Complete Works of D.H. Lawrence (Illustrated), page 1074
6. “Mr. Lawrence has picked up a thread of life left behind by mankind.” — Darn your socks with it, Mr. Muir?
7. “It is the beauty of the ancient instinctive life which civilized man has almost forgotten.” — He may have forgotten it, but he can put a label on it and price it at a figure and let it go cheap, in one and a half minutes. Ah, my dear Mr. Muir, when do you consider ancient life ended, and “civilized” life began? And which is stale and banal? Wherein does staleness lie, Mr. Muir? As for “ancient life,” it may be ancient to you, but it is still alive and kicking in some people. And “ancient life” is far more deeply conscious than you can even imagine. And its discipline goes into regions where you have no existence.
8. “His chief title to greatness is that he has brought a new mode of seeing into literature, a new beauty,” etc., etc. — Easy, of course, as re-trimming an old hat. Michael Arlen does it betterl Looks more modish, the old hat. — But shouldn’t it be a new mode of “feeling” or “knowing” rather than of “seeing”? Since none of my characters would be recognizable in the street?
9. “There remain his gifts, splendid in their imperfection.” — Ugh, Mr. Muir, think how horrible for us all, if I were perfect! or even if I had “perfect” gifts! — Isn’t splendour enough for you, Mr. Muir? Or do you find the peacock more “perfect” when he is moulting and has lost his tail, and therefore isn’t so exaggerated, but is more “down to normal”? — For “perfection” is only one of the attributes of “the normal” and “the average” in modern thought.
Well, I don’t want to be just or to be kind. There is a further justice and a greater kindness than this niggling tolerance business, and suffering fools gladly. Fools bore me — but I don’t mean Mr. Muir. He is a phoenix, compared to most. I wonder what it is that the rainbow — I mean the natural phenomenon — stands for in my own consciousness! I don’t know all it means to me. — Is this lack ol intellectual capacity on my part? Or is it because the rainbow is somehow not quite “normal,” and therefore not quite fit for intellectual appreciation? Of course white light passing through prisms of falling raindrops makes a rainbow. Let us therefore sell it by the yard.
For me, give me a little splendour, and I’ll leave perfection to the small fry.
But oh, my other anonymous little critic, what shall I say to thee? Mr. Lawrence’s horses are all mares or stallions.
Honi soit qui mal y pense, my dear, though I’m sure the critic is a gentleman (I daren’t say a man) and not a lady.
Little critics’ horses (sic) are all geldings.
Another little critic: “Mr. Lawrence’s introspective intelligence is too feeble to balance this melodramatic fancy in activities which cater for a free play of mind.”
Retort simple: Mr. Lawrence’s intelligence would prevent his writing such a sentence down, and sending it to print. — What can those activities be which “cater for a free play of mind” (whatever that may mean) and at the same time have “introspective intelligence” (what quite is this?) balancing “melodramatic fancy” (what is this either?) within them?
Same critic, finishing the same sentence: “. . . and so, since criticism begins at home, his (Mr. Lawrence’s) latter-day garment of philosopher and preacher is shot through with the vulgarity of aggressive self-ignorance.”
Retort simple: If criticism begins at home, then the professional, and still more so the amateur critic (I suspect this gentleman to be the latter), is never by any chance at home. He is always out sponging on some author. As for a “latter-day garment of philosopher and preacher” (I never before knew a philosopher and a preacher transmogrified into a garment) being “shot through with the vulgarity of aggressive self-ignorance,” was it grapeshot, or duck-shot, or just shot-silk effect?
Alas, this young critic is “shot through” with ignorance even more extensive than that of self. Or perhaps it is only his garment of critic and smart little fellow which is so shot through, perce or miroite, according to fancy — ”melodramatic fancy” balanced by “introspective intelligence,” “in activities which cater for a free play of mind.”
“We cater to the Radical Trade,” says Jimmie Higgins’s advertisement Another friend and critic: “Lawrence is an artist, but his intellect is not up to his art.”
You might as well say: Mr. Lawrence rides a horse but he doesn’t wear his stirrups round his neck. And the accusation is just. Because he hopes to heaven he is riding a horse that is alive of itself, not a wooden hobbyhorse suitable for the nursery. — And he does his best to keep his feet in the stirrups, and to leave his intellect under his hat, when he is riding his naughty steed. No, my dearsl I guess, as an instrument, my intellect is as good as yours. But instead of sitting in my own wheelbarrow (the intellect is a sort of wheelbarrow about the place) and whipping it ecstatically over the head, I just wheel out what dump I’ve got, and forget the old barrow again, till next time.
And now, thank God, I can throw all my mail, letters, used checks, pamphlets, periodicals, clippings from the “press,” Ave Marias, paternosters, and bunk, into the fire. — When I get a particularly smelly bit of sentiment, I always burn it slowly, invoking the Lord thus: “Lord! Herrgott! nimm du diesen Opferrauch! Take Thou this smoke of sacrifice. — The sacrifice of blood is no longer acceptable, for blood has turned to water: all is vapourl Therefore, O Lord, this choice titbit of the spirit, this kidney-fat of sentiment, accept it, O Lord, from Thy servant. . . . This firstling of the sentimental herd, this young ram without spot or blemish, from the aesthetic flock, this adamantine young he-goat, from the troops of human “stunts” — see, Lord, I cut their throats and burn the cardboard fat of them. Lord of the Spirit, Lord of the Universal Mind, Lord of the cosmic will, snuff up the smoke of this burnt-paper offering, for it makes my eyes smart — ”
I wish they’d make His eyes smart as well! this Lord of senti- mentalism, aestheticism, and stunts. One day I’ll make a sacrifice of Him too: to my own Lord, who broods at the centre of all the worlds, over His own fathomless Desire.
THE LATE MR. MAURICE MAGNUS: A LETTER
To the Editor of The New Statesman:
Sir, — Referring to the review published in your last issue of Mr. Norman Douglas’s Experiments, will you give me a little space in which to shake off Mr. Douglas’s insinuations — to put it mildly- regarding my introduction to Maurice Magnus’s Memoirs of the Foreign Legion? When Mr. Douglas’s “pamphlet” first appeared I was in New Mexico, and it seemed too far off to trouble. But now that the essay is enshrined in Mr. Douglas’s new book, Experiments, it is time that I said a word. One becomes weary of being slandered.
The whole circumstances of my acquaintance with Maurice Magnus, and the facts of his death, are told in my introduction as truthfully as a man can tell a thing. After the suicide of Magnus, I had continual letters from the two Maltese, whom I had met through Magnus, asking for redress. I knew them personally — which Douglas did not. Myself, I had not the money to repay Magnus’s borrowings. All the literary remains were left to Douglas, in the terms of Magnus’s will. But then, after his death, all Magnus’s effects were confiscated, owing to his debts. There was really nothing to confiscate, since the very furniture of the house had been lent by the young Maltese, B — . There were the MSS. — the bulk of them worthless. Only those Memoirs of the Foreign Legion, which I had gone over previously with Magnus, might be sold.
I wrote to B — that Norman Douglas would no doubt get the Memoirs published. The reply came from Malta, B — would never put anything into the hands of Douglas. I then wrote to Douglas — and, remembering the care with which he files all his letters, I kept his reply. Parts of this reply I quote here:
Florence,
26th December, 1921.
Dear Lawrence, So many thanks for yours of the 20th.
Damn the Foreign Legion. ... I have done my best, and if B — had sent it to me the book would be published by this time, and B — £30 or £50 the richer. Some folks are hard to please. By all means do what you like with the MS. As to M. himself, I may do some kind of memoir of him later on — independent of Foreign Legions. Put me into your introduction. if you tike. . . .
Pocket nil the cash yourself. B — seems to be such a fool that he doesn’t deserve any.
I’m out of it and, for once in my life, with a clean conscience. . . .
Yours always,
NORMAN DOUGLAS.
The italics in this letter are Douglas’s own. As for his accusation of my “unkindness” to Magnus, that too is funny. Certainly Magnus was generous with his money when he had any; who knew that better than Douglas? But did I make it appear otherwise? And when Magnus wanted actual help — not postmortem sentiment — where did he look for it? To the young Maltese who would have no dealings whatsoever with Norman Douglas, after the suicide.
Then I am accused of making money out of Magnus’s effects. I should never have dreamed of writing a word about Magnus, save for the continual painful letters from the Maltese. Then I did it solely and simply to discharge a certain obligation. For curiously enough, both B — and S — seemed to regard me as in some way responsible for their troubles with Magnus. I had been actually there with them and Magnus, and had driven in their motor-car. To discharge an obligation I do not admit, I wrote the Introduction. And when it was written, in the year 1922, it started the round of the publishers, as introducing the Memoirs of the Foreign Legion, and everywhere it was refused. More than one publisher said: “We will publish the Introduction alone, without the Magnus Memoirs.” To which I said: “That’s no good. The Introduction only exists for the Memoirs.”
So, for two years, nothing happened. It is probable that I could have sold the Introduction to one of the large popular American magazines, as a “personal” article. And that would have meant at least a thousand dollars for me. Whereas I shall never see a thousand dollars, by a long chalk, from this Memoirs book. Nevertheless, by this time B — will have received in full the money he lent to Magnus. I shall have received as much — as much, perhaps, as I would get in America for a popular short story.
As for Mr. Douglas, he must gather himself haloes where he may.
Yours, etc., D. H. LAWRENCE.
THE UNDYING MAN
Long ago in Spain there were two very learned men, so clever and knowing so much that they were famous all over the world. One was called Rabbi Moses Maimonides, a Jew — blessed be his memory! — and the other was called Aristotle, a Christian who belonged to the Greeks.
These two were great friends, because they had always studied together and found out many things together. At last after many years, they found out a thing they had been specially trying for. They discovered that if you took a tiny little vein out of a man’s body, and put it in a glass jar with certain leaves and plants, it would gradually begin to grow, and would grow and grow until it became a man. When it had grown as big as a boy, you could take it out of the jar, and then it would live and keep on growing till it became a man, a fine man who would never die. He would be undying. Because he had never been born, he would never die, but live for ever and ever. Because the wisest men on earth had made him, and he didn’t have to be born.
When they were quite sure it was so, then the Rabbi Moses Maimonides and the Christian Aristotle decided they would really make a man. Up till then, they had only experimented. But now they would make the real undying man.
The question was, from whom should they take the little vein? Because the man they took it from would die. So at first they decided to take it from a slave. But then they thought, a slave wasn’t good enough to make the beginnings of the undying man. So they decided to ask one of their devoted students to sacrifice himself. But that did not seem right either, because they might get a man they didn’t really like, and whom they wouldn’t want to be the beginning of the man who would never die. So at last, they decided to leave it to fate; they gathered together their best and most learned disciples, and they all agreed to draw lots. The lot fell to Aristotle, to have the little vein cut from his body.
So Aristotle had to agree. But before he would have the little vein cut out of his body, Aristotle asked Maimonides to take him by the hand and swear by their clasped hands that he would never interfere with the growth of the little vein, never at any time or in any way. Maimonides took him by the hand and swore. And then Aristotle had the little vein cut out of his body by Maimonides himself.
So now Maimonides alone took the little vein and placed it among the leaves and herbs, as they had discovered, in the great glass jar, and he sealed the jar. Then he set the jar on a shelf in his own room where nobody entered but himself, and he waited. The days passed by, and he recited his prayers, pacing back and forth in his room among his books, and praying loudly as he paced, as the Jews do. Then he returned to his books and his chemistry. But every day he looked at the jar, to see if the little vein had changed. For a long time it did not change. So he thought it was in vain.
Then at last it seemed to change, to have grown a little. Rabbi Moses Maimonides gazed at the jar transfixed, and forgot everything else in all the wide world; lost to all and everything, he gazed into the jar. And at last he saw the tiniest, tiniest tremor in the little vein, and he knew it was a tremor of growth. He sank on the floor and lay unconscious, because he had seen the first tremor of growth of the undying man.
When he came to himself, the room was dusk, it was almost night. And Rabbi Moses Maimonides was afraid. He did not know what he was afraid of. He rose to his feet, and glanced towards the jar. And it seemed to him, in the darkness on the shelf there was a tiny red glow, like the smallest ember of fire. But it did not go out, as the last ember of fire goes out while you watch. It stayed on, and glowed a tiny dying glow that did not die. Then he knew he saw the glow of the life of the undying man, and he was afraid.
He locked his room, where no one ever entered but himself, and went out into the town. People greeted him with bows and reverences, for he was the most learned of all rabbis. But tonight they all seemed very far from him. They looked small and they grimaced like monkeys in his eyes. And he thought to himself: They will all die! They grimace in this fashion, like monkeys, because they will all die. Only I shall not die!
But as he thought this, his heart stood still, because he knew that he too would die. He stood still in the street, though rain was falling, and people crept past him humbly, thinking he was praying some great prayer. But he was only locked in this one thought: I shall die and pass away, but that little red spark which came from Aristotle the Christian, it will never die. It will live for ever and ever, like God. God alone lives for ever and ever. But this man in the jar will also live for ever and ever, even that red spark. He will be a man, and live for ever and ever, as good as God. Nay, better than God! For surely, to be as good as God, and to be also a man and alive, that would be better even than being God!
Rabbi Moses Maimonides started at this thought as if he had been stung. And immediately he began to walk down the street towards home, to see if the red glow were really glowing. When he got to his door, he stood still, afraid to open. He could not open.
So suddenly he cried a great fierce cry to God, to help him and His people. A great fierce cry for help. For they were God’s people, God’s chosen people. Though they grimaced in the sight of Rabbi Moses Maimonides like monkeys, they were beautiful in the sight of God, and the best Jews among them would sit in high, high places in the eternal glory of God, in the after-life.
This thought so emboldened Maimonides that he opened his door and entered his room. But he stood again as if pierced through the body by that strange red light, like no light of God, which glowed so tiny and yet was so fierce and strong. “Fierce and strong! fierce and strong!” he kept muttering to himself as he paced back and forth in his room. “Fierce and strong!” His servant thought he was praying, and she dared not bring his food to the door. “Fierce and strong!” — he paced back and forth. And he himself thought he was praying. He was so used to praying the ritual prayers as he paced in his room, that now he thought he was praying to the one and only God. But in fact, all he was saying was “Fierce and strong! Fierce and strong!”
At last he sank down in exhaustion, and then his woman tapped at his door and set down the tray. But he told her to take the tray away, he would not eat in his room, but would come downstairs. For he could not eat in the presence of that little red glow.
So he made his ablutions and went downstairs and ate. And he slept in the guest-room, for he could not sleep in the presence of the little red glow. Indeed he could not sleep at all, but lay and groaned in spirit, thinking of that little red light which alone of all light was not the light of God. And he knew it would grow and grow, and be a man, most splendid, a man who would never die. And all the people would think: What is the most wonderful of all things, seen or unseen? — And there would come the [Unfinished]
NOAH S FLOOD
NOAH
SHEM (the Utterer) and KANAH (the Echoer)
I am, it is. — it was, it shall be.
HAM (Heat) and SHELAH (Flux)
JAPHET (encompassing, spreading, Father of All: also Destroyer) and COSBY (female-male. Kulturtrager)
1st Man. What ails the sun, that his mornings are so sickly?
2nd Man. You heard what the Old One said: the sun is dark with the anger of the skies.
1st Man. The Old One is sly. Himself is angry, so he says the anger breathes from the hollows of the sky. We are not fools altogether. What think you? Are the sons of men more stupid than the sons of God?
