Commonplace Book

'...It was not so much an epic - as a towering image of the world in conflict, of man and the mystic vine whose fruit is Life and Death. It was the black mass of the Spring, the anguish of renewal when the unfurling bud was the signal for death, when the soft winds reopened the stench of last year's dead, and the lovers' moon led the way to destruction, when the rising sap, the terrible inevitability of spring, filled every heart with fear, when love died in hunger, when beauty was destroyed at its source in the eye, when everything the heart treasured was buried under the weight of metal, when every hopeful flower that broke the sod was a candle for a lost generation...'

from Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow by M. Barnard Eldershaw (Part IV)

Commonplace Book

'But noble, generous, wise, and modest pride is not a virtue much in vogue in our day. Are we not apt to think that democracy consists in making ourselves no better than our neighbours? Whereas true democracy implies only the free and fair chance to each man to be his best. The capacity for being one's best remains unchanged; and the duty of being one's best stands as obligatory as ever. I believe in freedom for all (the wise man might say), because I believe in it for myself, in order that I may realize my better and greater self. And to do this one must have pride, - pride that keeps one erect and unflinching to the last, - pride that insists on scrupulous manners, admirable breeding, deep culture, and impeccable self-control, - pride that preserves for ever the beautiful and radiant illusions of the soul. For without pride in ourselves, in our work, and in each other, life becomes sordid and vulgar and slovenly; the work of our hands unlovely; and we ourselves hopeless and debased.'

from Concerning Pride, a piece in The Kinship of Nature by Bliss Carman

Pathetic Symphony by Klaus Mann (1935)

This one sits at a crossroads. It's a biographical novel about Tchaikovsky, with an author known for his reaching into psychological states. But it's a piece from his earlier career, and shows a species of timidity not only for that reason, but also because of its time. Tchaikovsky's homosexuality is discussed, but in quite guarded terms. So much so, that one wonders whether Mann hasn't himself rather underimagined it. All of the alliances, mentorships and deep friendships in this life could have had a much more overt sexual aspect. As it is, the composer's leaning is described as "THIS!", a kind of code for the act and its unsayability. Times were moving on, and Mann caught this subject just as it began to be publicly broachable. The aspect he is able to cover quite distinctively is Tchaikovsky's mindscape. This book ripples with melancholic nervous irritability. Nervestorms are common, as is morbid nuzzling of death and paranoia. These punctuate a formal portrait of the not-quite-Russian-enough composer as he wanders the Europe he is perceived by many Russians to belong to, feeling criticised from every angle, weeping in hotel rooms, suffering seemingly endless lack of sleep, and encountering both snubs and wild approbation as he conducts performances of his work with notable orchestras and attends soirees with fellow grandees. All of this, coupled with his melancholia and morbidity, draws a strong picture of a man tortured and running the gamut of madly enthusiastic highs and hell-plumbing lows. And I guess, to be fair, the formality of this piece is its acknowledgement of the era in which its subject lived. It leaves a vivid picture of the man, which is what ought most to be expected from a biographical novel.

Commonplace Book

'...if we are not to devise means to better nature, if we are not to use our intelligence for purposes more benign than those of the pre-human and sub-human creation, I can form no notion of the proper use of mind at all. You may tell me that the inexorable law of nature has provided for progress by the simple means of preserving the fittest to survive, and that in human society we merely follow the same methods. But I say that the laws of nature can offer the soul no criterion for conduct. I only exist to temper the occurrences of nature, to deflect them to my own needs, and to alter my own human nature continually for the better. I do not know what the soul is, but I know that it exists; and I know that its admonitions form a more beautiful sanction for conduct than the primitive code of evolution taken alone...'

from The Courtesy of Nature, a piece in The Kinship of Nature by Bliss Carman

Commonplace Book

'...One may question whether it were not better largely to forsake our habit of questioning and live more like the creatures. If wisdom lies inside the door of studious thought, madness is also sleeping there; and the mortal who knocks does so at his peril. We may become as gods to know good from evil; but are we sure that happiness inheres in that knowledge?'

from Careless Nature, a piece in The Kinship of Nature by Bliss Carman

Commonplace Book

'...The ancient immemorial joy of a thousand departed Aprils stirs from its lurking sleep in those placid veins of yours, and would lure you away beyond the limits of the town. It is the old spring fret that moved myriads of your fellows long before, and will move others when we are gone. But for the ample moment, the large sufficient now, our glad elasticity of spirit, our rapturous exhilaration of life, are as keen as if they were to be eternal. Indeed, they are the eternal part of us, of which we partake in these rare instants of existence.'

from April in Town, a piece in The Kinship of Nature by Bliss Carman

Commonplace Book

'...Most of all he hated the big bosoms. He took them up and he brought them down, load after load of self-satisfied  big bosoms. They puffed scent and powder at him, the smell of armpits and rubber corsets, and a smell like candles he could not identify. Another thing, they moved slowly, they paused half in, half out, of the lift, they stood in the middle and wouldn't let people in or out, they took their time. He spent all the time shoving big bosoms along, which was hard work because, of course, he must not ever on any account touch a passenger. They didn't mind touching him. They lolloped against him, nudged him with parcels, trod unconcerned on his feet. His brain was hard and tumescent with prolonged exasperation.'

from Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow by M. Barnard Eldershaw (Part II)