There was no simplicity of
apprehension; the point seemed to be to apply a certain set of phrases
as decisively as possible. I never heard a generous appreciation of a
book; what I rather heard was trivial gossip about the author, followed
by shallow, and I thought pedantic, judgments upon an author's lack of
movement or aerial quality. If one of the approved authors under
discussion seemed to me painfully sordid and debased, one was told to
look out for his tonic realism and his virile force. How many times in
those sad hours was I informed that the artist had no concern with
ethical problems! If I maintained that an artist's concern is with any
motives that sway humanity, I was told smilingly that I wanted to treat
art in the spirit of a nursery governess. If, on the other hand, a book
appeared to me utterly unreal and false, I was told that it was typical
and spiritual, and that the conception of the artist must not be
limited by his experience, but that he arrived at correct intuitions by
the force of penetrating insight and by the swift inference of genius.
What seemed to me to be absent from it all was the spirit of liberty,
of frank enjoyment, of eager apprehension. I do not say that my friends
seemed to me to admire all the wrong things; they had abundant
appreciation for certain masters, both in art and music; but I felt
that they swallowed masters whole, without any discrimination, and that
the entire thing was a matter of tradition and rule and precept and
authority, not of irresponsible and ardent enjoyment.
Pages:
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273