thirties the second. And at any given moment, of
course, there is a huge tribe of Barries and Deepings and Dells who simply don’t notice
what is happening. Where Miller’s work is symptomatically important is in its avoidance
of any of these attitudes. He is neither pushing the world-process forward nor trying to
drag it back, but on the other hand he is by no means ignoring it. I should say that he
believes in the impending ruin of Western Civilization much more firmly than the
majority of ‘revolutionary’ writers; only he does not feel called upon to do anything
about it. He is fiddling While Rome is burning, and, unlike the enonnous majority of
people who do this, fiddling with his face towards the flames.
In MAX AND THE WHITE PHAGOCYTES there is one of those revealing passages in
which a writer tells you a great deal about himself while talking about somebody else.
The book includes a long essay on the diaries of Anais Nin, which I have never read,
except for a few fragments, and which I believe have not been published. Miller claims
that they are the only true feminine writing that has ever appeared, whatever that may
mean. But the interesting passage is one in which he compares Anais Nin — evidently a
completely subjective, introverted writer — to Jonah in the whale’s belly. In passing he
refers to an essay that Aldous Huxley wrote some years ago about El Greco’s picture,
The Dream of Philip the Second. Huxley remarks that the people in El Greco’s pictures
always look as though they were in the bellies of whales, and professes to find something
peculiarly horrible in the idea of being in a ‘visceral prison’. Miller retorts that, on the
contrary, there are many worse things than being swallowed by whales, and the passage
makes it dear that he himself finds the idea rather attractive. Here he is touching upon
what is probably a very widespread fantasy. It is perhaps worth noticing that everyone, at
least every English-speaking person, invariably speaks of Jonah and the WHALE. Of
course the creature that swallowed Jonah was a fish, and was so described in the Bible
(Jonah i. 17), but children naturally confuse it with a whale, and this fragment of baby-
talk is habitually carried into later life — a sign, perhaps, of the hold that the Jonah myth
has upon our imaginations. For the fact is that being inside a whale is a very comfortable,
cosy, homelike thought. The historical Jonah, if he can be so called, was glad enough to
escape, but in imagination, in day-dream, countless people have envied him. It is, of
course, quite obvious why. The whale’s belly is simply a womb big enough for an adult.
There you are, in the dark, cushioned space that exactly fits you, with yards of blubber
between yourself and reality, able to keep up an attitude of the completest indifference,
no matter what HAPPENS. A storm that would sink ah the battleships in the world would
hardly reach you as an echo. Even the whale’s own movements would probably be
imperceptible to you. He might be wallowing among the surface waves or shooting down
into the blackness of the middle seas (a mile deep, according to Herman Melville), but
you would never notice the difference. Short of being dead, it is the final, unsurpassable
stage of irresponsibility. And however it may be with Anais Nin, there is no question that
Miller himself is inside the whale. Ah his best and most characteristic passages are
written from the angle of Jonah, a willing Jonah. Not that he is especially introverted —
quite the contrary. In his case the whale happens to be transparent. Only he feels no
impulse to alter or control the process that he is undergoing. He has perfonned the
essential Jonah act of allowing himself to be swallowed, remaining passive,
ACCEPTING.
It will be seen what this amounts to. It is a species of quietism, implying either complete
unbelief or else a degree of belief amounting to mysticism. The attitude is ‘JE M’EN
FOUS’ or ‘Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him’, whichever way you like to look
at it; for practical purposes both are identical, the moral in either case being ‘Sit on your
bum’. But in a time like ours, is this a defensible attitude? Notice that it is almost
impossible to refrain from asking this question. At the moment of writing, we are still in a
period in which it is taken for granted that books ought always to be positive, serious, and
‘constructive’. A dozen years ago this idea would have been greeted with titters. (‘My
dear aunt, one doesn’t write about anything, one just WRITES. ’) Then the pendulum
swung away from the frivolous notion that art is merely technique, but it swung a very
long distance, to the point of asserting that a book can only be ‘good’ if it is founded on a
‘true’ vision of life. Naturally the people who believe this also believe that they are in
posssion of the truth themselves. Catholic critics, for instance, tend to claim that books
arc only ‘good’ when they are of Catholic tendency. Marxist critics make the same claim
more boldy for Marxist books. For instance, Mr Edward Upward (‘A Marxist
Interpretation of Literature,’ in the MIND IN CHAINS):
Literary criticism which aims at being Marxist must. . . proclaim that no book written at
the present time can be ‘good’ unless it is written from a Marxist or near-Marxist
viewpoint.
Various other writers have made similar or comparable statements. Mr Upward italicizes
‘at the present time’ because, he realizes that you cannot, for instance, dismiss HAMLET
on the ground that Shakespeare was not a Marxist. Nevertheless his interesting essay only
glances very shortly at this difficulty. Much of the literature that comes to us out of the
past is penneated by and in fact founded on beliefs (the belief in the immortality of the
soul, for example) which now seem to us false and in some cases contemptibly silly. Yet
if is ‘good’ literature, if survival is any test. Mr Upward would no doubt answer that a
belief which was appropriate several centuries ago might be inappropriate and therefore
stultifying now. But this does not get one much farther, because it assumes that in any
age there will be ONE body of belief which is the current approximation to truth, and that
the best literature of the time will be more or less in hannony with it. Actually no such
uniformity has ever existed. In seventeenth-century England, for instance, there was a
religious and political cleavage which distinctly resembled the left-right antagonism of
to-day. Looking back, most modern people would feel that the bourgeois-Puritan
viewpoint was a better approximation to truth than the Catholic-feudal one. But it is
certainly not the case that all or even a majority of the best writers of the time were
puritans. And more than this, there exist ‘good’ writers whose world-view would in any
age be recognized false and silly. Edgar Allan Poe is an example. Poe’s outlook is at best
a wild romanticism and at worst is not far from being insane in the literal clinical sense.
Why is it, then that stories like The Black Cat, The Tell-tale Heart, The Fall of the House
of Usher and so forth, which might very nearly have been written by a lunatic, do not
convey a feeling of falsity? Because they are true within a certain framework, they keep
the rules of their own peculiar world, like a Japanese picture. But it appears that to write
successfully about such a world you have got to believe in it. One sees the difference
immediately if one compares Poe’s TALES with what is, in my opinion, an insincere
attempt to work up a similar atmosphere, Julian Green’s MINUIT. The thing that
immediately strikes one about MINUIT is that there is no reason why any of the events in
it should happen. Everything is completely arbitrary; there is no emotional sequence.
