Inside the Whale Essay

When Henry Miller's novel,

Tropic of Cancer

, appeared in 1935, it was greeted with rather

cautious praise, obviously conditioned in some cases by a fear of seeming to enjoy

pornography. Among the people who praised it were T. S. Eliot, Herbert Read, Aldous

Huxley, John dos Passes, Ezra Pound — on the whole, not the writers who are in fashion at

this moment. And in fact the subject matter ofthebook, and to a certain extent its mental

atmosphere, belong to the twenties rather than to the thirties.

Tropic of Cancer

is a novel in the first person, or autobiography in the form of a novel,

whichever way you like to look at it. Miller himself insists that it is straight autobiography,

but the tempo and method of telling the story are those of a novel. It is a story of the

American Paris, but not along quite the usual lines, because the Americans who figure in it

happen to be people without money. During the 1 boom years, when dollars were plentiful

and the exchange-value of the franc was low, Paris was invaded by such a swarm of artists,

writers, students, dilettanti, sight-seers, debauchees, and plain idlers as the world has

probably never seen. In some quarters of the town the so-called artists must actually have

outnumbered the working population — indeed, it has been reckoned thatm the late twenties

ther were as many as 30,000 painters in Paris, most of them impostors. The populace had

grown so hardened to artists that gruff-voiced lesbians in corduroy breeches and young men

in Grecian or medieval costume could walk the streets without attracting a glance, and along

the Seine banks Notre Dame it was almost impossible to pick one's way between the

sketching-stools. It was the age of dark horses and neglected genii; the phrase on everybody's

lips was ‘

Quand je serai lancé

’. As it turned out, nobody was ‘

lancé

’, the slump descended

like another Ice Age, the cosmopolitan mob of artists vanished, and the huge Montparnasse

cafés which only ten years ago were filled till the small hours by hordes of shrieking poseurs

have turned into darkened tombs in which there arc not even any ghosts. It is this world —

described in, among other novels, Wyndham Lewis's

Tarr

— that Miller is writing about, but

he is dealing only with the under side of it, the lumpen-proletarian fringe which has been able

to survive the slump because it is composed partly of genuine artists and partly of genuine

scoundrels. The neglected genii, the paranoiacs who art always ‘going to’ write the novel that

will knock Proust into a cocked hat, are there, but they are only genii in the rather rare

moments when they are not scouting about for the next meal. For the most part it is a story of

bug-ridden rooms in working-men's hotels, of fights, drinking bouts, cheap brothels, Russian

refugees, cadging, swindling, and temporary jobs. And the whole atmosphere of the poor

quarters of Paris as a foreigner sees them — the cobbled alleys, the sour reek of refuse, the

bistros with their greasy zinc counters and worn brick floors, the green waters of the Seine,

the blue cloaks of the Republican Guard, the crumbling iron urinals, the peculiar sweetish

smell of the Metro stations, the cigarettes that come to pieces, the pigeons in the Luxembourg

Gardens — it is all there, or at any rate the feeling of it is there.

On the face of it no material could be less promising. When

Tropic of Cancer

was published

the Italians were marching into Abyssinia and Hitler's concentration camps were already

bulging. The intellectual foci of the world were Rome, Moscow, and Berlin. It did not seem

to be a moment at which a novel of outstanding value was likely to be written about

American dead-beats cadging drinks in the Latin Quarter. Of course a novelist is not obliged

to write directly about contemporary history, but a novelist who simply disregards the major

public events of the moment is generally either a footler or a plain idiot. From a mere account

of the subject matter of

Tropic of Cancer

most people would probably assume it to be no

more thatt a bit of naughty-naughty left over from the twenties. Actually, nearly everyone

who read it saw at once that it was nothing of the kind, but a very remarkable book. How or

why remarkable? That question is never easy to answer. It is better to begin by describing the

impression that

Tropic of Cancer

has left on my own mind.

When I first opened

Tropic of Cancer

and saw that it was full of unprintable words, my

immediate reaction was a refusal to be impressed. Most people's would be the same, I

believe. Nevertheless, after a lapse of time the atmosphere of the book, besides innumerable

details, seemed to linger in my memory in a peculiar way. A year later Miller's second book,

Black Spring

, was published. By this tim?

Tropic of Cancer

was much more vividly present

in my mind than it had been when I first read it. My first feeling about

Black Spring

was that

it showed a falling-off, and it is a fact that it has not the same unity as the other book. Yet

after another year there were many passages in

Black Spring

that had also rooted themselves

in my memory. Evidently these books are of the sort to leave a flavour behind them — books

that ‘create a world of their own’, as the saying goes. The books that do this are not

necessarily good books, they may be good bad books like

Raffles

or the

Sherlock Holmes

stories, or perverse and morbid books like

Wuthering Heights

The House with the Green

Shutters

. But now and again there appears a novel which opens up a new world not by

revealing what is strange, but by revealing what is familiar. The truly remarkable thing about

Ulysses

, for instance, is the commonplaceness of its material. Of course there is much more

Ulysses

than this, because Joyce is a kind of poet and also an elephantine pedant, but his

real achievement has been to get the familiar on to paper. He dared — for it is a matter of

daring

justas much as of technique — to expose the imbecilities of the inner mind, and in

doing so he discovered an America which was under everybody's nose. Here is a whole world

of stuff which you supposed to be of its nature incommunicable, and somebody has managed

to communicate it. The effect is to break down, at any rate momentarily, the solitude in which

the human being lives. When you read certain passages in

Ulysses

you feel that Joyce's mind

and your mind are one, that he knows all about you though he has never heard your name,

that there some world outside time and space in which you and he are together. And though

he does not resemble Joyce in other ways, there is a touch of this quality in Henry Miller. Not

everywhere, because his work is very uneven, and sometimes, especially in

Black Spring

tends to slide away into more verbiage or into the squashy universe of the surresalists. But

read him for five pages, ten pages, and you feel the peculiar relief that comes not so much

from understanding as from

being understood

. ‘He knows all about me,’ you feel; ‘he wrote

this specially for me’. It is as though you could hear a voice speaking to you, a friendly

Amierican voice, with no humbug in it, no moral purpose, merely an implicit assumption that

we are all alike. For the moment you have got away from the lies and simplifications, the

stylized, marionette-like quality of ordinary fiction, even quite good fiction, and are dealing

with the recognizable experiences of human beings.

But what kind of experience? What kind of human beings? Miller is writing about the man in

the street, and it is incidentally rather a pity that it should be a street full of brothers. That is

the penalty of leaving your native land. It means transferring your roots into shallower soil.

Exile is probably more damaging to a novelist than to a painter or even a poet, because its

effect is to take him out of contact with working life and narrow down his range to the street,

the cafe, the church, the brothel and the studio. On the whole, in Miller's books you are

reading about people living the expatriate life, people drinking, talking, meditating, and

fornicating, not about people working, marrying, and bringing up children; a pity, because he

would have described the one set of activities as well as the other. In

Black Spring

there is a

wonderful flashback of New York, the swarming Irish-infested New York of the O. Henry

period, but the Paris scenes are the best, and, granted their utter worthlessness as social types,

the drunks and dead-beats of the cafes are handled with a feeling for character and a mastery

of technique that are unapproached in any at all recent novel. All of them are not only

credible but completely familiar; you have the feeling that all their adventures have happened

to yourself. Not that they are anything very startling in the way of adventures. Henry gets a

job with a melancholy Indian student, gets another job at a dreadful French school during a

cold snap when the lavatories are frozen solid, goes on drinking bouts in Le Havre with his

friend Collins, the sea captain, goes tse brothels where there are wonderful Negresses, talks

with his friend Van Norden, the novelist, who has got the great novel of the world in his head

but can never bring himself to begin writing it. His friend Karl, on the verge of starvation, is

picked up by a wealthy widow who wishes to marry him. There are interminable Hamlet-like

conversations in which Karl tries to decide which is worse, being hungry or sleeping with an

old woman. In great detail he describes his visits to the widow, how he went to the hotel

dressed in his best, how before going in he neglected to urinate, so that the whole evening

was one long crescendo of torment etc., etc. And after all, none of it is true, the widow

doesn't even exist — Karl has simply invented her in order to make himself seem important.

The whole book is in this vein, more or less. Why is it that these monstrous trivialities are so

engrossing? Simply because the whole atmosphere is deeply familiar, because you have all

the while the feeling that these things are happening to

you

. And you have this feeling

because somebody has chosen to drop the Geneva language of the ordinary novel and drag

the

real-politik

of the inner mind into the open. In Miller's case it is not so much a question of

exploring the mechanisms of the mind as of owning up to everyday facts and everyday

emotions. For the truth is that many ordinary people, perhaps an actual majority, do speak

and behave in just the way that is recorded here. The callous coarseness with which the

characters in

Tropic of Cancer

talk is very rare in fiction, but it is extremely common in real

life; again and again I have heard just such conversations from people who were not even

aware that they were talking coarsely. It is worth noticing that

Tropic of Cancer

is not a

young man's book. Miller was in his forties when it was published, and though since then he

has produced three or four others, it is obvious that this first book had been lived with for

years. It is one of those books that are slowly matured in poverty and obscurity, by people

who know what they have got to do and therefore are able to wait. The prose is astonishing,

and in parts of

Black Spring

is even better. Unfortunately I cannot quote; unprintable words

occur almost everywhere. But get hold of

Tropic of Cancer

, get hold of

Black Spring

and

read especially the first hundred pages. They give you an idea of what can still be done, even

at this late date, with English prose. In them, English is treated as a spoken language, but

spoken

without fear

, i.e. without fear of rhetoric or of the unusual or poetical word. The

adjective has come back, after its ten years’ exile. It is a flowing, swelling prose, a prose with

rhythms in it, something quite different from the flat cautious statements and snack-bar

dialects that are now in fashion.

When a book like

Tropic of Cancer

appears, it is only natural that the first thing people notice

should be its obscenity. Given our current notions of literary decency, it is not at all easy to

approach an unprintable book with detachment. Either one is shocked and disgusted, or one is

morbidly thrilled, or one is determined above all else not to be impressed. The last is

probably the commonest reaction, with the result that unprintable books often get less

attention than they deserve. It is rather the fashion to say that nothing is easier than to write

an obscene book, that people only do it in order to get themselves talked about and make

money, etc., etc. What makes it obvious that this is

not

the case is that books which are

obscene in the police-court sense are distinctly uncommon. If there were easy money to be

made out of dirty words, a lot more people would be making it. But, because ‘obscene’ books

do not appear very frequently, there is a tendency to lump them together, as a rule quite

unjustifiably.

Tropic of Cancer

has been vaguely associated with two other books,

Ulysses

and

Voyage au bout de la nuit

, but in neither case is there much resemblance. What Miller

has in common with Joyce is a willingness to mention the inane, squalid facts of everyday

life. Putting aside differences of technique, the funeral scene in

Ulysses

, for instance, would

fit into

Tropic of Cancer

; the whole chapter is a sort of confession, an

exposé

of the frightful

inner callousness of the human being. But there the resemblance ends. As a novel,

Tropic of

Cancer

is far inferior to

Ulysses

. Joyce is an artist, in a sense in which Miller is not and

probably would not wish to be, and in any case he is attempting much more. He is exploring

different states of consciousness, dream, reverie (the ‘bronze-by-gold’ chapter), drunkenness,

etc., and dovetailing them all into a huge complex pattern, almost like a Victorian ‘plot’.

Miller is simply a hard-boiled person talking about life, an ordinary American businessman

with intellectual courage and a gift for words. It is perhaps significant that he

looks

exactly

like everyone's idea of an American businessman. As for the comparison with

Voyage au

bout de la nuit

, it is even further from the point. Both books, use unprintable words, both are

in some sense autobiographical, but that is all.

Voyage au beut de la nuit

is a book-with-a-

purpose, and its purpose is to protest against the horror and meaninglessness of modern life

— actually, indeed, of

life

. It is a cry of unbearable disgust, a voice from the cesspool.

Tropic

of Cancer

is almost exactly the opposite. The thing has become so unusual as to seem almost

anomalous, but it is the book of a man who is happy. So is

Black Spring

, though slightly less

so, because tinged in places with nostalgia. With years of lumpen-proletarian life behind him,

hunger, vagabondage, dirt, failure, nights in the open, battles with immigration officers,

endless struggles for a bit of cash, Miller finds that he is enjoying himself. Exactly the aspects

of life that feel Céline with horror are the ones that appeal to him. So far from protesting, he

accepting

. And the very word ‘acceptance’ calls up his real affinity, another American,

Walt Whitman.

But there is something rather curious in being Whitman in the nineteen-thirties. It is not

certain that if Whitman himself were alive at the moment he would write anything in the least

degree resembling

Leases of Grass

. For what he is saying, after all, is ‘I accept’, and there is

a radical difference between acceptance now and acceptance then. Whitman was writing in a

time of unexampled prosperity, but more than that, he was writing in a country where

freedom was something more than a word. The democracy, equality, and comradeship that he

is always talking about arc not remote ideals, but something that existed in front of his eyes.

In mid-nineteenth-century America men felt themselves free and equal,

were

free and equal,

so far as that is possible outside-a society of pure communism. There was povery and there

were even class distinctions, but except for the Negroes there was no permanently submerged

class. Everyone had inside him, like a kind of core, the, iteaowledge that he could earn a

decent living, and earn it without bootlicking. When you read about Mark Twain's

Mississippi raftsmen and pilots, or Bret Harte's Western gold-miners, they seem more remote

than the cannibals of the Stone Age. The reason is simply that they are free human beings.

But it is the same even with the peaceful domesticated America of the Eastern states, the

America of the

Little Women

Helen's Babies

, and

Riding Down from Bangor

. Life has a

buoyant, carefree quality that you can feel as you read, like a physical sensation in your belly.

If is this that Whitman is celebrating, though actually he does it very badly, because he is one

of those writers who tell you what you ought to feel instead of making you feel it. Luckilly

for his beliefs, perhaps, he died too early to see the deterioration in American life that came

with the rise of large-scale industry and the exploiting of cheap immigrant labour.

Millers outlook is deeply akin to that of Whitman, and neaarly everyone who has read him

has remarked on this.

Tropic of Cancer

ends with an especially Whitmanesque passage, in

which, after the lecheries, the swindles, the fights, the drinking bouts, and the imbecilities, he

simply sits down and watches the Seine flowing past, in a sort of mystical acceptance of

thihg-as-it-is. Only, what is he accepting? In the first place, not America, but the ancient

bone-heap of Europe, where every grain of soil has passed through innumerable human

bodies. Secondly, not an epoch of expansion and liberty, but an epoch of fear, tyranny, and

regimentation. To say ‘I accept’ in an age like our own is to say that you accept concentration

camps, rubber truncheons. Hitler, Stalin, bombs, aeroplanes, tinned food, machine guns,

putsches, purges, slogans, Bedaux belts, gas masks, submarines, spies, provocateurs, press

censorship, secret prisons, aspirins, Hollywood films, and political murders. Not

only

those

things, of course, but, those things among-others. And on the whole this is Henry Miller's

attitude. Not quite always, because at moments he shows signs of a fairly ordinary kind of

literary nostalgia. There is a long passage in the earlier part of

Black Spring

, in praise of the

Middle Ages, which as prose must be one of the most remarkable pieces of writing in recent

years, but which displays an attitude not very different from that of Chesterton. In

Max and

the White Phagocytes

there is an attack on modern American civilization (breakfast cereals,

cellophane, etc.) from the usual angle of the literary man who hates industrialism. But in

general the attitude is ‘Let's swallow it whole’. And hence the seeming preocupation with

indecency and with the dirty-handkerchief sidd of life. It is only seeming, for the truth is that

ordinary everyday life consists far more largely of horrors than writers of fiction usually care

to admit. Whitman himself ‘accepted’ a great deal that his contemporaries found

unmentionable. For he is not only writing of the prairie, he also wanders through the city and

notes the shattered skull of the suicide, the ‘grey sick faces of onanists’, etc.,etc. But

unquestionably our own age, at any rate in Western Europe, is less healthy and less hopeful

than the age in which Whitman was writing. Unlike Whitman, we live in a

shrinking

world.

The ‘democratic vistas’ have ended in barbed wire. There is less feeling of creation and

growth, less and less emphasis on the cradle, endlessly rocking, more and more emphasis on

the teapot, endlessly stewing. To accept civilization

as it is

practically means accepting

decay. It has ceased to be a strenuous attitude and become a passive attitude — even

‘decadent’, if that word means anything.

But precisely because, in one sense, he is passive to experience. Miller is able to get nearer to

the ordinary man than is possible to more purposive writers. For the ordinary man is also

passive. Within a narrow circle (home life, and perhaps the trade union or local politics) he

feels himself master of his fate, but against major events he is as helpless as against the

elements. So far from endeavouring to influence the future, he simply lies down and lets

things happen to him. During the past ten years literature has involved itself more and more

deeply in politics, with the result that there is now less room in it for the ordinary man than at

any time during the past two centuries. One can see the change in the prevailing literary

attitude by comparing the books written about the Spanish civil war with those written about

the war of 1914-18. The immediately striking thing about the Spanish war books, at any rate

those written in English, is their shocking dullness and badness. But what is more significant

is that almost all of them, right-wing or left-wing, are written from a political angle, by

cocksure partisans telling you what to think, whereas the books about the Great War were

written by common soldiers or junior officers who did not even pretend to understand what

the whole thing was about. Books like

All Quiet on the Western Front, Le Feu, A Farewell to

Arms, Death of a Hero, Good-bye to All That, Memoirs of an Infantry Officer

, and

Subaltern on the Somme

were written not by propagandists but by

victims

. They are saying in

effect, ‘What the hell is all this about? God knows. All we can do is to endure.’ And though

he is not writing about war, nor, on the whole, about unhappiness, this is nearer te Miller's

attitude than the omniscience which is now fashionable. The

Booster

, a short-lived periodical

of which he was part-editor, used to describe itself in its advertisements as ‘non-political,

non-educational, non-progressive, non-co-operative, non-ethical, non-literary, non-consistent,

non-contemporary’, and Miller's own work could be described in nearly the same terms. It is

a voice from the crowd, from the underling, from the third-class carriage, from the ordinary,

non-political, non-moral, passive man.

I have been using the phrase ‘ordinary man’ rather loosely, and I have taken it for granted

that the ‘ordinary man’ exists, a thing now denied by some people. I do not mean that the

people Miller is writing about constitute a majority, still less that he is writing about

proletarians. No English or American novelist has as yet seriously attempted that. And again,

the people in

Tropic of Cancer

fall short of being ordinary to the extent that they are idle,

disreputable, and more or less ‘artistic’. As I have said already, this a pity, but it is the

necessary result of expatriation. Miller's ‘ordinary man’ is neither the manual worker nor the

suburban householder, but the derelict, the

déclassé

, the adventurer, the American intellectual

without roots and without money. Still, the experiences even of this type overlap fairly

widely with those of more normal people. Milter has been able to get the most out of his

rather limited material because he has had the courage to identify with it. The ordinary man,

the ‘average sensual man’, has been given the power of speech, like Balaam's ass.

It will be seen that this is something out of date, or at any rate out of fashion. The average

sensual man is out of fashion. Preoccupation with sex and truthfulness about the inner life are

out of fashion. American Paris is out of fashion. A book like

Tropic of Cancer

, published at

such a time, must be either a tedious preciosity or something unusual, and I think a majority

of the people who have read it would agree that it is not the first. It is worth trying to discover

just what, this escape from the current literary fashion means. But to do that one has got to

see it against its background — that is, against the general development of English literature

in the twenty years since the Great War.

When one says that a writer is fashionable one practically always means that he is admired by

people under thirty. At the beginning of the period I am speaking of, the years during and

immediately after the war, the writer who had the deepest hold upon the thinking young was

almost certainly Housman. Among people who were adolescent in the years 1910-25,

Housman had an influence which was fiBnormous and is now not at all easy to understand. In

1920, when I was about seventeen, I probably knew the whole of the

Shropshire Lad

heart. I wonder how much impression the

Shropshire Lad

makes at this moment on a boy of

the same age and more or less the same cast of mind? No doubt he has heard of it and even

glanced into it; it might strike him as cheaply clever — probably that would be about all. Yet

these are the poems that I and my contemporaries used to recite to ourselves, over and over,

in a kind of ecstasy, just as earlier generations had recited Meredith's ‘Love in a Valley’,

Swinburne's ‘Garden of Proserpine’ etc., etc.

With rue my heart is laden

For golden friends I had,

For many a roselipt maiden

And many a lightfoot lad.

By brooks too broad for leaping

The lightfoot boys.are laid;

The roselipt girls arc sleeping

In fields Where roses fade.

It just tinkles. But it did not seem to tinkle in 1920. Why does the bubble always burst? To

answer that question one has to take account of the

external

conditions that make certain

writers popular at certain times. Housman's poems had not attracted much notice when they

were first published. What was there in them that appealed so deeply to a single generation,

the generation born round about 1900?

In the first place, Housman is a ‘country’ poet. His poems are full of the charm of buried

villages, the nostalgia of place-names, Clunton and Clunbury, Knighton, Ludlow, ‘on

Wenlock Edge’, ‘in summer time on Bredon’, thatched roofs and the jingle of smithies, the

wild jonquils in the pastures, the ‘blue, remembered hills’. War poems apart, English verse of

the 1910-25 period is mostly ‘country’. The reason no doubt was that the

rentier

-professional

class was ceasing once and for all to have any real relationship with the soil; but at any rate

there prevailed then, far more than now, a kind of snobbism of belonging to the country and

despising the town. England at that time was hardly more an agricultural country than it is

now, but before the light industries began to spread themselves it was easier to think of it as

one. Most middle-class boys grew up within sight of a farm, and naturally it was the

picturesque side of farm life that appealed to them — the ploughing, harvesting, stack-

thrashing and so forth. Unless he has to do it himself a boy is not likely to notice the horrible

drudgery of hoeing turnip, milking cows with chapped teats at four o'clock in the morning,

etc., etc. Just before, just after, and for that matter, during the war was the great age of the

‘Nature poet’, the heyday of Richard Jefferies and W. H. Hudson. Rupert Brooke's

‘Grantchester’, the star poem of 1913, is nothing but an enormous gush of ‘country’

sentiment, a sort of accumulated vomit from a stomach stuffed with place-names. Considered

as a poem ‘Grantchester’ is something wors than worthless, but as an illustration of what the

thinking middle-class young of that period

felt

it is a valuable document.

Housman, however, did not enthuse over the rambler roses in the week-ending spirit of

Brooke and the others. The ‘country’ motif is there all the time, but mainly as a background.

Most of the poems have a quasi-human subject, a kind of idealized rustic, in reality Strephon

or Corydon brought up to date. This in itself had a deep appeal. Experience shows that

overcivilized people enjoy reading about rustics (key-phrase, ‘close to the soil’) because they

imagine them to be more primitive and passionate than themselves. Hence the ‘dark earth’

novel of Sheila Kaye-Smith, etc. And at that time a middle-class boy, with his ‘country’ bias,

would identify with an agricultural worker as he would never have done with a town worker.

Most boys had in their minds a vision of an idealized ploughman, gipsy, poacher, or

gamekeeper, always pictured as a wild, free, roving blade, living a life of rabbit-snaring,

cockfighting, horses, beer, and women. Masefield's ‘Everlasting Mercy’, another valuable

period-piece, immensely popular with boys round about the war years, gives you this vision

in a very crude form. But Housman's Maurices and Terences could be taken seriously where

Mascfield's Saul Kane could not; on this side of him, Housman was Masefield with a dash of

Theocritus. Moreover all his themes are adolescent — murder, suicide, unhappy love, early

death. They deal with the simple, intelligible disasters that give you the feeling of being up

against the ‘bedrock facts of life:

The sun burns on the half-mown hill,

By now the blood has dried;

And Maurice among the hay lies still

And my knife is in his side.

And again:

They hand us now in Shrewsbury jail

And whistles blow forlorn,

And trains all night groan on the rail

To men who die at morn.

It is all more or less in the same tune. Everything comes unstuck. ‘Ned lies long in the

churchyard and Tom lies long in jail’. And notice also the exquisite self-pity — the ‘nobody

loves me’ feeling:

The diamond drops adorning

The low mound on the lea,

These arc the tears of morning,

That weeps, but not for thee.

Hard cheese, old chap! Such poems might have been written expressly for adolescents. And

the unvarying sexual pessimism (the girl always dies or marries somebody else) seemed like

wisdom to boys who were herded together in public schools and were half-inclined to think

of women as something unattainable. Whether Housman ever had the same appeal for girls I

doubt. In his poems the woman's point of view is not considered, she is merely the nymph,

the siren, the treacherous half-human creature who leads you a little distance and then gives

you the slip.

But Housman would not have appealed so deeply to the people who were young in 1920 if it

had not been for another strain in him, and that was his blasphemous, antinomian, ‘cynical’

strain. The fight that always occurs between the generations was exceptionally bitter at the

end of the Great War; this was partly due to the war itself, and partly it was an indirect result

of the Russian Revolution, but an intellectual struggle was in any case due at about that date.

Owing probably to the ease and security of life in England, which even the war hardly

disturbed, many people whose ideas were formed in the eighties or earlier had carried them

quite unmodified into the nineteen-twenties. Meanwhile, so far as the younger generation was

concerned, the official beliefs were dissolving like sand-castles. The slump in religious belief,

for instance, was spectacular. For several years the old-young antagonism took on a quality of

real hatred. What was left of the war generation had crept out of the massacre to find their

elders still bellowing the slogans of 1914, and a slightly younger generation of boys were

writhing under dirty-minded celibate schoolmasters. It was to these that Housman appealed,

with his implied sexual revolt and his personal grievance against God. He was patriotic, it

was true, but in a harmless old-fashioned way, to the tune of red coats and ‘God save the

Queen’ rather than steel helmets and ‘Hang the Kaiser’. And he was satisfyingly anti-

Christian — he stood for a kind of bitter, defiant paganism, the conviction that life is short

and the gods are against you, which exactly fitted the prevailing mood of the young; and all

in charming fragile verse that was composed almost entirely of words of one syllable.

It will be seen that I have discussed Housman as though he were merely a propagandist, an

utterer of maxims and quotable ‘bits’. Obviously he was more than that. There is no need to

under-rate him now because he was over-rated a few years ago. Although one gets into

trouble nowadays for saying so, there are a number of his poems (‘Into my heart an air that

kills’, for instance, and ‘Is my team ploughing?’) 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 determine the form 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

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

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.

Germany 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

informing 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 form

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

(1)

, 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.

And again:

The poets of

New Signatures

have swung back... to the Greek preference for

information or statement. The 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-Blooms-bury 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

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

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’. 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 ferment 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 normal 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 rearm, 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 régime 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 régime 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

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.

III

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 terms 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 enormous

majority of people who do this, fiddling with his face towards the flames.

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 all 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. All 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 performed 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

permeated 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 harmony 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. But this is exactly what one does

not

feel with Poe's stories. Their maniacal logic, in its own setting, is quite convincing. When, for

instance, the drunkard seizes the black cat and cuts its eye out with his penknife, one knows

exactly

why

he did it, even to the point of feeling that one would have done the same oneself.

It seems therefore that for a creative writer possession of the ‘truth’ is less important than

emotional sincerity. Even Mr Upward would not claim that a writer needs nothing beyond a

Marxist training. He also needs a talent. But talent, apparently, is a matter of being able to

care

, of really

believing

in your beliefs, whether they are true or false. The difference

between, for instance, Céline and Evelyn Waugh is a difference of emotional intensity. It is

the difference between genuine despair and a despair that is at least partly a pretence. And

with this there goes another consideration which is perhaps less obvious: that there are

occasions when an ‘untrue’ belief is more likely to be sincerely held than a ‘true’ one.

If one looks at the books of personal reminiscence written about the war of 1914-18, one

notices that nearly all that have remained readable after a lapse of time are written from a

passive, negative angle. They are the records of something completely meaningless, a

nightmare happening in a void. That was not actually the truth about the war, but it was the

truth about the individual reaction. The soldier advancing into a machine-gun barrage or

standing waist-deep in a flooded trench knew only that here was an appalling experience in

which he was all but helpless. He was likelier to make a good book out of his helplessness

and his ignorance than out of a pretended power to see the whole thing in perspective. As for

the books that were written during the war itself, the best of them were nearly all the work of

people who simply turned their backs and tried not to notice that the war was happening. Mr

E. M. Forster has described how in 1917 he read

Prufrock

and other of Eliot's early poems,

and how it heartened him at such a time to get hold of poems that were ‘innocent of public-

spiritedness’:

They sang of private disgust and diffidence, and of people who seemed

genuine because they were unattractive or weak. ... Here was a protest, and a

feeble one, and the

congenial for being o feeble. ... He who could turn

aside to complain of ladies and drawing rooms preserved a tiny drop of our

self-respect, he carried on the human heritage.

That is very well said. Mr MacNeice, in the book I have referred to already, quotes this

passage and somewhat smugly adds:

Ten years later less feeble protests were to be made by poets and the human

heritage carried on rather differently. ... The contemplation of a world of

fragments becomes boring and Eliot's successors are more interested in tidying

it up.

Similar remarks are scattered throughout Mr MacNeice's book. What he wishes us to believe

is that Eliot's ‘successors’ (meaning Mr MacNeice and his friends) have in some way

‘protested’ more effectively than Eliot did by publishing

Prufrock

at the moment when the

Allied armies were assaulting the Hindenburg Line. Just where these ‘protests’ are to be

found I do not know. But in the contrast between Mr Forster's comment and Mr MacNeice's

lies all the difference between a man who knows what the 1914-18 war was like and a man

who barely remembers it. The truth is that in 1917 there was nothing that a thinking and a

sensitive person could do, except to remain human, if possible. And a gesture of helplessness,

even of frivolity, might be the best way of doing that. If I had been a soldier fighting in the

Great War, I would sooner have got hold of

Prufrock

than

The First Hundred Thousand

Horatio Bottomley's

Letters to the Boys in the Trenches

. I should have felt, like Mr Forster,

that by simply standing aloof and keeping touch with pre-war emotions, Eliot was carrying

on the human heritage. What a relief it would have been at such a time, to read about the

hesitations of a middle-aged highbrow with a bald spot! So different from bayonet-drill!

After the bombs and the food-queues and the recruiting-posters, a human voice! What a

relief!

But, after all, the war of 1914-18 was only a heightened moment in an almost continuous

crisis. At this date it hardly even needs a war to bring home to us the disintegration of our

society and the increasing helplessness of all, decent people. It is for this reason that I think

that the passive, non-co-operative attitude implied in Henry Miller's work is justified.

Whether or not it is an expression of what people

ought

to feel, it probably comes somewhere

near to expressing what they

feel. Once again it is the human voice among the bomb-

explosions, a friendly American voice, ‘innocent of public-spiritedness’. No sermons, merely

the subjective truth. And along those lines, apparently, it is still possible for a good novel to

be written. Not necessarily an edifying novel, but a novel worth reading and likely to be

remembered after it is read.

While I have been writing this essay another European war has broken out. It will either last

several years and tear Western civilization to pieces, or it will end inconclusively and prepare

the way for yet another war which will do the job once and for all. But war is only ‘peace

intensified’. What is quite obviously happening, war or no war, is the break-up of

laissez-

faire

capitalism and of the liberal-Christian culture. Until recently the full implications of this

were not foreseen, because it was generally imagined that socialism could preserve and even

enlarge the atmosphere of liberalism. It is now beginning to be realized how false this idea

was. Almost certainly we are moving into an age of totalitarian dictatorships — an age in

which freedom of thought will be at first a deadly sin and later on a meaningless abstraction.

The autonomous individual is going to be stamped out of existence. But this means that

literature, in the form in which we know it, must suffer at least a temporary death. The

literature of liberalism is coming to an end and the literature of totalitarianism has not yet

appeared and is barely imaginable. As for the writer, he is sitting on a melting iceberg; he is

merely an anachronism, a hangover from the bourgeois age, as surely doomed as the

hippopotamus. Miller seems to me a man out of the common because he saw and proclaimed

this fact a long while before most of his contemporaries — at a time, indeed, when many of

them were actually burbling about a renaissance of literature. Wyndham Lewis had said years

earlier that the major history of the English language was finished, but he was basing this on

different and rather trivial reasons. But from now onwards the all-important fact for the

creative writers going to be that this is not a writer's world. That does not mean that he cannot

help to bring the new society into being, but he can take no part in the process

as a writer

For

as a writer

he is a liberal, and what is happening is the destruction of liberalism. It seems

likely, therefore, that in the remaining years of free speech any novel worth reading will

follow more or less along the lines that Miller has followed — I do not mean in technique or

subject matter, but in implied outlook. The passive attitude will come back, and it will be

more consciously passive than before. Progress and reaction have both turned out to be

swindles. Seemingly there is nothing left but quietism — robbing reality of its terrors by

simply submitting to it. Get inside the whale — or rather, admit you are inside the whale (for

you

are

, of course). Give yourself over to the worid-process, stop fighting against it or

pretending that you control it; simply accept it, endure it, record it. That seems to be the

formula, that any sensitive novelist is now likely to adopt. A novel on more positive,

‘constructive’ lines, and not emotionally spurious, is at present very difficult to imagine.

But do I mean by this that Miller is a ‘great author’, a new hope for English prose? Nothing

of the kind. Miller himself would be the last to claim or want any such thing. No doubt he

will go on writing — anybody who has ones started always goes on writing — and associated

with him there are a number of writers of approximately the same tendency, Lawrence

Durrell, Michael Fraenkel and others, almost amounting to a ‘school’. But he himself seems

to me essentially a man of one book. Sooner or later I should expect him to descend into

unintelligibility, or into charlatanism: there are signs of both in his later work. His last book,

Tropic of Capricorn

, I have not even read. This was not because I did not want to read it, but

because the police and Customs authorities have so far managed to prevent me from getting

hold of it. But it would surprise me if it came anywhere near

Tropic of Cancer

or the opening

chapters of

Black Spring

. Like certain other autobiographical novelists, he had it in him to do

just one thing perfectly, and he did it. Considering what the fiction of the nineteen-thirties has

been like, that is something.

Miller's books are published by the Obelisk Press in Paris. What will happen to the Obelisk

Press, now that war has broken out and Jack Kathane, the publisher, is dead, I do not know,

but at any rate the books are still procurable. I earnestly counsel anyone who has not done so

to read at least

Tropic of Cancer

. With a little ingenuity, or by paying a little over the

published price, you can get hold of it, and even if parts of it disgust you, it will stick in your

memory. It is also an ‘important’ book, in a sense different from the sense in which that word

is generally used. As a rule novels are spoken of as ‘important’ when they are either a

‘terrible indictment’ of something or other or when they introduce some technical innovation.

Neither of these applies to

Tropic of Cancer

. Its importance is merely symptomatic. Here in

my opinion is the only imaginative prose-writer of the slightest value who has appeared

among the English-speaking races for some years past. Even if that is objected to as an

overstatement, it will probably be admitted that Miller is a writer out of the ordinary, worth

more than a single glance; and after all, he is a completely negative, unconstructive, amoral

writer, a mere Jonah, a passive acceptor of evil, a sort of Whitman among the corpses.

Symptomatically, that is more significant than the mere fact that five thousand novels are

published in England every year and four thousand nine hundred of them are tripe. It is a

demonstration of the

impossibility

of any major literature until the world has shaken itself

into its new shape.

1940

_____

1) Published in 1932. [

back

]

THE END

____BD____

George Orwell: ‘Inside the Whale’

First published:

Inside the Whale and Other Essays

. — GB, London. — March 11, 1940.

Reprinted:

— ‘Inside the Whale and Other Essays’. — 1940.

— ‘England Your England and Other Essays’. — 1953.

— ‘Such, Such Were the Joys’. — 1953.

— ‘Decline of the English Murder and Other Essays’. — 1965.

— ‘Collected Essays’. — 1961.

— ‘The Collected Essays, Journalism and Letters of George Orwell’. — 1968.

____

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Inside the Whale Essay

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